The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 09.08.12
“Poetry is the deification of reality” ~ Edith Sitwell
Short Cuts to Nursery Crimes (above) by this month's featured artist AND one of this week's featured poets, Paula Dawn Lietz.
Some of you might know this month's featured artist in the Mad Gallery as Pd. But we will always know her as Paula Dawn Lietz. That's the name we were given when first introduced to her at her first submission of her poetry and photography back in January 2010. Now, almost 3 years later, she is back again! And my how the years have aged this fine wine of talent. It's such a visual and inspirational treat to see the progression of an artist, witness the honing of their gift. That's exactly what we experienced with her latest works. Is it photography? Kinda. Is it illustration? Sorta. Is it a swirling mash-up of madness? Yessiree! Come and get yourself a good gander. Look deep. Feel the feelings it conjures up in your heart. It's OK, that's what Paula Dawn wants you to do. Are you ready? On three. One... two... three... ~ Johnny O
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we picked a puerile pause in sweet perfume; we dallied with a dancing dream; we succumbed to the scented surge of seduction; we eyed random angst from the Emperor of the Common Good; we rode the rails awash in the light of our youth misguided; we learned of logic and peculiar popularities on planet wrong; we tipped a tub full of poets' prattle and dumped out a cynic. Now, to clean this up or splash around in it. Decisions, decisions... ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
About Diogenes and the full tub
While I am writing this poem, I am scribbling
some notes for my next book.
They say that’s always the case, don’t they?
Also, they say that a broken clock is right twice
a day. I remember, a few years ago during one
night in the forest, I was chased by two shiny eyes.
I had no knife. I was armed with a rusty searchlight
and a bottle of brandy. But I will keep that story
for my next book. Now, I have something else on
my mind. While I am writing this down in my
shabby notebook, I look out the window. Outside,
the nightly silence is spreading, and above that,
the great mountain hangs over. Vultures and bats
are cutting the sky and sing songs unheard by
everyone but me. And it seems to me that today,
for the first time, I’ve heard within the long river
the true voice of the water. I saw on the clouds
in the sky what eternity really is. I understood
the everlasting secrets of the grass and the vines,
locked in the ground. I felt the meaning of
the days. Even the book on the table can’t give me
this wisdom – The Poems of Catullus? Very good!
But the seasons will change again -- all books will
be written; the words will fade away, and speech
will turn sour. But what difference does it make
right now, when I am turning into one of the saddest
wonders of the world?
- Peycho Kanev
(3 poems added 09.08.12)
editor's note: Cynical synergy celebrates the empty pocket and a suspicious world view. - mh
Wrong planet
Let me tell you
about logic. It's
flat as the world.
The only problem
w/ being wrong is
thinking that's not
a good start.
Let me tell you
about peculiar. It's
subject to revision.
You'll never know
you're correct
so long as everyone
agrees.
Let me tell you
about popularity.
It's empty calories.
Membership is acceding
no one is listening.
Crunch your
own numbers.
Let me tell you
about how it goes.
Being included is
being deluded.
Emotional mercury
seeks its
own level.
Let me tell you
about planet wrong.
I only stopped for
directions out.
Don't be the reason
someone isn't
singing.
- Craig Kurtz
(added 09.07.12)
editor's note: Planet wrong is planet here and now. Sing loud, sing long; but, listen to what you're told. - mh
Misguided by the Light of My Youth
The train started to stop,
and we watched
perched on top
stacks of timber
–cold, cold wood.
The train cars
–slinging, lurching, and screeching,
finally came to a halt.
And I remember
the swaying stacks
and the passing boom!
I was drunk and happy then,
young too,
and I suppose
misguided by the light of my youth,
as most of us have once been.
I thought nothing of it then,
yet I've tried to go back
so many, many times since.
- Michael Atreides Lair
(1 poem added 09.06.12)
editor's note: Wasted on the young, treasured by the old. It's the same track all down the line. (With this poem, Michael joins our uncloyed klatch of Contributing Poets. Check out his new page.) - mh
Manifesto
Receive the ordinance.
Give back your property.
Tend to the flock.
Make the child a cerebral mess.
A rolling spore gathers no moss.
I believe all illness should be cured
With Amoxicillin.
Flash of lightning just like
A light bulb popping in a plastic bag.
Enjoy the wirtschaftswunder.
Pro-proletariat.
First round #1 draft pick:
Retired.
Beautiful spoon red as sunset:
Expired.
Drunk sex offender dishwasher:
Rehired.
Bring me The Tea Party.
Yes, Comandante Top Zero.
Sub-Prime Mortgage Prime Rib
Prime Minister,
Minestrone, Pasta Primavera.
Inculcate me that Chimera.
Citadel: civilian crystal
Plaza where they pump the student
Body full of steroids.
Is my salad ready?
Organic as milktoast
& blood pudding.
We have the plum mediocre
On a supplemental program;
We replace the heart with an orange:
Citric bypass.
