The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 01.26.13
“The modern artist... is working and expressing an inner world - in other words - expressing the energy, the motion, and other inner forces.” Jackson Pollock
Pregnant Idea (above) by Eric Caulfield, 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 found the key to not be lonely, give up the spares and keep the only; we parsed past from contradictions from refugees in mirrored reflections; we made some trades, fury for calm, abrasion for balm; we saw sparks fly in an empty sky, warm recall in our mind's eye; we muddled through love to mutual monochrome; we heard acts to right a wrong later parabolized in song; we sought breeze and nature's hum to forget the affronts of a philandering bum. This was some week, Mum! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Falling Cradleless through Spring's Evening Boughs
She could abide by the spring’s evening boughs,
Be wowed when zephyrs sided softly with hummingbirds.
Such heard tones, audible gossamers, were as dandelion parachutes,
Suitably montaged, drifting clear of mortgages, old laundry, coupon clippings.
Chippering bands, though, wondered places his head next graced,
Facing sunset-hued beauties, jetting off, skittering beyond her reach.
Teaching nothing of acceptance’s better pathos. Why try
Flying from cradles; enough crashing resounds infidelity’s squeak.
Peaks of “drug-resistance” choices spun harder, faster. After a measure,
His pleasure transformed as not trophies or quests, but just thin ego trickles.
Tickling all manners of verities. Moonlight’s sleepless howls,
Bower-ridden, anyway, might have suddenly sired rapid penalties.
Wee breezes, nocturnal gusts, called forth alternate forms,
Wore down moments where lust melted hallow. Dreams denied, fascinations settled.
Mettle, mores, plain city ethics, political correctness, make no difference to some bums,
Like him, a husband/father intent on leaving panty trails across urban hillsides.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 01.26.13)
editor's note: After Daddy's indiscretions, who wouldn't prefer the cradle o'er the creep? - mh
THIS KID BROTHER
This kid brother
of a friend
I saw on a park bench
by Boston Common
in the Sixties
mooching
and mooching off
his girlfriend
which I did not dig
but had indignation
because the woman
deserved better
and liked to hear me
play sax
as the couple became
flower children
and moved out
to Frisco
and I became
in a sense a Beat
and received a letter
from the woman
who sang folk songs
in a club with Joan Baez
saying she had to leave
the guy
who once beat her up
for drugs
and I sent her money
to return
because I worked hard
to earn money
for music lessons
after school
in an ice cream factory
with rubber boots
under my feet
full of water,
the guy had to go
to Nam
and was missing in action
she shortly married
a musician in my band
and last weekend
invited me to play
in a gig
when memory
was no fault in my life
and she told the audience
in song and parable
about me.
- B.Z. Niditch
(1 poem added 01.25.13)
editor's note: Looking for that jazz riff, parable of self? Every poet has one. And, everyone's a poet. - mh
Unfortune’s Light
You are blue.
But I am colorblind.
So we stay.
Locked.
In the gray.
Misunderstanding
smiles,
touches,
and pleas.
All spinning.
Waving.
Drowning.
Don’t worry.
Soon your eyes will grow
tired.
And get used
to the shadows
of this shade.
- A.J. Huffman
(1 poem added 01.25.13)
editor's note: From a distance, so bold and clearly defined. Up close, the lines are lost - we're on our own. - mh
like July firefly
long after
you're gone
you sparkle on
in my
mind
through the
dark, empty
night
like July
firefly
- Kanchan Chatterjee
(added 01.25.13)
editor's note: Capture to keep in a cranial container, light against the loneliness. - mh
Climate Change
I was prepared for "different",
packed blankets, sweaters
and clothing meant for "warm".
I was ready for cooler climes,
snow, frost, even the chill of alone.
I fled on a rain washed day,
some would have said
did not bode well for fresh beginnings,
but I put a past in my rear view mirror,
drove through places I had known,
to points due North.
Now nights carry wood smoke,
the scent of cedar, the breath of pine,
the sky is brilliant clear
and the night stars do jazz hands
across my dazzled eyes.
They say I may be lonely,
having left so much behind me,
they warn that true winter
may ache me to the bone,
but three months of no battles,
90 days without harsh,
12 weeks of "deeply calm"
and I am ready for any damned thing
the Snow Queen can throw my way.
