The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 06.23.12
“The emotion of beauty is always obscured by the appearance of the object” ~ Piet Mondrian
Varnish Aurora (above) by featured artist, Jon Marquette.
We proudly welcome back the madly talented Jon Marquette to our gallery for a record breaking 4th time. This time around his works come to us all the way from Hungary! This expatriate's evolving gift has the ability to hold our attention and keep us mystified through ever-changing shapes, colors and styles. Would you believe Jon was color-blind by the way he makes reds and blues pop off the canvas with such purposeful intensity? We think it goes without saying... if you haven't seen 'em before, you ought to see 'em now. If we were one for jumping on bandwagons we'd say the Jon Marquette gallery has no maximum capacity. All aboard! get your ticket here. ~ mio
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we considered modes of communication, uncovered best from bombed; we doctored the spin of a spokesman to win; we dodged direct queries, indulged no "right to know", to pique a pollster's pride; we learned more about foreign by siting what's same; we accessed hippy happenstance for what we gave, or did not give, a chance; we found foible in fable, left lion alone; we lastly languored in lazy disillusionment to find faith in the reading and writing of poetry. Refuge, yes! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Just Lie Down By My Side
Let us not make love tonight;
Just lie down by my side and keep talking.
Shut the doors, close the windows,
Let not the world creep inside;
There are people outside I don’t know.
Is there someone just like me?
Where have you been? What have you done?
There’s no use explaining—telling truth or speaking lies.
For what we say never reaches our ear;
The words are just floating in the air.
Just lie down by my side and keep breathing;
Let me know you’re alive.
Let me touch you just once,
Let me look into your eyes;
There are emotions that I lack.
The walls are closing in;
Hear them breathing hard.
They are tired just like me.
The room floods with red light;
Hold my hand and fly; float in the red.
Just lie down by my side and read poetry to me.
I shall write poetry too
Someday when you are not around,
Someday when I am not drunk,
The day when living is not so perfunctory.
- Prashant Das
(1 poem added 06.23.12)
editor's note: Poetry prevails over perfunctory existence. Not so sure? Just lie down... - mh
Don’t Talk to the Lion
If he convinces you
And you free him from the net
His claws will rend you
Don’t believe the fables.
- JD DeHart
(added 06.22.12)
editor's note: Aesop was a propagandist for the carnivores? Another myth busted. - mh
WHERE HAVE ALL THE FLOWERS GONE?
Did you
When you were California
Dreaming when the answer was a
Blowing in the wind when times were a
Changing before the dust in the wind
Had covered all your peace signs
When all the leaves were brown
And the sky was grey
Along the watchtowers where
You found yourself quite alone
And now that all the flowers have gone
Did you really give peace a chance?
- Clinton Van Inman
(1 poem added 06.21.12)
editor's note: A new spin on old anthems brings the question back around to the long-haired, liberated, lascivious hippy we wanted to be. So... did we? - mh
A POND FOR YOUR THOUGHTS
To an Englishman
America is Hollywood,
All The President’s Men.
Congress, Senate, well, yes,
I get those too in a remote sort of way.
Military adventures – the Pentagon:
A killing machine or the world’s policeman?
That Special Relationship between
Britain and the US of A – what is that,
A handshake? A nod? Or merely tolerance?
Then I listen to ordinary people,
You know the type; they’re always there,
Unlike All The President’s Men,
Changing their faces
Like I change my shirt.
So these Americans, who’ve shown me
Humour, poetry, music, joy, sadness, generosity,
From over the pond, that distant land
Where they like to live in peace,
Because they’re born that way.
Every day of their lives fighting
To keep their families together,
Just like me. Not so far away after all,
That distant shore, not so different, this other side,
That opened up for me,
Another America.
- Derrick Gaskin
(2 poems added 06.20.12)
editor's note: This could easily describe Another _______. There are governments and media messaging and then there are people trying to survive. (See a different point of view on Derrick's page.) - mh
Strictly Confidential
Look, I don’t have to answer
that call, question, survey
and who says I have to enter
that store, school, museum exhibit
showing the last remains of the Wooly Mammoth
or the last paintings of Delacroix
I certainly don’t have to win this
board game, battle of the wits,
chess match or that debate
on the merits of certain Spanish wines
Ethiopian coffee or
Danish pastries and I am not
going to tell you my favorite
season, movie, top 40 song,
action star, book, car, vacation spot,
erotic fantasy, shock jock, rock group,
rapper nor will I share my personal
dreams, aspirations, fears, phobias,
fabrics, and I refuse to give you
fun facts about my hobbies,
nor will I disclose the pet names
I call my lovers
or the cute names I gave my dogs
or the four letter words I use
when I stub my toe, slice my finger
cutting onions
or get cut off on the highway
so don’t even try to get me to reveal
my early family life
or latent fetish tendencies...