It makes a good breakfast
For the masses pledging mop & sickle
To me: Herr Uber-Munch,
Mr. Normal Gospel Pornographer,
Fear Sommelier, Polaris General,
Emperor of the Common Good.
It’s all so revolting.
The waiter won’t be tipped.
You have my word.
George Washington.s
- Quinten Collier
(added 09.05.12)
editor's note: This he spoke rapidly, while drinking a glass of water... (Another one from Quinten on his page - check it out.) - mh
Passion
your scent surged throughout
every fissure of my mind
I stood raw and vulnerable
seduced by your opulence
incautious of my own sanity
wretched and radiant intertwined
in torrents I poured into your darkness
- Paula Dawn Lietz
(1 poem added 09.04.12)
editor's note: Capture this essence; sell a fine perfume. Sell your soul; gulp the entire torrent. - mh
NIRVANA
Calypso has shown me
Her windswept Isle of Dreams,
Where herring gull and guillemot
Fly over crested seas.
I swim into her inlets
And ride her basking shark,
Where bleached bones of angels
Dance beside her surf.
Sharpened on the edge of gales
My spirit feels no pain,
Here on the cutting edge of life
Her magic knows no sin,
She tells me that survival
Is on her Isle of Dreams;
As her ocean melts my body
Just where her darkness gleams.
- Derrick Gaskin
(1 poem added 09.03.12)
editor's note: Odyssey interruptus explained; to be adrift is bliss. - mh
Weaving the Light in His Dream with Your Shadow
Place a tulip bulb under your pillow
and sleep on it till you dream of lovemaking.
Then plant it in five handfuls of soil
gathered from beneath your lover’s footprints.
Collect raindrops that have dripped
from the branches of a cherry tree.
Pour that rainwater over the bulb through a ring
that you wear or have worn in the past saying,
“I ask water to touch his lips with my thirst,
I ask fire to weave the light in his dreams with my shadow,
I ask earth to grind his nakedness against mine like an avalanche,
I ask air to tempt him with the whispered kiss of my perfume.”
When the tulip blossoms, crush the flower
against your breasts and nape and wrists and hips.
He will find you waiting at midnight
mistaking your body for his bedspread,
your hair for his mirror,
your hands for his cup,
and your smile for his moonlight.
- Bill Wolak
(1 poem added 09.02.12)
editor's note: If this had been the method for Mary, she wouldn't have been nearly so contrary. (Let's welcome William to our Contributing Poets with this poem. See more of his poetry on his new page.) - 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...
Deifyin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Some of you might know this month's featured artist in the Mad Gallery as Pd. But we will always know her as Paula Dawn Lietz. That's the name we were given when first introduced to her at her first submission of her poetry and photography back in January 2010. Now, almost 3 years later, she is back again! And my how the years have aged this fine wine of talent. It's such a visual and inspirational treat to see the progression of an artist, witness the honing of their gift. That's exactly what we experienced with her latest works. Is it photography? Kinda. Is it illustration? Sorta. Is it a swirling mash-up of madness? Yessiree! Come and get yourself a good gander. Look deep. Feel the feelings it conjures up in your heart. It's OK, that's what Paula Dawn wants you to do. Are you ready? On three. One... two... three... ~ Johnny O
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we picked a puerile pause in sweet perfume; we dallied with a dancing dream; we succumbed to the scented surge of seduction; we eyed random angst from the Emperor of the Common Good; we rode the rails awash in the light of our youth misguided; we learned of logic and peculiar popularities on planet wrong; we tipped a tub full of poets' prattle and dumped out a cynic. Now, to clean this up or splash around in it. Decisions, decisions... ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
About Diogenes and the full tub
While I am writing this poem, I am scribbling
some notes for my next book.
They say that’s always the case, don’t they?
Also, they say that a broken clock is right twice
a day. I remember, a few years ago during one
night in the forest, I was chased by two shiny eyes.
I had no knife. I was armed with a rusty searchlight
and a bottle of brandy. But I will keep that story
for my next book. Now, I have something else on
my mind. While I am writing this down in my
shabby notebook, I look out the window. Outside,
the nightly silence is spreading, and above that,
the great mountain hangs over. Vultures and bats
are cutting the sky and sing songs unheard by
everyone but me. And it seems to me that today,
for the first time, I’ve heard within the long river
the true voice of the water. I saw on the clouds
in the sky what eternity really is. I understood
the everlasting secrets of the grass and the vines,
locked in the ground. I felt the meaning of
the days. Even the book on the table can’t give me
this wisdom – The Poems of Catullus? Very good!
But the seasons will change again -- all books will
be written; the words will fade away, and speech
will turn sour. But what difference does it make
right now, when I am turning into one of the saddest
wonders of the world?
- Peycho Kanev
(3 poems added 09.08.12)
editor's note: Cynical synergy celebrates the empty pocket and a suspicious world view. - mh
Wrong planet
Let me tell you
about logic. It's
flat as the world.
