The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 10.06.12
“Read the directions and directly you will be directed in the right direction.” Lewis Carroll
innuendo (above) by one of over 20 featured artists, Peter Schwartz, 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 yours right over here and a-way you'll GO!
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we took a slip slide on the illegitimate side, paradise passed; we admired a mid-sky madonna with cumulo-nimbus infant; we tweaked the EQ and balanced the bias of a naked self-absorbed saint; we plucked the plum of plumed persona from priest's imperative for personal preference; we fell through fractured fragments to find reform; we likened a delectible Nigerian delicacy to the love of our life, the way to every heart indeed; we opened a window to adjust our focus on answered prayer, a hallowed hurricane. How cool! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
THE SECRET LANGUAGE OF THE WIND
if as for the window opening in me
the who where something can do
that which makes awake the lesson
and listens to the footsteps in the wet
depending upon the secret language of the wind
the message and the rain opens it is just possible
to adjust the focus to a narrow beam
of contact that is perhaps possible
to read the fact that all through the house
where the floor boards give up the ghost
the beam creaking is the noon of the ceiling
a kind of put-together crack
but waiting under the roof at midnight the fact
that it is blown through the room
which peels that skin where the paint blinks
and is the naked light bulb
and is pulverized and so passing
by the long wall built to keep out the mares
the door behind the empty keyhole by the front entryway
I who close the lock hear someone walking away
I keep hearing the noises inside
tears falling which in this halfstate of consciousness
can move me and make me laugh
in the storm which you thundered
it shakes the twist of pain
which by any means cannot cause me
who can’t close my eyes
and make a dream where the hurricane
is the answer to all my prayers
- satnrose
(2 poems added 10.06.12)
editor's note: Great way to learn a new language; while you sleep... (There's a call on satnrose's page - check it out, only costs a dime.) - mh
Ekpang Nkukwo
A damsel that feeds the stomach
Soft and flexible like a woman
A little sight of you moves my lips
I want you, I need you, ekpang nkukwo.
A delicate delicacy of value
Enfolded in a young cocoyam leaf
Humming in a smoky pot on fire
I want you, I need you, ekpang nkukwo.
The enemy of hunger
Red palm oil uplifting your taste
With winkles enriching your ways
I want you, I need you, ekpang nkukwo.
My only dearest friend
So mild and tender like a baby
So delicious and fulfilling like gospel
Believe me, I want you, I need only you, ekpang nkukwo.
- Kufre Udeme
(1 poem added 10.05.12)
editor's note: Want and need come from a common heart; no translation required. ekpang nkukwo! - mh
way down in the fall
we lost each other sometime
way down in the fall
when days were grey
and the wind blew my heart
around your mind
enough to break
into shard like pieces of glass
cutting words
one by one
till I bled
wide open
spilling truth
of painted crimson
across the barren desert
of your soul
colder now with winter looming
- Elissa Landrigan
(added 10.04.12)
editor's note: There's a nip in the air; winter's a harsh time to be alone. Speak words to mend broken shards or shiver in solitude. - mh
Persona
The ‘dissolution of the persona’
Can be achieved by gutting
all fragrant garrets of their chartreuse and liquor
By spurning the monkish leers
Of personable academics,
By refuting the archetype of
The ‘wise old woman’
Or the horsy doppelgangers
Swooning out of the clavicles
Of Ivorian harps,
By asserting the voracity of hyaline
Over the more lugubrious Roman candle,
By refuting the Brunswick blue of love’s
Oppression,
By refusing the handsome or the rich,
For some rewards are too ingenious to divulge,
For the persona is a priest’s imperative,
A sexagenarian’s masterpiece
Of tact,
A butch girl's enthralling libretto
Or the giant stalagmites of
A woman’s rhinestones at noon
- Afshan Shafi
(added 10.03.12)
editor's note: A recipe for deconstruction. Get out your dictionary and start de-cooking. - mh
If You Don't Smile I Am Going To Kill You
this is where they mean when they say 'back woods'
gods country. god's country. it's a jeep thing.