unless of course you plan on revealing
what I want to know most like:
where you hid that bag of Lays potato chips
- Ivan Jenson
(2 poems added 06.19.12)
editor's note: No bag o' chips? No answers! (Answers to different questions on Ivan's page, check it out!) - mh
FUNdraising
my cowardice within the dual spotlights
focused not on my face but on
the flashing, orange, lifeless turkey
spurs stuttering of weather related observations.
I become the most accurate meteorologist
of that moment.
however, as everyone knows, no one cares
about meteoric predictions, only
rises and falls and the cornea scarring show
that accompanies them.
please give me your attention
and possibly money
to prove my message’s worth.
we’re good, they’re bad –
please, no debate, for my memory
only has room for the rehearsed.
if that isn’t a clue then yes,
I’ll say it,
we are political.
my father combed my hair
giving me a continental part
which I will use to win whatever
I choose to label as a game.
- Scott Krave
(added 06.18.12)
editor's note: Here is the perfect pitch for any cause or political agenda - so long as money changes hands. - mh
Communication
Speak first with bullets
then maybe words.
Aim and squeeze
don't pull, don't breathe.
Speak loud with bombs
light up that night sky
lanterns float and fall,
becoming exploding fireflies.
Speak quick with anger
among mobs and fire,
candlesticks and powder,
pure hatred, pure power.
Speak strong with pride,
tea kettle black ice,
warming and simmering
–infectiously spreading.
Speak first with love
and all falls down
when they push you
against the wall.
- Michael Atreides Lair
(added 06.17.12)
editor's note: Well said. Bullets, bombs don't bode well. Love is the better tell. - 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...
Unobscured,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
P.S. Need a read?
Check out the latest addition to our short stories library, "Looking For Clues" by Nathaniel Tower. Here's a taste to whet your whistle... “Most people thought our house was haunted because my brother killed himself in the attic. The police said it wasn't really a suicide. It wasn't neglect either. No one would've thought Grandpa's old war guns could've been loaded. I guess I shouldn't have told him what was up there. But no one would've guessed they still worked." ...get the rest of your read on here.
Varnish Aurora (above) by featured artist, Jon Marquette.
We proudly welcome back the madly talented Jon Marquette to our gallery for a record breaking 4th time. This time around his works come to us all the way from Hungary! This expatriate's evolving gift has the ability to hold our attention and keep us mystified through ever-changing shapes, colors and styles. Would you believe Jon was color-blind by the way he makes reds and blues pop off the canvas with such purposeful intensity? We think it goes without saying... if you haven't seen 'em before, you ought to see 'em now. If we were one for jumping on bandwagons we'd say the Jon Marquette gallery has no maximum capacity. All aboard! get your ticket here. ~ mio
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we considered modes of communication, uncovered best from bombed; we doctored the spin of a spokesman to win; we dodged direct queries, indulged no "right to know", to pique a pollster's pride; we learned more about foreign by siting what's same; we accessed hippy happenstance for what we gave, or did not give, a chance; we found foible in fable, left lion alone; we lastly languored in lazy disillusionment to find faith in the reading and writing of poetry. Refuge, yes! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Just Lie Down By My Side
Let us not make love tonight;
Just lie down by my side and keep talking.
Shut the doors, close the windows,
Let not the world creep inside;
There are people outside I don’t know.
Is there someone just like me?
Where have you been? What have you done?
There’s no use explaining—telling truth or speaking lies.
For what we say never reaches our ear;
The words are just floating in the air.
Just lie down by my side and keep breathing;
Let me know you’re alive.
Let me touch you just once,
Let me look into your eyes;
There are emotions that I lack.
The walls are closing in;
Hear them breathing hard.
They are tired just like me.
The room floods with red light;
Hold my hand and fly; float in the red.
Just lie down by my side and read poetry to me.
I shall write poetry too
Someday when you are not around,
Someday when I am not drunk,
The day when living is not so perfunctory.
- Prashant Das
(1 poem added 06.23.12)
editor's note: Poetry prevails over perfunctory existence. Not so sure? Just lie down... - mh
Don’t Talk to the Lion
If he convinces you
And you free him from the net
His claws will rend you
Don’t believe the fables.