Bring it on,
you never knew the cold
I knew before I flew.
- Lisa Shields
(added 01.24.13)
editor's note: Yes, ma'am!! Air-conditioned cube control - or - wintery wide-open whatever you like? Bring it, indeed! - mh
The Cafe
To Nick and Dave at 381
Each morning I make my way
To this familiar place:
This refuge from the world
Located inside a public place.
I sit in the corner day after day
Taking in the atmosphere;
Surveying the faces of other regulars,
I see in each storm-swept impression,
That lingers on the surface of each face
Before it quietly slips away,
Ripples of meaning, moving outwards
Towards an imagined centre.
Under a grey tent of cloud
I sit here allowing my mind to wander
Over past understandings;
A flawed memory looks backwards
To make sense of the past.
In this place for fugitives
All are dispossessed
Running from a scorching world;
In here life is safely captured
In the reflections of a mirrored wall.
An outside sends us out of ourselves,
Eye meets eye,
Torn apart by contradiction
We are thrown into a sifting world.
Glancing over to the side of the room
I find myself lost
To reflections sent by another.
In the space of a glance
We explore a place between inner and outer.
These perceptions mould our world
Forming a dispersed self
That must find sense in this fragmented world;
Reflections formed by reflections,
We move between understanding and understanding,
Always with a vague sense
That things could be otherwise.
- John Najjar
(1 poem added 01.24.13)
editor's note: Anonymous observers, mirror opposite mirror, infinite reflection of everyone else. - mh
This is just to say
I left the house key under the doormat,
the extra one you had “lying around”.
You know, the one you give to all your girls.
How many copies have you made?
How many do you nickname “the spare”?
What is your definition of “spare”?
Spare me the explanation.
I’m not some tire you keep in the trunk,
a replacement for when life flattens out.
Take your key. Relish in your deadbolt.
I have no interest in your security,
in your safety, in what you keep locked up.
Let some other girl be an afterthought,
an add-on, a complementary chocolate
on your hotel pillow.
- Kristina England
(added 01.24.13)
editor's note: Eat that chocolate, sleep alone; or, give up the collection for one of a kind. Decisions, decisions. - 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...
Expressin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we found the key to not be lonely, give up the spares and keep the only; we parsed past from contradictions from refugees in mirrored reflections; we made some trades, fury for calm, abrasion for balm; we saw sparks fly in an empty sky, warm recall in our mind's eye; we muddled through love to mutual monochrome; we heard acts to right a wrong later parabolized in song; we sought breeze and nature's hum to forget the affronts of a philandering bum. This was some week, Mum! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Falling Cradleless through Spring's Evening Boughs
She could abide by the spring’s evening boughs,
Be wowed when zephyrs sided softly with hummingbirds.
Such heard tones, audible gossamers, were as dandelion parachutes,
Suitably montaged, drifting clear of mortgages, old laundry, coupon clippings.
Chippering bands, though, wondered places his head next graced,
Facing sunset-hued beauties, jetting off, skittering beyond her reach.
Teaching nothing of acceptance’s better pathos. Why try
Flying from cradles; enough crashing resounds infidelity’s squeak.
Peaks of “drug-resistance” choices spun harder, faster. After a measure,
His pleasure transformed as not trophies or quests, but just thin ego trickles.
Tickling all manners of verities. Moonlight’s sleepless howls,
Bower-ridden, anyway, might have suddenly sired rapid penalties.
Wee breezes, nocturnal gusts, called forth alternate forms,
Wore down moments where lust melted hallow. Dreams denied, fascinations settled.
Mettle, mores, plain city ethics, political correctness, make no difference to some bums,
Like him, a husband/father intent on leaving panty trails across urban hillsides.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 01.26.13)
editor's note: After Daddy's indiscretions, who wouldn't prefer the cradle o'er the creep? - mh
THIS KID BROTHER
This kid brother
of a friend
I saw on a park bench
by Boston Common
in the Sixties
mooching
and mooching off
his girlfriend
which I did not dig
but had indignation
because the woman
deserved better
and liked to hear me
play sax
as the couple became
flower children
and moved out
to Frisco
and I became
in a sense a Beat
and received a letter
from the woman
who sang folk songs
in a club with Joan Baez
saying she had to leave
the guy
who once beat her up
for drugs
and I sent her money
to return
because I worked hard
to earn money
for music lessons
after school
in an ice cream factory
with rubber boots
under my feet
full of water,
the guy had to go
to Nam
and was missing in action
she shortly married
a musician in my band
and last weekend
invited me to play
in a gig
when memory
was no fault in my life
and she told the audience
in song and parable
about me.
