The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 06.02.12
“And your very flesh shall be a great poem.” Walt Whitman
untitled (above) by featured artist, Nicholas Walton-Healey, 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 dined on dysfunctional family fracases; we learned to live the life when we lose the lies; we captured communion with self-consideration; our eyes were opened to atomic existence; we rode a wry recollection of the Recession; we knackered a neighborhood bully, ragged him to reveal the grave of "reason and compassion"; we lost our minds long enough to lose our loss for words. Lovely!
Just in case you missed it, here's just a taste...
I Was Lost Myself
You don’t know my beloved,
Many years before I was a flash,
Both of my legs were impaired,
I was gone in search of medication,
I was treated,
But concurrently the sanatorium was blasted,
I gained my substantial steps but I lost my arms then,
I used to write about the rights of the human beings,
But I became powerless to hold the pen of integrity,
Thanks to my cherished, I still had my appendage,
You know, where I didn’t visit,
I remember‘d the preacher of peace,
I’d gone to my lord,
But a felon was found as HIM,
He again broke my legs,
I’d been halted,
But the breeze blew me up to ACME,
The snow also didn’t like me there,
The avalanches had thrown me down,
I was flowing down and down,
I found oceanic substructure,
But I didn’t know myself there,
A Tsunami perhaps pushed me up,
It threw me to its reservoir on the sand,
I was lying there as a log,
I didn’t know when I got APHASIA,
I WAS LOST MYSELF!
My dear, I lost my brain perhaps,
I didn’t know how long I hid at that stage.
I was appallingly damaged,
My lungs and heart didn’t be neighbors to each other,
Perhaps my palms were carrying them on each,
If I remembered, a cardiologist would treat me.
I was perhaps in pathology,
I heard the hurricane, playing my guitar,
The music of PEACE,
The effect of music,
Slowly enriched my existence again,
I started to feel better and better,
I opened my eyes,
Oh, great, PEACE returned at my heart,
My limbs are now repaired,
My arms are now fit and fine,
My sagacity returns to me,
Thank God, APHASIA leaves ME,
Now I find you, my dear,
I'll never miss you again!
Oh PEACE, you ever remain with me!
- Chiranjibi Niroula
(1 poem added 06.02.12)
editor's note: A mad odyssey, a loss for words restored by song. It's Homer in the 21st century! - mh
To people big & tall
Your name is my name.
Your blood is my blood.
Even your home is my home.
But first you gobble and barely I get some.
O people – big and tall!
Do you care how I feel?
Where are my ribs and bones?
Just a flattened mass of flesh I am
dragged down from my skeleton
and drying in this parching sun.
Who ripped them all? And why?
To have bone marrow soup?
You plant creepers
and call them parasites.
O people – so strong and brave!
Put your clutches aside!
I’ll be the happiest person
to see you walk on your own.
Your bigness didn’t fit in my brain
and your tallness so sharp and thin –
overnight you grew up like a bamboo shoot,
tore the sky and pulled it down
to make a wall between you and me.
O people – so generous and kind!
I really need a little more reason and compassion.
Could you just tell me where
you’ve buried them?
- Haris Adhikari
(1 poem added 06.01.12)
editor's note: Eat well, but eat no one. - mh
The Recession
the Recession of 2008,
a bastard child,
unclaimed by Republican or Democrat,
though both were fucking the mom,
repeatedly,
she a tight-lipped bitch,
unwilling or unable to say who is ultimately to blame,
four years old,
the child dull and slow witted,
costing trillions to raise,
condoms ought to be a necessity for future politicians,
and political campaigns.
- Douglas Polk
(1 poem added 05.31.12)
editor's note: In this and any election season, the idea of sterilization rises in popularity. We don't want these dimwitted children to propagate. (We welcome Douglas to our congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Check out his new page.) - mh
Substance
Mystical motion of radiance
Spills out of gigantic hand-held creation…
Nourishment of Omnipotence begins to dance
Causing power spindling vibration…
Constellating systems combine thrust & rhythm
Protecting purpose filled coincidence…
Driving explosions climax to a rumbling hum
Conceiving the spiritual experience.
- Michael R. King
(1 poem added 05.30.12)
editor's note: Transubstantiation from the heavenly host to a psyche near you. It's a bell-ringer! - mh
Public House
They said he was quite spiritual
Seeking sanctuary in his chapel
Where he’d stand at the alter
Waiting to receive communion
The lifeblood that would placate his soul
With the tepid insinuation of humanity
Before taking to his pew
And resting his head on his hands-
Taking his life into consideration.
