The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 11.10.12
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This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we marveled at the mighty, all fallen; we counted charitable crafters of service, support and control; we found a fond fantasy in the fruit of dreams; we waxed eloquently, words wielded, all levels listed grandiloquently; we danced a dual dynamic, dodged in heaven; we cringed in an other outcropping of inbreeding in a crowded mind; we bilked the bard of brilliant soliloquy, magic craft of memories constructed artisanally. Word craft, crafty words, crazy! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
EASTMAN SOLILOQUY
(With apologies to the Bard)
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler to recall, in camera,
Film and chemistry of Ilford and Kodak,
Or openly take issue with digital trickery?
And opposing - end it? Process and weep
My friends; yet by weeping say we stop
The delicious grain of pushed Tri-X
Or saturated blush of Fuji Velvia?
We took our pics and waited hopefully,
That patient merit of unworthy takes -
Perchance to dream of the perfect frame,
Our sins developing in the dark.
All this we are heir to: snap or wrap;
Grab shots - aye there's the rub, but
Phixoshape will wipe away the tears,
Erase all warts and thorns of life.
And so our native hue of resolution
Is now to be disjoint and out of frame.
These obsidian templates, do we see,
In HDR, ecstasy greenly turned awry -
And losing truth? Yet Neopan
Transformed to good enlargement,
No perfume lost in newborn naked film;
Good light locked for future generations.
In that held breath what dreams we leave
As we shuffle off some instant scene?
Now they layer reality to decorate
Their cracked and crumbling artifice.
Tomorrow and Tomorrow images from the past
Will show history as they like it shown.
Their marketplace must never be deranged!
Our moment stilled must be forever changed.
- Derrick Gaskin
(2 poems added 11.10.12)
editor's note: It's a deeper struggle than the choice twixt "paper or plastic." There's no gain in giving up the soul-satisfaction which comes from the forging of hand-crafted memories. (The latest on the weather from Derrick on his page - check it out.) - mh
AN OTHER
Another day
another city
filled with
more people
more buildings
more cars
more madness
all glimpsed through the windows
of this spy's grey hungover eyes
It could be
London,
Beijing,
Moscow or Rome
It doesn't matter at all
Everywhere is the same
when the Mind is lost
in this crowded mind -
alive
yet dead
to all of these forms -
shaped by the light
of plastic perceptions
and stained by the smog
of an impulsive desire
to understand all of these things
which can never be understood
either today
or on any other day
in this phantom city
which neither exists nor does not exist
as it passes through me and I pass through it
- J. H. Martin
(1 poem added 11.09.12)
editor's note: It's one thing after for a bee in the hive; a moment of self-awareness, swallowed up in the buzz. Om. - mh
Fetus Dew On Arum's Leaf
In a calm night you fall down,
And down and down,
On me, where you feel reconciliation,
What a peace you bring to me!
My veins enrich with bed of sea,
My face brightens as canopy of moon,
I feel my chips are dancing,
The free lives dive together in the pool!
I connect to my reminiscence,
You inspire me and heal for it,
And I recall my struggle,
This propagates my principal thought of life,
I gaze at you and you grin for me,
And you again spark miracle in my sense,
And I get enlightenment.
My soul springs up,
Upper and upper,
To the cosmos where it dodges in heaven,
But suddenly you renounce my warm rapport,
Then I fall down as you do on me.
My universe collapses, yours too.
My holiness vanishes, yours too.
Scorching beast suckles my beauty, yours too.
Come on and live together ever!
- Chiranjibi Niroula
(1 poem added 11.08.12)
editor's note: Down and down, up and upper; all points are occupied at one time or another - when you're together. - mh
Short Waves
Words traveled on the breeze on moonlit
nights, moonless nights, rainy nights,
humid nights, freezing nights,
floating over houses where husbands
and wives bickered, over bars where
voyeurs eyeballed each other while
drinking their courage, over city streets
slipping under the feet of the maligned
miscreant running from shadow to shadow.
Words spoken in the flickering light of the
TV through a filter of whiskey, under the
sheets of a missing person sleeping in a car
in a hospital parking lot.
