The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 10.20.12
“I have the simplest tastes. I am always satisfied with the best.” ~ Oscar Wilde
be not afraid (above) by Toni Martin, one of over 20 featured 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 yours right over here and a-way you'll GO!
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we gerrymandered god gender to gratify our sense of grace; we bopped to "Baby, you can drive my car. Yes, I'm gonna be a star"; we cornered a colorless consternation, grappled with a grim gray; we pulled out a pearled rug, from under prim, Protestant propriety; we were fooled by the fall, from the rug to the wall, tenuous tapestries unravelled by all; we saw you speak to me while I looked on, a reflection redoubtable; lastly, we sacrificed self through calamitous communion with all that is holy, so holy is all. Holy shit! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
as everything must
as i lift the last warm drink
of my beer to my lips
i am reminded of communion
even though the flat warmth of the beer
bears little resemblance
to the wine of communion
i try to believe that i have created
something holy in my time here
or maybe in some other poem
the life of a poet typically
arises when God handed over the wheel
and said you think you can do it better?
poets create a soul of their own
thats why poetry is mostly bad
soul is difficult to come by
i know in the end i will face whatever
creature that lives in me
drunk ravenous
plagued by fear and self doubt
if god made us in his self image
i must wonder for a moment what he sees
as i light the holy incense
of my last cigarette
and reach to turn up the radio
everything must be holy
or nothing is
- Joshua Weir
(added 10.20.12)
editor's note: Body and blood or beer an' butts, anything to save us from ourselves. - mh
I Look Into the Mirror
I look into the mirror
at the reflection of who
you used to be, cobwebs
of emotions I once felt
I try not to think about it
my soul boils
seeing the underbelly
of the thunderhead
emotional lightning
restraints of time
still confine me
awash in pre-cathartic stain
my heart wants to scream
FUCK YOU!
my mind tells me it's
too late
spring uncoiled
the wind up toy that is me
lies still
a sweat laden pillow
is my comfort now
- Steve Roberts
(added 10.19.12)
editor's note: Better to risk the shards of shattered luck than to smother in self-immolation. Break that glass and go get a beer. - mh
But I
but I am demented, tormented
and often times neurologically supplemented
if you pull my strings
disjointed thoughts will likely unwind
criss-crossed fantasies and intricate
tapestries full of long lost memories
shuttered and locked away in the
creases and recesses of my
ever-fading mind
no one lives here anymore
dark shadows and empty hallways
corridors and rows of doors
they lead to nowhere and
what used to be somewhere
but I can't find her
sweet child, where have you gone?
- S.E. Hart
(added 10.18.12)
editor's note: Sometimes, the self we are is lost to us, unrecognized by the self we become. - mh
Persian Rugs
Laid out sacrificial not-saint
On meditative Persian rugs,
You are less.
Thread spins hair knots
Of not-saints deep into
Not-saint rugs of meditation,
And you are less.
8:00 PM coffee
Soaks Persian tendrils,
Matting down mats
Of even less.
Maybe
If your eyes bulged,
There would be more than
Old genie lamps filled with espresso,
And carpets that can’t fly due to
Not-saint dead weights.
- Ryan Kendall
(added 10.17.12)
editor's note: To unweave the weft of your meditative duress, quaff your caffeine on carpet, not Persian, but Afghan - no less. - mh
Through the Dead
One taste of black
is all it takes.
To turn a mind
into a knife.
Darkness
is a sharpened skill.
Cornered.
To a point.
Much deeper than frustration.
It is truly a weapon.
A divine poison.
Wallowing
inside itself
less beauty.
As it spreads.
- A.J. Huffman
(1 poem added 10.16.12)
editor's note: This weapon is not wielded but wound around 'til, bogged and bound, would-be victor becomes victim. Laugh and lose it in light. - mh
Greatest Desire
We all believe that
all dramas are
driven by us...
Towards the end of the drama
or
post the end of the drama
we realise that
the dramas have
driven all of us...
Still,
we always share the greatest desire
to drive a drama
completely on our own...
- Sam Rapth
(added 10.15.12)
editor's note: Can't drive without a learner's permit. Even then, better to stay off the road than to drive oneself (and others) crazy. - mh
Sacrilege
(For Sr. I., radical nun)
Our mouths used to choke
with cries
to a god
we called father
Such helpless-
ness is hard to spell
spoken best in silence
as the priests' voices
rise in sermons
to punctuate each syllable
of our scripted faith
where He is
the One holy man
while we are
unsaid silences
disciplined consciences aside
heeding Him, praising Him
until we grow
weary of litanies
to opulent phalluses,
cold Caucasian saints
until we learn to beseech salvation
from within us
our m/other gods.
We now learn to invoke souls
long gone
out of His cathedrals
ornate erections all
that we now castrate
as we ritualize our refusal
to choke ourselves with cries
and call god father.
- Rina Angela Corpus
(added 10.14.12)
editor's note: A sacrosanct slogan to satisfy one but choke another. Take what you like from faith's buffet, leave the rest for others. - 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...
