The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.01.13
“Poetry is the communication through words of certain experiences that can be communicated in no other way.” John Drinkwater
Inconspicuous (above) by Paula Lietz, 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 clinked a coin with the hope to purloin another chance at push-button perfection in life, love or loss; we gave a gambled girl unfavorable odds against a jukebox jerk; we formed a farewell with no sugar on it, the sad reset of a separation sonnet; we looked at a man with a double-take, became a fan with a second handshake; we gave guts the glory in the wet ink of story; we tripped and teetered in unobtained traction, unable to align appearance with action; we dawdled in a dawn resplendent park, as our overhead orb arm wrestled the dark. These cycles keep us pumping those pedals; perpetual poem peddlers, we. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
WILD OVER WOODHAM
Dawn’s fingery light hesitates
Over each line on every leaf.
Boots sink to their laces
In grassland drained
Of colour – a grey page,
Stretched by a spine of trees,
Wiped dry of words
By this flight of smoke,
A dark cloud of Canada Geese,
Almost invisible,
A murmur
Rising before the sun
Cuts darkness down
Into black holes
Buried in creeks.
By still waters,
In the depths of the Crouch,
Under roots,
Beneath stones,
Those in thrall
To the night
Wait their chance,
Knowing in the end
They win
As the last sentence is read
Black covers slam
Another day shut.
- Derrick Gaskin
(2 poems added 06.01.13)
editor's note: Mundane cycles of light and dark lull us into ignorance of the struggle; mighty forces at odds every day. (Also - a history lesson from Derrick on his page; starts with a slice, ends with hope. Check it out.) - mh
Spiraling Somewhereward
The thought that life
can begin in your tummy
if we're not careful
freaks me out
All these people ordering
cappucinos
thick and fevered
... am I really interconnected
with them?
... would I really give my body
over to them
Horrified by the thought
that all this conversation
and errands running are only
really in-between times for
rampant lunacy and random
disconnnected thoughts
... takes the wind out of
my sails
... and that till the day I die
I will swear... SWEAR...
that if you look, REALLY LOOK,
you will see that
Hitler's blue eyes were kind
- Ralph Freda
(1 poem added 05.31.13)
editor's note: Lunatic and random, indeed; connections made at your whimsy and peril: A kind look does not a benefactor make. - mh
Fact or fiction?
Read between the lines of contradiction.
I see that static character, resistant to the change,
The world is all around them, but no desire to engage!
Chapter one or chapter fifty, it’s all just vacillation;
Turn the page and keep on reading—it’s a literal deprivation.
I want the ink of every story to be all sopping wet,
Write down failures, guts and glory—the road to not forget.
Speak in tongues of men and angels, on those you’re thinking of—
See the world from every angle, there’s no beauty without love.
Every artist is a writer, and a writer is the same,
We create for something greater than just money, greed, or fame.
The product’s an expression of something with great depth,
Like God’s answers to life’s questions in just one. Single. Breath.
- Anne Jablinski
(added 05.30.13)
editor's note: Fact is, it's all a fiction; but a story untold, goes unknown, therefore unlived. So, tell it - in one breath. - mh
A Simple Handshake
The man and I shake. We shake.
As I am shaking the hand of the man
that I believe is another man altogether,
I come to realize, he is not the man
who I thought he was. He is another man.
As we shake and then stop shaking,
I stop to theorize, if he is now the man
who I actually meet after I came to realize
he is another man altogether, I like him,
must certainly be another man altogether
compared to the man I used to be
when I was shaking the hand
of the other man who I thought he was.
The man and I shake again. I like him.
- R Jay Slais
(added 05.29.13)
editor's note: Given that chaos is occuring at sub-atomic levels, always, you need a firm grip to hold on to your (and everyone else's) identity. - mh
Promises
Abysmal tributes to love and truancy
Of gentle days and passing lethargies
Fleeting promises by themselves made free
With them all be done and also with me
A life as portrait removed from its frame
Remove from your lips the sound of my name
Remove from your thoughts the air of my youth
But forget not my eyes, they have told you the truth
Dispossessed of each grain of love and esteem
Deprived of a life that was only a dream
But I dreamt I was lessening a little each day
Each moment that passed, you moved further away
Fleeting promises by themselves made free
With them all be done and also with me
- Scott D Taylor
(added 05.28.13)
editor's note: Sad, this sonnet; sorely gained, this truth: "Buyer, beware!" - mh
The Subjugated Sex
Play her like a jukebox in some casino,
Wrapped like a fetus around
The twisted corners of your lustful victories.