- B.Z. Niditch
(1 poem added 01.25.13)
editor's note: Looking for that jazz riff, parable of self? Every poet has one. And, everyone's a poet. - mh
Unfortune’s Light
You are blue.
But I am colorblind.
So we stay.
Locked.
In the gray.
Misunderstanding
smiles,
touches,
and pleas.
All spinning.
Waving.
Drowning.
Don’t worry.
Soon your eyes will grow
tired.
And get used
to the shadows
of this shade.
- A.J. Huffman
(1 poem added 01.25.13)
editor's note: From a distance, so bold and clearly defined. Up close, the lines are lost - we're on our own. - mh
like July firefly
long after
you're gone
you sparkle on
in my
mind
through the
dark, empty
night
like July
firefly
- Kanchan Chatterjee
(added 01.25.13)
editor's note: Capture to keep in a cranial container, light against the loneliness. - mh
Climate Change
I was prepared for "different",
packed blankets, sweaters
and clothing meant for "warm".
I was ready for cooler climes,
snow, frost, even the chill of alone.
I fled on a rain washed day,
some would have said
did not bode well for fresh beginnings,
but I put a past in my rear view mirror,
drove through places I had known,
to points due North.
Now nights carry wood smoke,
the scent of cedar, the breath of pine,
the sky is brilliant clear
and the night stars do jazz hands
across my dazzled eyes.
They say I may be lonely,
having left so much behind me,
they warn that true winter
may ache me to the bone,
but three months of no battles,
90 days without harsh,
12 weeks of "deeply calm"
and I am ready for any damned thing
the Snow Queen can throw my way.
Bring it on,
you never knew the cold
I knew before I flew.
- Lisa Shields
(added 01.24.13)
editor's note: Yes, ma'am!! Air-conditioned cube control - or - wintery wide-open whatever you like? Bring it, indeed! - mh
The Cafe
To Nick and Dave at 381
Each morning I make my way
To this familiar place:
This refuge from the world
Located inside a public place.
I sit in the corner day after day
Taking in the atmosphere;
Surveying the faces of other regulars,
I see in each storm-swept impression,
That lingers on the surface of each face
Before it quietly slips away,
Ripples of meaning, moving outwards
Towards an imagined centre.
Under a grey tent of cloud
I sit here allowing my mind to wander
Over past understandings;
A flawed memory looks backwards
To make sense of the past.
In this place for fugitives
All are dispossessed
Running from a scorching world;
In here life is safely captured
In the reflections of a mirrored wall.
An outside sends us out of ourselves,
Eye meets eye,
Torn apart by contradiction
We are thrown into a sifting world.
Glancing over to the side of the room
I find myself lost
To reflections sent by another.
In the space of a glance
We explore a place between inner and outer.
These perceptions mould our world
Forming a dispersed self
That must find sense in this fragmented world;
Reflections formed by reflections,
We move between understanding and understanding,
Always with a vague sense
That things could be otherwise.
- John Najjar
(1 poem added 01.24.13)
editor's note: Anonymous observers, mirror opposite mirror, infinite reflection of everyone else. - mh
This is just to say
I left the house key under the doormat,
the extra one you had “lying around”.
You know, the one you give to all your girls.
How many copies have you made?
How many do you nickname “the spare”?
What is your definition of “spare”?
Spare me the explanation.
I’m not some tire you keep in the trunk,
a replacement for when life flattens out.
Take your key. Relish in your deadbolt.
I have no interest in your security,
in your safety, in what you keep locked up.
Let some other girl be an afterthought,
an add-on, a complementary chocolate
on your hotel pillow.
- Kristina England
(added 01.24.13)
editor's note: Eat that chocolate, sleep alone; or, give up the collection for one of a kind. Decisions, decisions. - 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...
Expressin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
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