Satisfied,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we gerrymandered god gender to gratify our sense of grace; we bopped to "Baby, you can drive my car. Yes, I'm gonna be a star"; we cornered a colorless consternation, grappled with a grim gray; we pulled out a pearled rug, from under prim, Protestant propriety; we were fooled by the fall, from the rug to the wall, tenuous tapestries unravelled by all; we saw you speak to me while I looked on, a reflection redoubtable; lastly, we sacrificed self through calamitous communion with all that is holy, so holy is all. Holy shit! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
as everything must
as i lift the last warm drink
of my beer to my lips
i am reminded of communion
even though the flat warmth of the beer
bears little resemblance
to the wine of communion
i try to believe that i have created
something holy in my time here
or maybe in some other poem
the life of a poet typically
arises when God handed over the wheel
and said you think you can do it better?
poets create a soul of their own
thats why poetry is mostly bad
soul is difficult to come by
i know in the end i will face whatever
creature that lives in me
drunk ravenous
plagued by fear and self doubt
if god made us in his self image
i must wonder for a moment what he sees
as i light the holy incense
of my last cigarette
and reach to turn up the radio
everything must be holy
or nothing is
- Joshua Weir
(added 10.20.12)
editor's note: Body and blood or beer an' butts, anything to save us from ourselves. - mh
I Look Into the Mirror
I look into the mirror
at the reflection of who
you used to be, cobwebs
of emotions I once felt
I try not to think about it
my soul boils
seeing the underbelly
of the thunderhead
emotional lightning
restraints of time
still confine me
awash in pre-cathartic stain
my heart wants to scream
FUCK YOU!
my mind tells me it's
too late
spring uncoiled
the wind up toy that is me
lies still
a sweat laden pillow
is my comfort now
- Steve Roberts
(added 10.19.12)
editor's note: Better to risk the shards of shattered luck than to smother in self-immolation. Break that glass and go get a beer. - mh
But I
but I am demented, tormented
and often times neurologically supplemented
if you pull my strings
disjointed thoughts will likely unwind
criss-crossed fantasies and intricate
tapestries full of long lost memories
shuttered and locked away in the
creases and recesses of my
ever-fading mind
no one lives here anymore
dark shadows and empty hallways
corridors and rows of doors
they lead to nowhere and
what used to be somewhere
but I can't find her
sweet child, where have you gone?
- S.E. Hart
(added 10.18.12)
editor's note: Sometimes, the self we are is lost to us, unrecognized by the self we become. - mh
Persian Rugs
Laid out sacrificial not-saint
On meditative Persian rugs,
You are less.
Thread spins hair knots
Of not-saints deep into
Not-saint rugs of meditation,
And you are less.
8:00 PM coffee
Soaks Persian tendrils,
Matting down mats
Of even less.
Maybe
If your eyes bulged,
There would be more than
Old genie lamps filled with espresso,
And carpets that can’t fly due to
Not-saint dead weights.
- Ryan Kendall
(added 10.17.12)
editor's note: To unweave the weft of your meditative duress, quaff your caffeine on carpet, not Persian, but Afghan - no less. - mh
Through the Dead
One taste of black
is all it takes.
To turn a mind
into a knife.
Darkness
is a sharpened skill.
Cornered.
To a point.
Much deeper than frustration.
It is truly a weapon.
A divine poison.
Wallowing
inside itself
less beauty.
As it spreads.
- A.J. Huffman
(1 poem added 10.16.12)
editor's note: This weapon is not wielded but wound around 'til, bogged and bound, would-be victor becomes victim. Laugh and lose it in light. - mh
Greatest Desire
We all believe that
all dramas are
driven by us...
Towards the end of the drama
or
post the end of the drama
we realise that
the dramas have
driven all of us...
Still,
we always share the greatest desire
to drive a drama
completely on our own...
- Sam Rapth
(added 10.15.12)
editor's note: Can't drive without a learner's permit. Even then, better to stay off the road than to drive oneself (and others) crazy. - mh
Sacrilege
(For Sr. I., radical nun)
Our mouths used to choke
with cries
to a god
we called father
Such helpless-
ness is hard to spell
spoken best in silence
as the priests' voices
rise in sermons
to punctuate each syllable
of our scripted faith
where He is
the One holy man
while we are
unsaid silences
disciplined consciences aside
heeding Him, praising Him
until we grow
weary of litanies
to opulent phalluses,
cold Caucasian saints
until we learn to beseech salvation
from within us
our m/other gods.
We now learn to invoke souls
long gone
out of His cathedrals
ornate erections all
that we now castrate
as we ritualize our refusal
to choke ourselves with cries
and call god father.
- Rina Angela Corpus
(added 10.14.12)
editor's note: A sacrosanct slogan to satisfy one but choke another. Take what you like from faith's buffet, leave the rest for others. - 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...
Satisfied,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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