The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 03.16.13
“Poetry is always slightly mysterious, and you wonder what is your relationship to it.” ~ Seamus Heaney
House Noshing (above) by this month's featured artist Jack Miller.
Right away, I could tell that our newest featured artist, Jack Miller, was a funky dude - a simple glimpse at his creations could definitely tell you that in a matter of seconds. What I didn't know, however, was how much raw and real talent this funky dude has. I don't even know what I like more - the crazy weird concepts his works feature, or the final products, splashes of color and out-of-this-world images that leave me mind-f**k'd when I look away, thinking...wait...what was that? Making art is hard, but making truly unique art is harder. But Miller seems to be a pro. These works you're about to see feature some creative transformations of beginning pieces (or as he puts it, 'ruins of failed prints started'), that Jack Miller took over...and boy, am I glad he did! Hey Jack, I have a lot of unfinished stuff, wanna draw all over those, too? Please?! Get your gander on... here. - mo
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we were a weight, wetted in a waterfall of words, made weightless by a vibrant verbal volly; we side-stepped severity with a simpleton's temerity; we picked poetic posies, planted in patience, watered with words; we became quietly adept at all we could make from nothing left; we shivered spine at silence, sliced and shattered by an unsettling sound; we stood strong and steadfast to stare down a storm; we stymied said storm with a weakened wine rush, an aerator whimper and a poet's paintbrush. All this with no hangover? Let's party like poets all weekend long! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
COUGHING UP A STORM
and drunk off
new year's champagne on the 4th,
you aerate wine through your
father's device,
but things are difficult with a machine
that must
be rinsed
after each
use.
You're stuck
in a ring
in a spot with no
movies which scream
your name
to your friends
in their stupid
apartments.
What is left?
You email agents and stake out
situations
in cities
where you are
not
Wanted in your jeans
and they don't know about
cats on the river stones, or
"girls
in their summer clothes."
It's all very over, and all very
paintbrush-less.
- Nicole Kuwik
(1 poem added 03.16.13)
editor's note: Here we have a poet gone color blind from the mundanities of life. Here we have a poet treating us to new shades of grey. (Let's welcome back Contributing Poet, Nicole - we've missed her in these Swirly parts.) - mh
STORM
Now blackened clouds crash down on summer skies
Like ocean waves against a childhood shore
The shrieking wind whips forth her seagull cries
While overhead the black-winged billows soar
The Heav'ns unleash their fiery cannonade
As flashing talons scar the face of day
Dragonboat clouds commence their Viking raid
On tiny hamlets trembling 'gainst the fray
Now raindrop volleys blast the screaming air
Upon my windows, walls, and ceiling pound
The battered trees bend … broken, bare
Their branches strewn like limbs about the ground --
Like braying banshees swirling 'round my head
Whirlpools of windgust wail against my ear
Their tempest song so shrill to wake the dead
So bleak to fill the strongest soul with fear
And yet each thundercrack ignites my heart
Each windborne screech expels my hidden pain
The stinging raindrops on my face impart
The strength to meet their blows again, again …
My spirit sets the rainclouds to their flight
I am the storm that rails against the night
- Michael Pendragon
(added 03.15.13)
editor's note: See the storm? Be the storm! - mh
Whales
Sirens at night: wailing away into every window and drowsy head like alarms.
To hear is to see bleeding faces like ghosts.
First ablaze in red, then bloodless blue,
the sirens speed through cramped streets, rattling off every building.
No other sound like them.
None that clenches inexplicably so many stomachs at once.
The paragon of noises.
No other sound is so pregnant with desperate humanity
as to consume completely:
The taste of iron in saliva,
vision skewed, comically, through 3-D movie glasses,
The indifferent embrace of cold pavement,
The smell of gunpowder or sweat or sickness,
and the long, shrieking crescendos and decrescendos that seem to be
reaching closer and farther at the same time.
Maybe like whales’ moaning exhalations,
which somehow swim through water.
They too call out to no one in particular,
knowing everyone will hear.