a place in time and my mind where an orange vest will still get you dead.
reflect all you want. you're going to get got.
get got. get god.
follow your breathe and watch it release.
nod your head and worship the beat.
agree with the street mystic when he bumps boom bap
forget the hi-hat.
this is where my mind's at.
the high end is torturing me.
the mid range is sodomy.
travel with flashlight on deck, navigate the underground and bass.
sound is vibration.
there is fear in the absence of certainty and light.
only the glow from the fire built on the broken backs and spines of books
can illuminate the darkest sky and gently open my minds eye.
give wisdom a dirty look, unlearn the literal extremes of evangelical crooks.
the grayest night turns into the most beautiful morning.
a gray haired knight turns wishbones into potions.
he projects forever.
the sun goddess wakes up yawning,
stretches her soft and graceful limbs,
trims her dead leaves and branches,
then rolls truth in a tobacco leaf
uses her hearts flame to ignite and inhale passion.
cypress elm and oak are the same.
they are all descendant of a stick.
nothing is separate. the earth as we perceive it, is in love with itself.
the wind marries the leaves and shows that grass is with all things. always.
meanwhile we make matches out of pine.
grudge matches between hemp and twine.
we make our saws and mills more effective,
this is how we prove our dominance over all life. all of those that are sentient.
animals plants and insects. innovative thoughts and moral regret.
we can not smell the scent of a woman who is not degradable.
we do not know of true and raw feminine form,
i have met, only once, the saint of naked truth,
she is an esoteric poet laureate. her womb is the place from which we descend.
her silhouette of uncovered wisdom is grand and undeniable.
she is ostentatious in showing to me her higher self.
beneath 700 thread-count sheets, within the ocean of programmed beats.
descendant of the sea, derivative of what she sees.
i spoke words of a gentle heart and kind eye,
and thus remained afloat within chaos and heat.
this is the absence of star light.
- Justin Addison
(added 10.02.12)
editor's note: Gods! Good god, get got! Get place; a dark, a light (make your own) place, an all-in-the-mind place. Listen to her speak and langor between those sheets; smile - 700 is a high number to believe. - mh
A Marc Chagall Lagniappe
White-forested heavens thick with pregnant mist
Disgorge a plumed peacock that hovers above
A winged mother bearing her child aloft.
Mountain tops and marshmallow puffs
Fired by a frozen moon
Cast long shadows of white lagniappe isthmuses in the clouds.
Mother and child vainly search the earth below.
But spirits have given them air
to ride upon their steely steed.
The ice-cold blue earth
beneath them lies empty and scored.
Their ocean sky an unexpected bonus.
- Sy Roth
(added 10.01.12)
editor's note: These lines, a poet's dozen; ekphrastic eloquence for your time. The scene which is seen by a vivid mind's eye, the poet's gift at no extra charge. - mh
Bastard Slope of Paradise
Down
below Diamond
Head’s smile where
surfers trek to ply their craft
Lies the bastard slope of paradise
Rising from the rush of breakers
Vigil stood by the Coast Guard Cyclops eye
Snow White would find near perfect in their wickedness
twisted thorn trees clawing at her dress
Black silent monster bees buzz by the flowerless plants, to suck sap
A small red eyed devil-the mongoose that came long ago to catch rats
jumps from trashcan to trashcan eating man’s refuse
in residence with the other bastard slope dweller, the undomesticated cat
The grass is so dry, it would be easy to light and watch this hell burn
This bastard slope with chained trashcans and twisted trees bleeding poison
but there is a garden and there are runners and walkers, wave stalkers
and a beautiful blue-green emerald sea with pink and purple clouds
with a red lighted buoy to light the way for wayward mariners
Just out of reach of those thorn branches that draw blood and try to hold you back from falling down and breaking your bones at this dangerous cliff
This bastard slope of paradise
- Louis Marvin
(1 poem added 09.30.12)
editor's note: Even in heaven there is garbage, picked up by saintly sanitation engineers and dumped on this bastard slope. (Let's welcome Louis to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets. Check out 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...
