The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 04.21.12
“Not I - not anyone else, can travel that road for you, you must travel it for yourself.” Walt Whitman
Loss of self (above) by featured artist, David Arthur-Simons, one of over 20 artists currently coloring the virtual walls in Mad Swirl's eclectic electronic collective Mad Gallery. We know you'll wanna see mo' fo' sho' so move that mad mouse of yo's right over here and a-way you'll GO!
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we bounced to a beat, a soul-finding song and dance; we sang Americana, sour-note swayed allegiance to a forwarded address; we revered rippling waters to eschew solitude; we bore a bear-song lullaby to bird on branch; we cleared crumbs of clandestine consumption (hand-to-mouth or other); we jumped the 4/20 bump with a boom; then we stopped it all and placed a call, just to hear it ring.
Call Me
Call me short,
broke, incapable of
holding down
a job or a relationship
you can call me
substandard, subhuman,
subterranean who slums
through his sad excuse
for a life story
and you can
spit on my next of kin
throw stones
at my un-original sins
and toss pebbles at
my troubles
you can snicker at me
from the bare soles
of my feet
to my lost soul
who has no spirit guide
you can call me
all these things
just call,
I want to see if
my new cell phone
ringtone works
- Ivan Jenson
(1 poem added 04.21.12)
editor's note: A little white noise to check reception - content is superfluous. - mh
Nice Guy
knew a man
who thought
he was
a martyr
kissed him,
put TNT
in his mouth
then
walked away
boom like that
- Lynne Hayes
(2 poems added 04.20.12)
editor's note: Yes! Exactly like that! (Another penny for your thoughts on Lynne's page - check it out.) - mh
The Eroticization of Chocolate Chip Cookies
I read a biography of Anne Sexton
while eating chocolate chip cookies.
and I want to share these things with you.
I want to confess these things
to you. I like chocolate chip cookies.
Indeed, right out of the oven. A soft batch
they melt in my mouth and I don’t want to share them with you.
they are for me alone. I want to read this biography
of Anne Sexton by myself with chocolate chip cookies.
I could never write about masturbation like Anne did.
I would die of shame. I can’t believe I wrote that
word. Masturbation. Oh my god. I better eat another cookie.
- Melanie Browne
(1 poem added 04.19.12)
editor's note: You keep eatin' those cookies and you'll grow hair on the palm of your hand. - mh
Want:
I woke up in a field at night alone
wanting you
and I was a grizzly bear at night alone
wanting you
and you were a bird out of reach on a branch
and I wanted you
- Eduardo Quinones
(added 04.18.12)
editor's note: Bear, bird - burning desire; one to consume, one to fly. Which one gets what they want? - mh
Evening by the lake
Mellowed moods to summarize
My thoughts are eager to tell
My heart is not satisfied
My eyes are too keen.
Dream that I dream can not be seen
Insulated concrete by the abstract feel
To realize clouds beneath the water
Borrowed from the sky.
Creative observation smile so mad
Thinking to my wandering nomad,
I cry alone devoid of any ears,
I have forgotten the world
Looking at the ripples left by the water duck
Forgetting the insipid reality
Matrix of my aesthetic hunger
Crying in the solitude.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 04.17.12)
editor's note: The distraction of ripple and cloud obscures a poet's hunger and solitude. See them, too, and forget. - mh
Salaam Alaikum
Paint me Phoenician,
They call me “Thermidor”,
As if I'm some door,
To a revolution,
Of evolution,
That grazes the crests of sand dunes,
And raises spirits in the spirit-less land,
Of “milk”, “honey”,
And “America”,
Although only two of the three are exactly welcome,
And,
According to Rush,
They're both,
“America”, “America”,
And,
“America”;
Now as much as I love “Moving Pictures”,
I can't agree with that sentiment,
Like,
It was sent to me,
Through a TV,
So automatically,
I'm expected to believe,
That it's,
Right, and
True, and
Just,
Just enough that if I wasn't exactly paying attention,
I'd be inclined,
To rally behind,
A sack of tea,
Labeled with mismatched slogans,
Irresponsible grammar,
And superciliously misused nomenclature,
(The irony,
Is that a Pakistani woman,
Working for AT&T,
Is more versed in these things,
Than the average American.)
And that's sad.
Because in no other instance,
Could I honestly say,
That I truly believe,
That a lacking in language,
Leads to a lacking in lives,
At least overseas.
So paint me Phoenician,
And leave me the fuck alone.
- Thermidor
(added 04.16.12)
editor's note: This TV nation tests well in every state, but fails at the borders. Learn another language for tolerance and peace porque no hablan a americano! - mh
I'm Singing and Consciousness is on the Drums
Bump and bop and knock then stop.
It's a rhythmic beat to reap the sleep
and see what's been shown, not meet what's
been known over and over again,
just changing how it flows from pen to pen
or mind to mind.
Just mind the edges and don't fall off,
but conquer those hedges secluding Truth,
hung aloft up above for all to see,
and perceive Love,
shoved beneath and stomped
under feet, but breathing
and needing our attention,
undivided and whole--
a beckoning to our eternal soul.