- Anthony Ward
(1 poem added 05.29.12)
editor's note: Absolution is dispensed by the ounce. (Welcome Anthony to our crazed congress of Contributing Poets. Check out his new page.) - mh
Behind the Veil
I wish I was brave enough
to do the desperate things that
desperate girls like me
should do.
I wish I could say yes
to the wrong things,
no to the right things,
and still find time at the end of the day
to smile without lying to
someone
anyone
everyone
no one
Me.
- Melissa Long
(added 05.28.12)
editor's note: When you play to an audience of one, your self is the hardest critic. - mh
Dinner Time
A typical dinner hour goes like this.
Mom gets home from work
at about 5:30 p.m. and the yelling begins.
She’s not happy about this
and she’s not happy about that.
It’s as if I don’t even exist
and when I am on her radar,
everything I do is wrong
and my existence somehow signifies
everything wrong with her life.
Then, she immediately pours herself a glass of wine
and it goes downhill from there.
My dad told me that he’s actually embarrassed
to take out the trash because of
all the super-size empty wine bottles each week.
He said that, at the worst, there are usually
at least fourteen or fifteen.
I’m not sure how that’s possible,
but then again,
I’ve never had a drink.
- Jennifer E. Lee
(added 05.27.12)
editor's note: Testing your limits? Don't count empty bottles; tally those angry words. - 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...
Fleshin' It Out,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
P.S. Come one, come all! Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
On 06.06.12, starting at 8:00 sharp, Mad Swirl will feature one of Dallas' premiere slam poets and author, Jason Carney! Get there early to enjoy the show and stick around to get your spot on our open mic set-list. Host Johnny O and guest co-host Chris Zimmerly will be callin' all you mystically mad poets, musicians, dancers, actors, singers, performers & any other miscellaneous mad ones in the Dallas/Fort Worth area to come & strut your mad stuff! We will be limiting the list to 15 spots... first come, first on the list! So get there early!
Where's this madness take place? Absinthe Lounge is at 1409 South Lamar Street, Dallas, TX 75215 (located in the SouthSide on Lamar building)
And please, by all means, FEEL FREE TO SPREAD THE WORD!
fo'mo'info' visit www.MadSwirl.com
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we dined on dysfunctional family fracases; we learned to live the life when we lose the lies; we captured communion with self-consideration; our eyes were opened to atomic existence; we rode a wry recollection of the Recession; we knackered a neighborhood bully, ragged him to reveal the grave of "reason and compassion"; we lost our minds long enough to lose our loss for words. Lovely!
Just in case you missed it, here's just a taste...
I Was Lost Myself
You don’t know my beloved,
Many years before I was a flash,
Both of my legs were impaired,
I was gone in search of medication,
I was treated,
But concurrently the sanatorium was blasted,
I gained my substantial steps but I lost my arms then,
I used to write about the rights of the human beings,
But I became powerless to hold the pen of integrity,
Thanks to my cherished, I still had my appendage,
You know, where I didn’t visit,
I remember‘d the preacher of peace,
I’d gone to my lord,
But a felon was found as HIM,
He again broke my legs,
I’d been halted,
But the breeze blew me up to ACME,
The snow also didn’t like me there,
The avalanches had thrown me down,
I was flowing down and down,
I found oceanic substructure,
But I didn’t know myself there,
A Tsunami perhaps pushed me up,
It threw me to its reservoir on the sand,
I was lying there as a log,
I didn’t know when I got APHASIA,
I WAS LOST MYSELF!
My dear, I lost my brain perhaps,
I didn’t know how long I hid at that stage.
I was appallingly damaged,
My lungs and heart didn’t be neighbors to each other,
Perhaps my palms were carrying them on each,
If I remembered, a cardiologist would treat me.
I was perhaps in pathology,
I heard the hurricane, playing my guitar,
The music of PEACE,
The effect of music,
Slowly enriched my existence again,
I started to feel better and better,
I opened my eyes,
Oh, great, PEACE returned at my heart,
My limbs are now repaired,
My arms are now fit and fine,
My sagacity returns to me,
Thank God, APHASIA leaves ME,
Now I find you, my dear,
I'll never miss you again!
Oh PEACE, you ever remain with me!
- Chiranjibi Niroula
(1 poem added 06.02.12)
editor's note: A mad odyssey, a loss for words restored by song. It's Homer in the 21st century! - mh
To people big & tall
Your name is my name.