Directin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we took a slip slide on the illegitimate side, paradise passed; we admired a mid-sky madonna with cumulo-nimbus infant; we tweaked the EQ and balanced the bias of a naked self-absorbed saint; we plucked the plum of plumed persona from priest's imperative for personal preference; we fell through fractured fragments to find reform; we likened a delectible Nigerian delicacy to the love of our life, the way to every heart indeed; we opened a window to adjust our focus on answered prayer, a hallowed hurricane. How cool! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
THE SECRET LANGUAGE OF THE WIND
if as for the window opening in me
the who where something can do
that which makes awake the lesson
and listens to the footsteps in the wet
depending upon the secret language of the wind
the message and the rain opens it is just possible
to adjust the focus to a narrow beam
of contact that is perhaps possible
to read the fact that all through the house
where the floor boards give up the ghost
the beam creaking is the noon of the ceiling
a kind of put-together crack
but waiting under the roof at midnight the fact
that it is blown through the room
which peels that skin where the paint blinks
and is the naked light bulb
and is pulverized and so passing
by the long wall built to keep out the mares
the door behind the empty keyhole by the front entryway
I who close the lock hear someone walking away
I keep hearing the noises inside
tears falling which in this halfstate of consciousness
can move me and make me laugh
in the storm which you thundered
it shakes the twist of pain
which by any means cannot cause me
who can’t close my eyes
and make a dream where the hurricane
is the answer to all my prayers
- satnrose
(2 poems added 10.06.12)
editor's note: Great way to learn a new language; while you sleep... (There's a call on satnrose's page - check it out, only costs a dime.) - mh
Ekpang Nkukwo
A damsel that feeds the stomach
Soft and flexible like a woman
A little sight of you moves my lips
I want you, I need you, ekpang nkukwo.
A delicate delicacy of value
Enfolded in a young cocoyam leaf
Humming in a smoky pot on fire
I want you, I need you, ekpang nkukwo.
The enemy of hunger
Red palm oil uplifting your taste
With winkles enriching your ways
I want you, I need you, ekpang nkukwo.
My only dearest friend
So mild and tender like a baby
So delicious and fulfilling like gospel
Believe me, I want you, I need only you, ekpang nkukwo.
- Kufre Udeme
(1 poem added 10.05.12)
editor's note: Want and need come from a common heart; no translation required. ekpang nkukwo! - mh
way down in the fall
we lost each other sometime
way down in the fall
when days were grey
and the wind blew my heart
around your mind
enough to break
into shard like pieces of glass
cutting words
one by one
till I bled
wide open
spilling truth
of painted crimson
across the barren desert
of your soul
colder now with winter looming
- Elissa Landrigan
(added 10.04.12)
editor's note: There's a nip in the air; winter's a harsh time to be alone. Speak words to mend broken shards or shiver in solitude. - mh
Persona
The ‘dissolution of the persona’
Can be achieved by gutting
all fragrant garrets of their chartreuse and liquor
By spurning the monkish leers
Of personable academics,
By refuting the archetype of
The ‘wise old woman’
Or the horsy doppelgangers
Swooning out of the clavicles
Of Ivorian harps,
By asserting the voracity of hyaline
Over the more lugubrious Roman candle,
By refuting the Brunswick blue of love’s
Oppression,
By refusing the handsome or the rich,
For some rewards are too ingenious to divulge,
For the persona is a priest’s imperative,
A sexagenarian’s masterpiece
Of tact,
A butch girl's enthralling libretto
Or the giant stalagmites of
A woman’s rhinestones at noon
- Afshan Shafi
(added 10.03.12)
editor's note: A recipe for deconstruction. Get out your dictionary and start de-cooking. - mh
If You Don't Smile I Am Going To Kill You
this is where they mean when they say 'back woods'
gods country. god's country. it's a jeep thing.
a place in time and my mind where an orange vest will still get you dead.