Words heard in an empty room smelling of
paint and cigarettes and desperation while
children do homework and eat M&M's.
Through the nights they flew from speaker to
listener, over the rubble of secrecy and through
a vortex of duplicity and their credence was as
elusive as swamp smoke and as trustworthy as heat
lightening, choking and burning the throats
from which they whispered.
- Charlotte Hamrick
(1 poem added 11.07.12)
editor's note: Words, words, words! What wields wild wonder with widest appeal? (We welcome Charlotte to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this one - see more of her words on her new page.) - mh
Dream cultivating
I plant dreams
On a barren hill
Muscular fit
Apparel torn
Thistles poke the dark skins
Memories unwind
Your face rectifies placid perfumes
I inherit your staunch smell
No memory lanes between us
No bridge to connect us
I planted a dream in your mind yesternight
And today you are a violent sun
Burning everything that’s within me
I’m a cactus unverified
Undiscovered
Untouched
By multiple identities
You grow into a massive tree
Bearing dreamy fruits
Whilst ragged faces swarm and surround
Picking up every emotion that you cherished
Now you own silent ears and speechless tongues
It’s a routine you fulfill
Planting dreams
Planting dreams
- Arun Budhathoki
(1 poem added 11.06.12)
editor's note: Dream planting is a human pastime; harvest our primal need. Seeds in dirt, slips of paper in dark slots, touch screen depressions of hope and intention. Who knows what dreams the fruit will bear? - mh
EVERYTHING'S UNDER CONTROL
You’ve gotta love the Shriners, with their red fezzes
and shiny little motor bikes going around in Figure 8’s,
helping out the crippled kiddies all the time,
just like those good old Jerry Lewis telethons back in the day.
Then there’s the Salvation Army and its bell-ringers.
They provide cheap used clothing and housewares
in their chock-full downtown thrift shop,
even if the place does smell like you-know-what.
While we’re at it, let’s have a big round of applause
for Catholic Charities with their impressive slate
of helpful services, all those Right to Life issues
and priestly abuse scandals notwithstanding.
Put your hands together for the Rescue Mission,
serving up hot meals and earnest Christo-centric counsel.
How about our friendly neighborhood bail bondsman?
(Ignore the cynics who say he’s in it only for the money.)
Let’s not forget the needle-exchange clinic, the AIDS Center,
Literacy Volunteers, the food pantry, the domestic abuse hotline,
and Sexaholics Anonymous and their kissing cousins in A.A.
Just like the proverbial beat, the list goes on.
No matter what your problem is, or how bad things seem,
there’s a program in place. Somebody’s got you covered.
So rest easy; there’s really nothing to worry about.
There’s never been a better time to have your back to the wall.
- George J. Searles
(added 11.05.12)
editor's note: It's consoling to know we don't have to suffer alienation and isolation alone - agencies for everything. Thanks, George! - mh
The Setting Son
A spoilt soul,
A burning hole of darkness,
Smouldering fire of yesterday's innocence.
The portrait is black.
Take it down, paint a new one.
Blackened again.
The secret's out,
A mother mourns for her loss,
A blue eyed boy, gone.
Sheds tears, the years have changed him.
Remembering a child she loved,
Seeing a man she doesn’t.
How the high star falls,
How the day fades,
Until after just two decades, night reigns.
The Dawn seems distant.
Potential pissed to a cold wind,
The only son, prodigal.
Too many raised voices,
Too many sins, consumptive nihilism.
An implausible saviour, fiercely desired,
Suspend your disbelief and make Pascal’s wager,
Though it defies all logic.
Why would a good God give me life?
There is no end, yet.
The final verse unwritten,
Suicide or salvation,
Damnation or deliverance.
The moment is crucial.
All bets are on.
- Paul Dobhriste
(added 11.04.12)
editor's note: Stakes are high at the cosmic casino. No tellin' whether Pascal went bust or ran the house. We're all in; rollin' for 7, bettin' on 00, pullin' the handle; but, really, there's no tellin'... - mh
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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...
Bein' Curiouser & Curiouser,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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