Can’t you see man; you are like an arrow in her,
Leading her on with a deadly indie beat
Unleashing at full power on her gramophone
While you shuffle her among the torn Queens of your cards.
She is the dice you claimed, cornered
By a manhood chosen by your people.
Woman! You stand no chance.
- Brihintha Burggee
(added 05.27.13)
editor's note: Think you're entitled just cuz you walked into the place? Only a jukebox jerk doesn't know enough to let a muse make her own music. - mh
Round 2
The game’s not over
Though the screen is black,
There is still the flickering of backlight
A buzz asking for more determination
A bold joystick reduced to an outlet of frustration
A route for running away
What felt like soft buttons have become the hardest things to press
Glass exterior like an immutable haze
An excuse for failure
*insert coin* clink clonk clink
There is only limited time to continue
As even something we created dictates so
There is always a winner and a loser
No second or third place for us
To relish the feeling and disappointment
Of being so close but so far
But at least in this game
There is a second round
- Allen Qing Yuan
(1 poem added 05.26.13)
editor's note: Dig deep, brothers and sisters! Another chance to convert the price of failure into fame, another chance to win the game. Nothing ventured... - mh
•••••••••••
Need a read?
Sometimes there are poems out there that read like a story and sometimes there are stories out that read like a poem. The latest addition to our short stories library, "Northern Boredom" by Neil Rothstein falls into the latter. Want proof? Here. You. Go...
"There is a light in the abandoned house across the road; a half crescent shape winks towards me, a solitary tooth in a cold grin. What would it be like to be a clock? To feel time, to understand each second like a friend or lover? Would every second be the same and act the same as it passed over my face? Would hours pass by like strangers? Could I allow these rigid entities to settle, to resist the drag of want? Yes, hours and days would slip away, uncontrolled, unfettered, as my face gathers dust and atomic accuracy / Words fall sometimes from my mouth. Without real thought, sounds form before thought, then reason comes later; then regret follows that: the dialogue that ensues with your own bizarre logic calling upon every demon and god to rip the very skin from your bones..."
Get the rest of your read on here...
•••••••••••
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 mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Communicatin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Inconspicuous (above) by Paula Lietz, 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 clinked a coin with the hope to purloin another chance at push-button perfection in life, love or loss; we gave a gambled girl unfavorable odds against a jukebox jerk; we formed a farewell with no sugar on it, the sad reset of a separation sonnet; we looked at a man with a double-take, became a fan with a second handshake; we gave guts the glory in the wet ink of story; we tripped and teetered in unobtained traction, unable to align appearance with action; we dawdled in a dawn resplendent park, as our overhead orb arm wrestled the dark. These cycles keep us pumping those pedals; perpetual poem peddlers, we. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
WILD OVER WOODHAM
Dawn’s fingery light hesitates
Over each line on every leaf.
Boots sink to their laces
In grassland drained
Of colour – a grey page,
Stretched by a spine of trees,
Wiped dry of words
By this flight of smoke,
A dark cloud of Canada Geese,
Almost invisible,
A murmur
Rising before the sun
Cuts darkness down
Into black holes
Buried in creeks.
By still waters,
In the depths of the Crouch,
Under roots,
Beneath stones,
Those in thrall
To the night
Wait their chance,
Knowing in the end
They win
As the last sentence is read
Black covers slam
Another day shut.
- Derrick Gaskin
(2 poems added 06.01.13)
editor's note: Mundane cycles of light and dark lull us into ignorance of the struggle; mighty forces at odds every day. (Also - a history lesson from Derrick on his page; starts with a slice, ends with hope. Check it out.) - mh
Spiraling Somewhereward
The thought that life
can begin in your tummy
if we're not careful
freaks me out
All these people ordering
cappucinos
thick and fevered
... am I really interconnected
with them?