reflect all you want. you're going to get got.
get got. get god.
follow your breathe and watch it release.
nod your head and worship the beat.
agree with the street mystic when he bumps boom bap
forget the hi-hat.
this is where my mind's at.
the high end is torturing me.
the mid range is sodomy.
travel with flashlight on deck, navigate the underground and bass.
sound is vibration.
there is fear in the absence of certainty and light.
only the glow from the fire built on the broken backs and spines of books
can illuminate the darkest sky and gently open my minds eye.
give wisdom a dirty look, unlearn the literal extremes of evangelical crooks.
the grayest night turns into the most beautiful morning.
a gray haired knight turns wishbones into potions.
he projects forever.
the sun goddess wakes up yawning,
stretches her soft and graceful limbs,
trims her dead leaves and branches,
then rolls truth in a tobacco leaf
uses her hearts flame to ignite and inhale passion.
cypress elm and oak are the same.
they are all descendant of a stick.
nothing is separate. the earth as we perceive it, is in love with itself.
the wind marries the leaves and shows that grass is with all things. always.
meanwhile we make matches out of pine.
grudge matches between hemp and twine.
we make our saws and mills more effective,
this is how we prove our dominance over all life. all of those that are sentient.
animals plants and insects. innovative thoughts and moral regret.
we can not smell the scent of a woman who is not degradable.
we do not know of true and raw feminine form,
i have met, only once, the saint of naked truth,
she is an esoteric poet laureate. her womb is the place from which we descend.
her silhouette of uncovered wisdom is grand and undeniable.
she is ostentatious in showing to me her higher self.
beneath 700 thread-count sheets, within the ocean of programmed beats.
descendant of the sea, derivative of what she sees.
i spoke words of a gentle heart and kind eye,
and thus remained afloat within chaos and heat.
this is the absence of star light.
- Justin Addison
(added 10.02.12)
editor's note: Gods! Good god, get got! Get place; a dark, a light (make your own) place, an all-in-the-mind place. Listen to her speak and langor between those sheets; smile - 700 is a high number to believe. - mh
A Marc Chagall Lagniappe
White-forested heavens thick with pregnant mist
Disgorge a plumed peacock that hovers above
A winged mother bearing her child aloft.
Mountain tops and marshmallow puffs
Fired by a frozen moon
Cast long shadows of white lagniappe isthmuses in the clouds.
Mother and child vainly search the earth below.
But spirits have given them air
to ride upon their steely steed.
The ice-cold blue earth
beneath them lies empty and scored.
Their ocean sky an unexpected bonus.
- Sy Roth
(added 10.01.12)
editor's note: These lines, a poet's dozen; ekphrastic eloquence for your time. The scene which is seen by a vivid mind's eye, the poet's gift at no extra charge. - mh
Bastard Slope of Paradise
Down
below Diamond
Head’s smile where
surfers trek to ply their craft
Lies the bastard slope of paradise
Rising from the rush of breakers
Vigil stood by the Coast Guard Cyclops eye
Snow White would find near perfect in their wickedness
twisted thorn trees clawing at her dress
Black silent monster bees buzz by the flowerless plants, to suck sap
A small red eyed devil-the mongoose that came long ago to catch rats
jumps from trashcan to trashcan eating man’s refuse
in residence with the other bastard slope dweller, the undomesticated cat
The grass is so dry, it would be easy to light and watch this hell burn
This bastard slope with chained trashcans and twisted trees bleeding poison
but there is a garden and there are runners and walkers, wave stalkers
and a beautiful blue-green emerald sea with pink and purple clouds
with a red lighted buoy to light the way for wayward mariners
Just out of reach of those thorn branches that draw blood and try to hold you back from falling down and breaking your bones at this dangerous cliff
This bastard slope of paradise
- Louis Marvin
(1 poem added 09.30.12)
editor's note: Even in heaven there is garbage, picked up by saintly sanitation engineers and dumped on this bastard slope. (Let's welcome Louis to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets. Check out 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...
Directin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Comments