- JD DeHart
(added 06.22.12)
editor's note: Aesop was a propagandist for the carnivores? Another myth busted. - mh
WHERE HAVE ALL THE FLOWERS GONE?
Did you
When you were California
Dreaming when the answer was a
Blowing in the wind when times were a
Changing before the dust in the wind
Had covered all your peace signs
When all the leaves were brown
And the sky was grey
Along the watchtowers where
You found yourself quite alone
And now that all the flowers have gone
Did you really give peace a chance?
- Clinton Van Inman
(1 poem added 06.21.12)
editor's note: A new spin on old anthems brings the question back around to the long-haired, liberated, lascivious hippy we wanted to be. So... did we? - mh
A POND FOR YOUR THOUGHTS
To an Englishman
America is Hollywood,
All The President’s Men.
Congress, Senate, well, yes,
I get those too in a remote sort of way.
Military adventures – the Pentagon:
A killing machine or the world’s policeman?
That Special Relationship between
Britain and the US of A – what is that,
A handshake? A nod? Or merely tolerance?
Then I listen to ordinary people,
You know the type; they’re always there,
Unlike All The President’s Men,
Changing their faces
Like I change my shirt.
So these Americans, who’ve shown me
Humour, poetry, music, joy, sadness, generosity,
From over the pond, that distant land
Where they like to live in peace,
Because they’re born that way.
Every day of their lives fighting
To keep their families together,
Just like me. Not so far away after all,
That distant shore, not so different, this other side,
That opened up for me,
Another America.
- Derrick Gaskin
(2 poems added 06.20.12)
editor's note: This could easily describe Another _______
Strictly Confidential
Look, I don’t have to answer
that call, question, survey
and who says I have to enter
that store, school, museum exhibit
showing the last remains of the Wooly Mammoth
or the last paintings of Delacroix
I certainly don’t have to win this
board game, battle of the wits,
chess match or that debate
on the merits of certain Spanish wines
Ethiopian coffee or
Danish pastries and I am not
going to tell you my favorite
season, movie, top 40 song,
action star, book, car, vacation spot,
erotic fantasy, shock jock, rock group,
rapper nor will I share my personal
dreams, aspirations, fears, phobias,
fabrics, and I refuse to give you
fun facts about my hobbies,
nor will I disclose the pet names
I call my lovers
or the cute names I gave my dogs
or the four letter words I use
when I stub my toe, slice my finger
cutting onions
or get cut off on the highway
so don’t even try to get me to reveal
my early family life
or latent fetish tendencies...
unless of course you plan on revealing
what I want to know most like:
where you hid that bag of Lays potato chips
- Ivan Jenson
(2 poems added 06.19.12)
editor's note: No bag o' chips? No answers! (Answers to different questions on Ivan's page, check it out!) - mh
FUNdraising
my cowardice within the dual spotlights
focused not on my face but on
the flashing, orange, lifeless turkey
spurs stuttering of weather related observations.
I become the most accurate meteorologist
of that moment.
however, as everyone knows, no one cares
about meteoric predictions, only
rises and falls and the cornea scarring show
that accompanies them.
please give me your attention
and possibly money
to prove my message’s worth.
we’re good, they’re bad –
please, no debate, for my memory
only has room for the rehearsed.
if that isn’t a clue then yes,
I’ll say it,
we are political.
my father combed my hair
giving me a continental part
which I will use to win whatever
I choose to label as a game.
- Scott Krave
(added 06.18.12)
editor's note: Here is the perfect pitch for any cause or political agenda - so long as money changes hands. - mh
Communication
Speak first with bullets
then maybe words.
Aim and squeeze
don't pull, don't breathe.
Speak loud with bombs
light up that night sky
lanterns float and fall,
becoming exploding fireflies.
Speak quick with anger
among mobs and fire,
candlesticks and powder,
pure hatred, pure power.
Speak strong with pride,
tea kettle black ice,
warming and simmering
–infectiously spreading.
Speak first with love
and all falls down
when they push you
against the wall.
- Michael Atreides Lair
(added 06.17.12)
editor's note: Well said. Bullets, bombs don't bode well. Love is the better tell. - 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...
Unobscured,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
P.S. Need a read?
Check out the latest addition to our short stories library, "Looking For Clues" by Nathaniel Tower. Here's a taste to whet your whistle... “Most people thought our house was haunted because my brother killed himself in the attic. The police said it wasn't really a suicide. It wasn't neglect either. No one would've thought Grandpa's old war guns could've been loaded. I guess I shouldn't have told him what was up there. But no one would've guessed they still worked." ...get the rest of your read on here.
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