Your blood is my blood.
Even your home is my home.
But first you gobble and barely I get some.
O people – big and tall!
Do you care how I feel?
Where are my ribs and bones?
Just a flattened mass of flesh I am
dragged down from my skeleton
and drying in this parching sun.
Who ripped them all? And why?
To have bone marrow soup?
You plant creepers
and call them parasites.
O people – so strong and brave!
Put your clutches aside!
I’ll be the happiest person
to see you walk on your own.
Your bigness didn’t fit in my brain
and your tallness so sharp and thin –
overnight you grew up like a bamboo shoot,
tore the sky and pulled it down
to make a wall between you and me.
O people – so generous and kind!
I really need a little more reason and compassion.
Could you just tell me where
you’ve buried them?
- Haris Adhikari
(1 poem added 06.01.12)
editor's note: Eat well, but eat no one. - mh
The Recession
the Recession of 2008,
a bastard child,
unclaimed by Republican or Democrat,
though both were fucking the mom,
repeatedly,
she a tight-lipped bitch,
unwilling or unable to say who is ultimately to blame,
four years old,
the child dull and slow witted,
costing trillions to raise,
condoms ought to be a necessity for future politicians,
and political campaigns.
- Douglas Polk
(1 poem added 05.31.12)
editor's note: In this and any election season, the idea of sterilization rises in popularity. We don't want these dimwitted children to propagate. (We welcome Douglas to our congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Check out his new page.) - mh
Substance
Mystical motion of radiance
Spills out of gigantic hand-held creation…
Nourishment of Omnipotence begins to dance
Causing power spindling vibration…
Constellating systems combine thrust & rhythm
Protecting purpose filled coincidence…
Driving explosions climax to a rumbling hum
Conceiving the spiritual experience.
- Michael R. King
(1 poem added 05.30.12)
editor's note: Transubstantiation from the heavenly host to a psyche near you. It's a bell-ringer! - mh
Public House
They said he was quite spiritual
Seeking sanctuary in his chapel
Where he’d stand at the alter
Waiting to receive communion
The lifeblood that would placate his soul
With the tepid insinuation of humanity
Before taking to his pew
And resting his head on his hands-
Taking his life into consideration.
- Anthony Ward
(1 poem added 05.29.12)
editor's note: Absolution is dispensed by the ounce. (Welcome Anthony to our crazed congress of Contributing Poets. Check out his new page.) - mh
Behind the Veil
I wish I was brave enough
to do the desperate things that
desperate girls like me
should do.
I wish I could say yes
to the wrong things,
no to the right things,
and still find time at the end of the day
to smile without lying to
someone
anyone
everyone
no one
Me.
- Melissa Long
(added 05.28.12)
editor's note: When you play to an audience of one, your self is the hardest critic. - mh
Dinner Time
A typical dinner hour goes like this.
Mom gets home from work
at about 5:30 p.m. and the yelling begins.
She’s not happy about this
and she’s not happy about that.
It’s as if I don’t even exist
and when I am on her radar,
everything I do is wrong
and my existence somehow signifies
everything wrong with her life.
Then, she immediately pours herself a glass of wine
and it goes downhill from there.
My dad told me that he’s actually embarrassed
to take out the trash because of
all the super-size empty wine bottles each week.
He said that, at the worst, there are usually
at least fourteen or fifteen.
I’m not sure how that’s possible,
but then again,
I’ve never had a drink.
- Jennifer E. Lee
(added 05.27.12)
editor's note: Testing your limits? Don't count empty bottles; tally those angry words. - 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...
Fleshin' It Out,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
P.S. Come one, come all! Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
On 06.06.12, starting at 8:00 sharp, Mad Swirl will feature one of Dallas' premiere slam poets and author, Jason Carney! Get there early to enjoy the show and stick around to get your spot on our open mic set-list. Host Johnny O and guest co-host Chris Zimmerly will be callin' all you mystically mad poets, musicians, dancers, actors, singers, performers & any other miscellaneous mad ones in the Dallas/Fort Worth area to come & strut your mad stuff! We will be limiting the list to 15 spots... first come, first on the list! So get there early!
Where's this madness take place? Absinthe Lounge is at 1409 South Lamar Street, Dallas, TX 75215 (located in the SouthSide on Lamar building)
And please, by all means, FEEL FREE TO SPREAD THE WORD!
fo'mo'info' visit www.MadSwirl.com
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