- Austin Baurichter
(added 03.14.13)
editor's note: These brain-blasted wails give rise to question; is there a rutting beast out there, looking to procreate? Hmmmmm. - mh
Nothing Left of the Day
Nothing left of the fowl stench
of everyday modern events
no more mystery
just a ripped up box of contents
no more masterful power of daylight
no more drudge slavery
no more wakefulness
just murder on the TV
and flickering monitor lights
I often wonder how Rimbaud made it through the night
soft
quiet
pause
Nothing left of the day
the crawl, that bellowing tired dull
back to the night
where beasts and ravens
quietly gnaw on your skull
awaiting another sunrise
another sunset
much to learn
and much to forget
Nothing left of that faith worn down
that exciting acceptance from universal wonder
that topical cosmic blunder
that brought us all here
to fight, and separate, and argue
someone else's argument
ancient inventions we give our freedom to
I'll just wait
for tomorrow's sunrise to debut
Nothing left of the sick disdain
no more glory to regain
or strength to sustain
it is night now
no more whistles of winged monsters
no more laughter
no more speak
no more following of man's law
just soft
quiet
pause
- Chad Repko
(added 03.13.13)
editor's note: Rimbaud rebelled; his gnawed skull swelled with big ideas and insurrection. That cosmic blunder was his main objection. But, hush now; like him, let's ho-hum ourselves to sleep. - mh
I am watering the flowers...
The cactus will blossom soon,
I have this presentiment...
Me also...
On the edge of my tongue
words are staying,
ready to break off sprouts
and to take hold of space...
I will sit down
under their green tangle
expecting the first word
like after a long kept silence...
It will be easy afterwards...
As if you gather
the tears of the Wind...
- Marina Konstantinova
(added 03.12.13)
editor's note: With groans and grunts we grope the green tangle. If poets were gardeners, what flowers we would see! - mh
An unfortunate fool
An unfortunate fool that you are she replied coming to sit outside
she stroked my hair & gives me a hug & looks to the sky the way my mother could
I shrugged my shoulders that brought on a smile & acquired the face of a scorned child
after 4o years that simpleton look was quite often enough to get me off the hook. Xxx
© 2012
- Alan Halford
(added 03.11.13)
editor's note: Sounds like this fool has perfected his technique; after infractions, forgiveness every time. Unfortunate for whom? - mh
SQ
Quiet your query. Silence. I’m weary.
Equip me so I may see more clearly.
Small, so small... not at all, as I recall.
Secrets sitting on the sternum weighing down.
Hear that sound?
Super soak my soul, and let it roll.
Save me from the quintessential! It’s not essential.
Prudential? No, yet equal. The quality is my sequel.
Next, I jump the quay...
Sway, sway, swing up and away!
Squeeze harder the thought of the daughter;
She is a martyr of the Son. Under the sun, a sandy run.
Quick! Sink or sail, will we prevail?
Next question.
Oh, quite the suggestion, an exquisite seduction.
Perform the production.
See? I see such corruption. Of all birds, say, a quail?
But she has no tail, no tale!
Society is stale. So soak in what?
Barbeque? Barbie? Cue? Wait in queue.
Someone quench the thirst.
Quiver, quiver, the heart will burst.
Quote the words, oh savior! Savour the flavor.
Not so much to do us a favor, but that’s a step...
Heat, metal and solder, but quartz, that’s harder.
So much that can’t penetrate.
But quiz the senses:
A sensitive situation sends me soaring.
I’m quirky, not boring!
So stimulate the spiritual sight.
In the light, delight!
So snap out of the senile situation and quake!
Self-absorption? Another avenue to take.
So slap the face, the quack in place—some say life’s waste, but...
...only if you’re queen.
Clean. Sweep. Sleep sweet, sexy beast.
Shut your seers, they quit—no good.
I’m sorry, you unbelievers! We did what we could.
I’m serious.
I’d sooner starve than acquiesce.
Inner quietude is the attitude. It sounds like shouting if you’re in the mood.
The interlude, quintuplets—the soul’s food.
So I sew the quilt, stitch by stitch, until the enquiries begin to make sense.
Understand where your spirit sits, and equip.
Beneath the sternum, seal your lips,
And unto God,
The sublime,
Substance.
Lifts.
- Anne Jablinski
(added 03.10.13)
editor's note: I feel like a human pachinko ball, bounced from stem to sternum to word to whacked-out word to rest at the bottom on a pile of god's sweet smile. (giggling now) - 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...
