The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 06.30.12
Jon Marquette, 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... was a round, ruffled run up an erratic hill. We braved rejection on a poet's praise for an object of affection; we learned sex as battle, not hand-to-hand, but teeth-to-eyelash; we discussed deity, dis'd deism and defended a delicate moment; we meandered amidst warm memories of an unmade bed; we pondered what possibilities abound in the successful recollection of pure sound; we suspended chances on classic noire from nine stanzas; we jolted awake on the apex o' the week to realize we could enjoy more sleep. Think I'll stay awhile and take in the view from here. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
False dawn creeps over the distant horizon.
Why must it come so soon?
Waking to soft melodies
that stupid songbird is at it again.
Cobwebs cloud my mind, and my
trench coat mouth bristles with barbs.
on the strings of duty;
Damn that crazy bird!
Laying back down;
hitting the snooze a dozen times.
Sleep hides away
as the spinning wheels of
my mind grind.
Sitting straight up;
Remembering it is Saturday.
- Mike Berger
(1 poem added 06.30.12)
editor's note: Oh, that sweet-stupid realization! What a night! I'll wager some of us are happily heading back to bed. Anyone? Anyone? - mh
The Doorman's Diary: At the jazz club
a subtle sense
the waitress steps outside,
can't pry it
young and beautiful
photo of her
outside that door
an empty quiet
dark memory --
an ill-formed consequence
the man in the shadows
dark lot --
in a steel dumpster
- Jeffrey Winke
(1 poem added 06.29.12)
editor's note: This series of verbal snap-shots tells a story; pensive ponderings, furtive foul-play, maybe, and the rumpus of rodents. Well done and welcome back, Jeff Winke! - mh
Nostalgia for Pure Sounds
Enlightening the mountains with their bleatings.
Like a rainbow on a green sky goats were grazing
The sound of scythes cutting wheat spikes -
a music to the ear.
A sickle cutting the grass to the rhythm of
Women ululating in the fields to the rhythm of
their lustrous golden anklets as if in a wedding.
Little children playing hide and seek behind the trees
to the rhythm of drums and bagpipes.
Life was really a kind of Eden.
Sounds so pure - an original copy.
I really want to hear those sounds again.
Sounds are decaying now and the
duplicate is deafening & filthy
as sounds also decay.
One just spends the rest of the
day mourning the purity of sounds
in the form of a bird with a fake beak.
- Ali Znaidi
editor's note: A "fake beak" or "an original copy"? If we know what we want to hear, we'll have to make those sounds ourselves. Nice! - mh
Mindful, yet timeless
The ocean and stars
Wash my sheets clean
but for reasons fallen small.
they radiate pale moonlight.
The shape of them still tells
of a sensual moment evident,
but with fading memory found.
I stand, wondering:
This imprint, this fossil -
Does memory derive relevance,
Or are my sheets simply in need of tucking?
- Todd Macaulay
editor's note: There is relevance in a tightly folded corner and a quarter bounced off the top. - mh
I’m at work fixing a game
For a lady customer,
When an older Mexican woman walks up to me and says:
“Oh, hey, you the one with the
My hair now pulled back in a bun,
“Yeah that’s me”
“Oh, hey, how are you? Me and my daughter use to come
Here all the time, but we no come in ah, year and a
“Yeah, ah my daughter have the hair just like you”
“Oh your daughter has curly hair”
“Oh yeah that’s why we remember you, but
Okay, I let you get back, it was nice to see you,
God bless you”
And I look to the women I’m helping,
“Do you think she knows I’m an atheist?”
A slight joke,
“You don’t believe in God?”
She asks, stunned.
Let me make this clear,
A huge resounding yes,
Followed by an immensely,
Reason persuades me not to believe,
But instinct tells me to keep a cross,
Bound to me at all times,
I believe in my God,
Not your God,
And what does that mean? My God? Whose is he?
Not a God who prefers his people
To be divided in to different religions,
Like Christians, Mormons, Muslims, or gymnasts,
Who hate each other’s guts,
To the point of rising wars,
My God is a God,
Who lives in the air,
And breathes through the trees,
Who swims in the oceans,
And sleeps in the cities,
Who blows through the fields,
And dreams the color of lilies,
My God is a natural God,
Not a God built like a man,
Who picks sides during Wars,
And allow thousands to kill in his name,
My God is a vegetarian,
Who drives a Hybrid car,
My God is the Bones in the Earth,
The coral of the sea,
And the minerals of the soil,
My God is a living God,
Who can be found all around us,
Except for the stone and glass façade,
Of the structures labeled ‘his house’
My God is a God,
Your God strives to be,
My God hates this Poem,
And all the songs sung about him,
He doesn’t enjoy the fame,
All he asks for is a little peace,
And cooperation during these delicate moments.
- R.A. Hernandez
(1 poem added 06.26.12)
editor's note: I think I'll convert to gymnastism and grow out my hair. Believe it! - mh
Aroused during lovemaking,
Trobriand Islanders snap their teeth
and nip at their lover’s nose and chin.
As their passion mounts,
they bite cheeks and lips
wildly until they bleed.
Then at the moment of orgasm,
they chew off each others eyelashes.
- Bill Wolak
editor's note: Instead of wine and roses, these girls respond to cotton balls and triple antibiotic ointment - a real turn-on! - mh
a not too distant object
slowly she turns
and bends on stage
in the purple light
in the yellow and in the blue
hips pop - corks too
or planets swing
cool smooth marble smiles
conspire to conceal the fire within
like prisoners and ovens burn
making noooo connections in the dark
drawn to her - my light - my one
while I pretend to look away
and cosmos churn
poets are strippers of the heart
naked on the page
and the spaces in between
- Paul Koniecki
editor's note: And, oh, the things poets yearn to do between those lines... *pop* - 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...
P.S. DO NOT JOIN MAD SWIRL THIS 1ST WEDNESDAY!
Come one, come all! Mad poets, musicians, actors, singers, circus freaks and Elvis impersonators... come-n-strut-yo-stuff. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
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
P.P.S. AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st WEDNESDAY we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. Now we got even more reason to get all googily-eyed! Here is our list of featured poets for the rest of 2012. Ready? Drum roll please...
August 01: Victory & Zach Shrotter
September 05: Danny Chibli
October 03: Joey & Darrell Cloudy
November 07: BA
December 05: Tamitha Curiel & Swirve
Mark your calendars... now!