The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 09.15.12
“I have not told half of what I saw.” ~ Marco Polo
Inconspicuous (above) by this month's featured artist, Paula Dawn Lietz.
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we slugged shots in apathetic anticipation of the right hour; we approached a night, awash in blue light and an eerie feeling, not quite right; we celebrated familial solidarity, hiked a high five; we proferred a poem for the perfect poetry part; we picked another, poem as person as primal utterance as naked vulnerability; we obsessed on the idea of an ideal obsession; we wrote words to render Death tame, so long as there are readers unclaimed. This week's words (and, by association, their poets) will live forever or until God stops reading, whichever comes first. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Time Left to Write
Death
waits in shadows
silently observes
in corners of hospital rooms
behind doors of blackest evil
hovers above wreckage
waiting
for final breath
walks barefoot through shattered glass
slips
through pools of blood
never
leaves a trace behind.
We should not fear Death
but welcome his boat of passage
that
sails us
away from earthly hells endured
Death .. I have come to terms with you
You held my hand more than once
then
let go
Leaving me here
with time to write...
- Diana Rose
(1 poem added 09.15.12)
editor's note: With Death distracted elsewhere, poets write themselves to life. - mh
Obsession
He wanted to be too close,
knitting her flesh
into fresh woolen dreams,
and leave his thumb prints
on the skin that spanned her hips;
to feel her thoughts
before she even sensed them,
tasting the smile
that she nursed like a cool summer drink.
He wanted to undress her with his careful hands,
feeling his name drop
like an oath from her lips
in a dark room,
and make her limbs ache;
to numb her breath
and teach her words
that would turn the still air sultry
making the night blister
her heart
like unquenched summer.
- Brendan Sullivan
(added 09.14.12)
editor's note: Average lovers fixate on this to create above-average love. Off the page into her passion. - mh
Dear--
I suppose this poem is to myself,
but it can't let itself be defined
by that. It is a collection,
of words with roots in every
dead language, whispering
with some ancient juju
from back when every
parsec of sound
in each singsong syllable
of every utterance held
great and honest power.
I suppose this poem is really
equal to the equation
that makes a person, natural
selection, beginning, creation,
an end,
and the middle, which
can also be defined as now,
is all about experience,
and weighty in a way
it won't be when it's over.
I suppose this poem is alive
like me, one more
birthed thing I have to be
responsible for. We both
need to be full, fed fat
on adjectives
and experience, well put
and put together,
finely polished with
personality, trimmed
of excessive commas
and useless language.
I suppose this poem wants
to strip itself,
a shivering, goosebumped
bareness, and show off
on a stage for critical eyes.
Like a woman,
unsure of her curves,
it needs to be loved naked
to feel finished.
- Katie Moore
(added 09.13.12)
editor's note: Every poem is a virgin when read for the first time; be gentle. Was it good for you? - mh
harrison ford poem
it's like actors audition
and this one's better
than that one for the part.
so, the poem auditions
for the moment
as the poem auditions for the journal.
we are not looking
for that one right now.
we are looking for this.
you are a harrison ford poem
and we are looking for
tom cruise
more teethy
ten years or so
younger.
•••
i don't know about
yours, but this,
truthfully, has been the story
of much of my life.
- Carl Kavadlo
(added 09.12.12)
editor's note: When denied one part, you go to the next audition - rinse and repeat. - mh
hi5
My brothers, who are solely,
Truly and purely mine
Sad, poor, hungry people
Near and far
Farming life and hungry from the start
Rainy nights and stressful times
Moving thinly, hands and legs apart
Over distant galaxy and stars
Lift your spirit and let us shout:
We are together
In this crowd!
We will be together
In this round!
This shall also pass
Give me hi5 back
- Santosh Kalwar
(1 poem added 09.11.12)
editor's note: Shout together. We'll hear ourselves; maybe god will give us hi5, too! - mh
Not quite right...
(twilight; edge of sleep)
bicycles leaning
against houses
waiting for tomorrow's school day
(everybody's inside, dying or dead)
the television set's blue ghost-light, dancing off walls, of darkened rooms
- Ralph Freda
(added 09.10.12)
editor's note: Better to be outside, watching... waiting... - mh
a meeting...
'nothing is urgent'
he says
after finishing the first shot
orders another...
looks at my fidgety fingers
tapping the table...
finishes his second one
looks out the window
squints his eyes
observes the setting Sun...
looks back to me
'everything happens at the right hour'
he declares...
I nod
and sip
my glass
silently...
- Kanchan Chatterjee
(added 09.09.12)
editor's note: The best logic comes with lubrication. Wisdom is seen through the bottom of a glass. - 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...