Slightly Mysterious,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
House Noshing (above) by this month's featured artist Jack Miller.
Right away, I could tell that our newest featured artist, Jack Miller, was a funky dude - a simple glimpse at his creations could definitely tell you that in a matter of seconds. What I didn't know, however, was how much raw and real talent this funky dude has. I don't even know what I like more - the crazy weird concepts his works feature, or the final products, splashes of color and out-of-this-world images that leave me mind-f**k'd when I look away, thinking...wait...what was that? Making art is hard, but making truly unique art is harder. But Miller seems to be a pro. These works you're about to see feature some creative transformations of beginning pieces (or as he puts it, 'ruins of failed prints started'), that Jack Miller took over...and boy, am I glad he did! Hey Jack, I have a lot of unfinished stuff, wanna draw all over those, too? Please?! Get your gander on... here. - mo
•••••••••••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we were a weight, wetted in a waterfall of words, made weightless by a vibrant verbal volly; we side-stepped severity with a simpleton's temerity; we picked poetic posies, planted in patience, watered with words; we became quietly adept at all we could make from nothing left; we shivered spine at silence, sliced and shattered by an unsettling sound; we stood strong and steadfast to stare down a storm; we stymied said storm with a weakened wine rush, an aerator whimper and a poet's paintbrush. All this with no hangover? Let's party like poets all weekend long! ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
COUGHING UP A STORM
and drunk off
new year's champagne on the 4th,
you aerate wine through your
father's device,
but things are difficult with a machine
that must
be rinsed
after each
use.
You're stuck
in a ring
in a spot with no
movies which scream
your name
to your friends
in their stupid
apartments.
What is left?
You email agents and stake out
situations
in cities
where you are
not
Wanted in your jeans
and they don't know about
cats on the river stones, or
"girls
in their summer clothes."
It's all very over, and all very
paintbrush-less.
- Nicole Kuwik
(1 poem added 03.16.13)
editor's note: Here we have a poet gone color blind from the mundanities of life. Here we have a poet treating us to new shades of grey. (Let's welcome back Contributing Poet, Nicole - we've missed her in these Swirly parts.) - mh
STORM
Now blackened clouds crash down on summer skies
Like ocean waves against a childhood shore
The shrieking wind whips forth her seagull cries
While overhead the black-winged billows soar
The Heav'ns unleash their fiery cannonade
As flashing talons scar the face of day
Dragonboat clouds commence their Viking raid
On tiny hamlets trembling 'gainst the fray
Now raindrop volleys blast the screaming air
Upon my windows, walls, and ceiling pound
The battered trees bend … broken, bare
Their branches strewn like limbs about the ground --
Like braying banshees swirling 'round my head
Whirlpools of windgust wail against my ear
Their tempest song so shrill to wake the dead
So bleak to fill the strongest soul with fear
And yet each thundercrack ignites my heart
Each windborne screech expels my hidden pain
The stinging raindrops on my face impart
The strength to meet their blows again, again …
My spirit sets the rainclouds to their flight
I am the storm that rails against the night
- Michael Pendragon
(added 03.15.13)
editor's note: See the storm? Be the storm! - mh
Whales
Sirens at night: wailing away into every window and drowsy head like alarms.
To hear is to see bleeding faces like ghosts.
First ablaze in red, then bloodless blue,
the sirens speed through cramped streets, rattling off every building.
No other sound like them.
None that clenches inexplicably so many stomachs at once.
The paragon of noises.
No other sound is so pregnant with desperate humanity
as to consume completely:
The taste of iron in saliva,
vision skewed, comically, through 3-D movie glasses,
The indifferent embrace of cold pavement,
The smell of gunpowder or sweat or sickness,
and the long, shrieking crescendos and decrescendos that seem to be
reaching closer and farther at the same time.
Maybe like whales’ moaning exhalations,
which somehow swim through water.
They too call out to no one in particular,
knowing everyone will hear.