- Ryan Fuller
(added 04.15.12)
editor's note: Here's a beat we all can dance to. Bop on, brother poet! - mh
•••••••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Travelin' Down that Mad Road,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we bounced to a beat, a soul-finding song and dance; we sang Americana, sour-note swayed allegiance to a forwarded address; we revered rippling waters to eschew solitude; we bore a bear-song lullaby to bird on branch; we cleared crumbs of clandestine consumption (hand-to-mouth or other); we jumped the 4/20 bump with a boom; then we stopped it all and placed a call, just to hear it ring.
Call Me
Call me short,
broke, incapable of
holding down
a job or a relationship
you can call me
substandard, subhuman,
subterranean who slums
through his sad excuse
for a life story
and you can
spit on my next of kin
throw stones
at my un-original sins
and toss pebbles at
my troubles
you can snicker at me
from the bare soles
of my feet
to my lost soul
who has no spirit guide
you can call me
all these things
just call,
I want to see if
my new cell phone
ringtone works
- Ivan Jenson
(1 poem added 04.21.12)
editor's note: A little white noise to check reception - content is superfluous. - mh
Nice Guy
knew a man
who thought
he was
a martyr
kissed him,
put TNT
in his mouth
then
walked away
boom like that
- Lynne Hayes
(2 poems added 04.20.12)
editor's note: Yes! Exactly like that! (Another penny for your thoughts on Lynne's page - check it out.) - mh
The Eroticization of Chocolate Chip Cookies
I read a biography of Anne Sexton
while eating chocolate chip cookies.
and I want to share these things with you.
I want to confess these things
to you. I like chocolate chip cookies.
Indeed, right out of the oven. A soft batch
they melt in my mouth and I don’t want to share them with you.
they are for me alone. I want to read this biography
of Anne Sexton by myself with chocolate chip cookies.
I could never write about masturbation like Anne did.
I would die of shame. I can’t believe I wrote that
word. Masturbation. Oh my god. I better eat another cookie.
- Melanie Browne
(1 poem added 04.19.12)
editor's note: You keep eatin' those cookies and you'll grow hair on the palm of your hand. - mh
Want:
I woke up in a field at night alone
wanting you
and I was a grizzly bear at night alone
wanting you
and you were a bird out of reach on a branch
and I wanted you
- Eduardo Quinones
(added 04.18.12)
editor's note: Bear, bird - burning desire; one to consume, one to fly. Which one gets what they want? - mh
Evening by the lake
Mellowed moods to summarize
My thoughts are eager to tell
My heart is not satisfied
My eyes are too keen.
Dream that I dream can not be seen
Insulated concrete by the abstract feel
To realize clouds beneath the water
Borrowed from the sky.
Creative observation smile so mad
Thinking to my wandering nomad,
I cry alone devoid of any ears,
I have forgotten the world
Looking at the ripples left by the water duck
Forgetting the insipid reality
Matrix of my aesthetic hunger
Crying in the solitude.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 04.17.12)
editor's note: The distraction of ripple and cloud obscures a poet's hunger and solitude. See them, too, and forget. - mh
Salaam Alaikum
Paint me Phoenician,
They call me “Thermidor”,
As if I'm some door,
To a revolution,
Of evolution,
That grazes the crests of sand dunes,
And raises spirits in the spirit-less land,
Of “milk”, “honey”,
And “America”,
Although only two of the three are exactly welcome,
And,
According to Rush,
They're both,
“America”, “America”,
And,
“America”;
Now as much as I love “Moving Pictures”,
I can't agree with that sentiment,
Like,
It was sent to me,
Through a TV,
So automatically,
I'm expected to believe,
That it's,
Right, and
True, and
Just,
Just enough that if I wasn't exactly paying attention,
I'd be inclined,
To rally behind,
A sack of tea,
Labeled with mismatched slogans,
Irresponsible grammar,
And superciliously misused nomenclature,
(The irony,
Is that a Pakistani woman,
Working for AT&T,
Is more versed in these things,
Than the average American.)
And that's sad.
Because in no other instance,
Could I honestly say,
That I truly believe,
That a lacking in language,
Leads to a lacking in lives,
At least overseas.
So paint me Phoenician,
And leave me the fuck alone.
- Thermidor
(added 04.16.12)
editor's note: This TV nation tests well in every state, but fails at the borders. Learn another language for tolerance and peace porque no hablan a americano! - mh
I'm Singing and Consciousness is on the Drums
Bump and bop and knock then stop.
It's a rhythmic beat to reap the sleep
and see what's been shown, not meet what's
been known over and over again,
just changing how it flows from pen to pen
or mind to mind.
Just mind the edges and don't fall off,
but conquer those hedges secluding Truth,
hung aloft up above for all to see,
and perceive Love,
shoved beneath and stomped
under feet, but breathing
and needing our attention,
undivided and whole--
a beckoning to our eternal soul.
- Ryan Fuller
(added 04.15.12)
editor's note: Here's a beat we all can dance to. Bop on, brother poet! - mh
•••••••••••
The whole Mad Swirl of everything to come keeps on keepin' on... now... now... NOW! Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year, every decade, every every EVERY there is! Wanna join in the poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Travelin' Down that Mad Road,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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