The only problem
w/ being wrong is
thinking that's not
a good start.
Let me tell you
about peculiar. It's
subject to revision.
You'll never know
you're correct
so long as everyone
agrees.
Let me tell you
about popularity.
It's empty calories.
Membership is acceding
no one is listening.
Crunch your
own numbers.
Let me tell you
about how it goes.
Being included is
being deluded.
Emotional mercury
seeks its
own level.
Let me tell you
about planet wrong.
I only stopped for
directions out.
Don't be the reason
someone isn't
singing.
- Craig Kurtz
(added 09.07.12)
editor's note: Planet wrong is planet here and now. Sing loud, sing long; but, listen to what you're told. - mh
Misguided by the Light of My Youth
The train started to stop,
and we watched
perched on top
stacks of timber
–cold, cold wood.
The train cars
–slinging, lurching, and screeching,
finally came to a halt.
And I remember
the swaying stacks
and the passing boom!
I was drunk and happy then,
young too,
and I suppose
misguided by the light of my youth,
as most of us have once been.
I thought nothing of it then,
yet I've tried to go back
so many, many times since.
- Michael Atreides Lair
(1 poem added 09.06.12)
editor's note: Wasted on the young, treasured by the old. It's the same track all down the line. (With this poem, Michael joins our uncloyed klatch of Contributing Poets. Check out his new page.) - mh
Manifesto
Receive the ordinance.
Give back your property.
Tend to the flock.
Make the child a cerebral mess.
A rolling spore gathers no moss.
I believe all illness should be cured
With Amoxicillin.
Flash of lightning just like
A light bulb popping in a plastic bag.
Enjoy the wirtschaftswunder.
Pro-proletariat.
First round #1 draft pick:
Retired.
Beautiful spoon red as sunset:
Expired.
Drunk sex offender dishwasher:
Rehired.
Bring me The Tea Party.
Yes, Comandante Top Zero.
Sub-Prime Mortgage Prime Rib
Prime Minister,
Minestrone, Pasta Primavera.
Inculcate me that Chimera.
Citadel: civilian crystal
Plaza where they pump the student
Body full of steroids.
Is my salad ready?
Organic as milktoast
& blood pudding.
We have the plum mediocre
On a supplemental program;
We replace the heart with an orange:
Citric bypass.
It makes a good breakfast
For the masses pledging mop & sickle
To me: Herr Uber-Munch,
Mr. Normal Gospel Pornographer,
Fear Sommelier, Polaris General,
Emperor of the Common Good.
It’s all so revolting.
The waiter won’t be tipped.
You have my word.
George Washington.s
- Quinten Collier
(added 09.05.12)
editor's note: This he spoke rapidly, while drinking a glass of water... (Another one from Quinten on his page - check it out.) - mh
Passion
your scent surged throughout
every fissure of my mind
I stood raw and vulnerable
seduced by your opulence
incautious of my own sanity
wretched and radiant intertwined
in torrents I poured into your darkness
- Paula Dawn Lietz
(1 poem added 09.04.12)
editor's note: Capture this essence; sell a fine perfume. Sell your soul; gulp the entire torrent. - mh
NIRVANA
Calypso has shown me
Her windswept Isle of Dreams,
Where herring gull and guillemot
Fly over crested seas.
I swim into her inlets
And ride her basking shark,
Where bleached bones of angels
Dance beside her surf.
Sharpened on the edge of gales
My spirit feels no pain,
Here on the cutting edge of life
Her magic knows no sin,
She tells me that survival
Is on her Isle of Dreams;
As her ocean melts my body
Just where her darkness gleams.
- Derrick Gaskin
(1 poem added 09.03.12)
editor's note: Odyssey interruptus explained; to be adrift is bliss. - mh
Weaving the Light in His Dream with Your Shadow
Place a tulip bulb under your pillow
and sleep on it till you dream of lovemaking.
Then plant it in five handfuls of soil
gathered from beneath your lover’s footprints.
Collect raindrops that have dripped
from the branches of a cherry tree.
Pour that rainwater over the bulb through a ring
that you wear or have worn in the past saying,
“I ask water to touch his lips with my thirst,
I ask fire to weave the light in his dreams with my shadow,
I ask earth to grind his nakedness against mine like an avalanche,
I ask air to tempt him with the whispered kiss of my perfume.”
When the tulip blossoms, crush the flower
against your breasts and nape and wrists and hips.
He will find you waiting at midnight
mistaking your body for his bedspread,
your hair for his mirror,
your hands for his cup,
and your smile for his moonlight.
- Bill Wolak
(1 poem added 09.02.12)
editor's note: If this had been the method for Mary, she wouldn't have been nearly so contrary. (Let's welcome William to our Contributing Poets with this poem. See more of his poetry on his new page.) - 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...
Deifyin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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