- Austin Baurichter
(added 03.14.13)
editor's note: These brain-blasted wails give rise to question; is there a rutting beast out there, looking to procreate? Hmmmmm. - mh
Nothing Left of the Day
Nothing left of the fowl stench
of everyday modern events
no more mystery
just a ripped up box of contents
no more masterful power of daylight
no more drudge slavery
no more wakefulness
just murder on the TV
and flickering monitor lights
I often wonder how Rimbaud made it through the night
soft
quiet
pause
Nothing left of the day
the crawl, that bellowing tired dull
back to the night
where beasts and ravens
quietly gnaw on your skull
awaiting another sunrise
another sunset
much to learn
and much to forget
Nothing left of that faith worn down
that exciting acceptance from universal wonder
that topical cosmic blunder
that brought us all here
to fight, and separate, and argue
someone else's argument
ancient inventions we give our freedom to
I'll just wait
for tomorrow's sunrise to debut
Nothing left of the sick disdain
no more glory to regain
or strength to sustain
it is night now
no more whistles of winged monsters
no more laughter
no more speak
no more following of man's law
just soft
quiet
pause
- Chad Repko
(added 03.13.13)
editor's note: Rimbaud rebelled; his gnawed skull swelled with big ideas and insurrection. That cosmic blunder was his main objection. But, hush now; like him, let's ho-hum ourselves to sleep. - mh
I am watering the flowers...
The cactus will blossom soon,
I have this presentiment...
Me also...
On the edge of my tongue
words are staying,
ready to break off sprouts
and to take hold of space...
I will sit down
under their green tangle
expecting the first word
like after a long kept silence...
It will be easy afterwards...
As if you gather
the tears of the Wind...
- Marina Konstantinova
(added 03.12.13)
editor's note: With groans and grunts we grope the green tangle. If poets were gardeners, what flowers we would see! - mh
An unfortunate fool
An unfortunate fool that you are she replied coming to sit outside
she stroked my hair & gives me a hug & looks to the sky the way my mother could
I shrugged my shoulders that brought on a smile & acquired the face of a scorned child
after 4o years that simpleton look was quite often enough to get me off the hook. Xxx
© 2012
- Alan Halford
(added 03.11.13)
editor's note: Sounds like this fool has perfected his technique; after infractions, forgiveness every time. Unfortunate for whom? - mh
SQ
Quiet your query. Silence. I’m weary.
Equip me so I may see more clearly.
Small, so small... not at all, as I recall.
Secrets sitting on the sternum weighing down.
Hear that sound?
Super soak my soul, and let it roll.
Save me from the quintessential! It’s not essential.
Prudential? No, yet equal. The quality is my sequel.
Next, I jump the quay...
Sway, sway, swing up and away!
Squeeze harder the thought of the daughter;
She is a martyr of the Son. Under the sun, a sandy run.
Quick! Sink or sail, will we prevail?
Next question.
Oh, quite the suggestion, an exquisite seduction.
Perform the production.
See? I see such corruption. Of all birds, say, a quail?
But she has no tail, no tale!
Society is stale. So soak in what?
Barbeque? Barbie? Cue? Wait in queue.
Someone quench the thirst.
Quiver, quiver, the heart will burst.
Quote the words, oh savior! Savour the flavor.
Not so much to do us a favor, but that’s a step...
Heat, metal and solder, but quartz, that’s harder.
So much that can’t penetrate.
But quiz the senses:
A sensitive situation sends me soaring.
I’m quirky, not boring!
So stimulate the spiritual sight.
In the light, delight!
So snap out of the senile situation and quake!
Self-absorption? Another avenue to take.
So slap the face, the quack in place—some say life’s waste, but...
...only if you’re queen.
Clean. Sweep. Sleep sweet, sexy beast.
Shut your seers, they quit—no good.
I’m sorry, you unbelievers! We did what we could.
I’m serious.
I’d sooner starve than acquiesce.
Inner quietude is the attitude. It sounds like shouting if you’re in the mood.
The interlude, quintuplets—the soul’s food.
So I sew the quilt, stitch by stitch, until the enquiries begin to make sense.
Understand where your spirit sits, and equip.
Beneath the sternum, seal your lips,
And unto God,
The sublime,
Substance.
Lifts.
- Anne Jablinski
(added 03.10.13)
editor's note: I feel like a human pachinko ball, bounced from stem to sternum to word to whacked-out word to rest at the bottom on a pile of god's sweet smile. (giggling now) - 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...
Slightly Mysterious,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Comments