Seein' & Tellin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we slugged shots in apathetic anticipation of the right hour; we approached a night, awash in blue light and an eerie feeling, not quite right; we celebrated familial solidarity, hiked a high five; we proferred a poem for the perfect poetry part; we picked another, poem as person as primal utterance as naked vulnerability; we obsessed on the idea of an ideal obsession; we wrote words to render Death tame, so long as there are readers unclaimed. This week's words (and, by association, their poets) will live forever or until God stops reading, whichever comes first. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Time Left to Write
Death
waits in shadows
silently observes
in corners of hospital rooms
behind doors of blackest evil
hovers above wreckage
waiting
for final breath
walks barefoot through shattered glass
slips
through pools of blood
never
leaves a trace behind.
We should not fear Death
but welcome his boat of passage
that
sails us
away from earthly hells endured
Death .. I have come to terms with you
You held my hand more than once
then
let go
Leaving me here
with time to write...
- Diana Rose
(1 poem added 09.15.12)
editor's note: With Death distracted elsewhere, poets write themselves to life. - mh
Obsession
He wanted to be too close,
knitting her flesh
into fresh woolen dreams,
and leave his thumb prints
on the skin that spanned her hips;
to feel her thoughts
before she even sensed them,
tasting the smile
that she nursed like a cool summer drink.
He wanted to undress her with his careful hands,
feeling his name drop
like an oath from her lips
in a dark room,
and make her limbs ache;
to numb her breath
and teach her words
that would turn the still air sultry
making the night blister
her heart
like unquenched summer.
- Brendan Sullivan
(added 09.14.12)
editor's note: Average lovers fixate on this to create above-average love. Off the page into her passion. - mh
Dear--
I suppose this poem is to myself,
but it can't let itself be defined
by that. It is a collection,
of words with roots in every
dead language, whispering
with some ancient juju
from back when every
parsec of sound
in each singsong syllable
of every utterance held
great and honest power.
I suppose this poem is really
equal to the equation
that makes a person, natural
selection, beginning, creation,
an end,
and the middle, which
can also be defined as now,
is all about experience,
and weighty in a way
it won't be when it's over.
I suppose this poem is alive
like me, one more
birthed thing I have to be
responsible for. We both
need to be full, fed fat
on adjectives
and experience, well put
and put together,
finely polished with
personality, trimmed
of excessive commas
and useless language.
I suppose this poem wants
to strip itself,
a shivering, goosebumped
bareness, and show off
on a stage for critical eyes.
Like a woman,
unsure of her curves,
it needs to be loved naked
to feel finished.
- Katie Moore
(added 09.13.12)
editor's note: Every poem is a virgin when read for the first time; be gentle. Was it good for you? - mh
harrison ford poem
it's like actors audition
and this one's better
than that one for the part.
so, the poem auditions
for the moment
as the poem auditions for the journal.
we are not looking
for that one right now.
we are looking for this.
you are a harrison ford poem
and we are looking for
tom cruise
more teethy
ten years or so
younger.
•••
i don't know about
yours, but this,
truthfully, has been the story
of much of my life.
- Carl Kavadlo
(added 09.12.12)
editor's note: When denied one part, you go to the next audition - rinse and repeat. - mh
hi5
My brothers, who are solely,
Truly and purely mine
Sad, poor, hungry people
Near and far
Farming life and hungry from the start
Rainy nights and stressful times
Moving thinly, hands and legs apart
Over distant galaxy and stars
Lift your spirit and let us shout:
We are together
In this crowd!
We will be together
In this round!
This shall also pass
Give me hi5 back
- Santosh Kalwar
(1 poem added 09.11.12)
editor's note: Shout together. We'll hear ourselves; maybe god will give us hi5, too! - mh
Not quite right...
(twilight; edge of sleep)
bicycles leaning
against houses
waiting for tomorrow's school day
(everybody's inside, dying or dead)
the television set's blue ghost-light, dancing off walls, of darkened rooms
- Ralph Freda
(added 09.10.12)
editor's note: Better to be outside, watching... waiting... - mh
a meeting...
'nothing is urgent'
he says
after finishing the first shot
orders another...
looks at my fidgety fingers
tapping the table...
finishes his second one
looks out the window
squints his eyes
observes the setting Sun...
looks back to me
'everything happens at the right hour'
he declares...
I nod
and sip
my glass
silently...
- Kanchan Chatterjee
(added 09.09.12)
editor's note: The best logic comes with lubrication. Wisdom is seen through the bottom of a glass. - 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...
Seein' & Tellin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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