... would I really give my body
over to them
Horrified by the thought
that all this conversation
and errands running are only
really in-between times for
rampant lunacy and random
disconnnected thoughts
... takes the wind out of
my sails
... and that till the day I die
I will swear... SWEAR...
that if you look, REALLY LOOK,
you will see that
Hitler's blue eyes were kind
- Ralph Freda
(1 poem added 05.31.13)
editor's note: Lunatic and random, indeed; connections made at your whimsy and peril: A kind look does not a benefactor make. - mh
Fact or fiction?
Read between the lines of contradiction.
I see that static character, resistant to the change,
The world is all around them, but no desire to engage!
Chapter one or chapter fifty, it’s all just vacillation;
Turn the page and keep on reading—it’s a literal deprivation.
I want the ink of every story to be all sopping wet,
Write down failures, guts and glory—the road to not forget.
Speak in tongues of men and angels, on those you’re thinking of—
See the world from every angle, there’s no beauty without love.
Every artist is a writer, and a writer is the same,
We create for something greater than just money, greed, or fame.
The product’s an expression of something with great depth,
Like God’s answers to life’s questions in just one. Single. Breath.
- Anne Jablinski
(added 05.30.13)
editor's note: Fact is, it's all a fiction; but a story untold, goes unknown, therefore unlived. So, tell it - in one breath. - mh
A Simple Handshake
The man and I shake. We shake.
As I am shaking the hand of the man
that I believe is another man altogether,
I come to realize, he is not the man
who I thought he was. He is another man.
As we shake and then stop shaking,
I stop to theorize, if he is now the man
who I actually meet after I came to realize
he is another man altogether, I like him,
must certainly be another man altogether
compared to the man I used to be
when I was shaking the hand
of the other man who I thought he was.
The man and I shake again. I like him.
- R Jay Slais
(added 05.29.13)
editor's note: Given that chaos is occuring at sub-atomic levels, always, you need a firm grip to hold on to your (and everyone else's) identity. - mh
Promises
Abysmal tributes to love and truancy
Of gentle days and passing lethargies
Fleeting promises by themselves made free
With them all be done and also with me
A life as portrait removed from its frame
Remove from your lips the sound of my name
Remove from your thoughts the air of my youth
But forget not my eyes, they have told you the truth
Dispossessed of each grain of love and esteem
Deprived of a life that was only a dream
But I dreamt I was lessening a little each day
Each moment that passed, you moved further away
Fleeting promises by themselves made free
With them all be done and also with me
- Scott D Taylor
(added 05.28.13)
editor's note: Sad, this sonnet; sorely gained, this truth: "Buyer, beware!" - mh
The Subjugated Sex
Play her like a jukebox in some casino,
Wrapped like a fetus around
The twisted corners of your lustful victories.
Can’t you see man; you are like an arrow in her,
Leading her on with a deadly indie beat
Unleashing at full power on her gramophone
While you shuffle her among the torn Queens of your cards.
She is the dice you claimed, cornered
By a manhood chosen by your people.
Woman! You stand no chance.
- Brihintha Burggee
(added 05.27.13)
editor's note: Think you're entitled just cuz you walked into the place? Only a jukebox jerk doesn't know enough to let a muse make her own music. - mh
Round 2
The game’s not over
Though the screen is black,
There is still the flickering of backlight
A buzz asking for more determination
A bold joystick reduced to an outlet of frustration
A route for running away
What felt like soft buttons have become the hardest things to press
Glass exterior like an immutable haze
An excuse for failure
*insert coin* clink clonk clink
There is only limited time to continue
As even something we created dictates so
There is always a winner and a loser
No second or third place for us
To relish the feeling and disappointment
Of being so close but so far
But at least in this game
There is a second round
- Allen Qing Yuan
(1 poem added 05.26.13)
editor's note: Dig deep, brothers and sisters! Another chance to convert the price of failure into fame, another chance to win the game. Nothing ventured... - mh
•••••••••••
Need a read?
Sometimes there are poems out there that read like a story and sometimes there are stories out that read like a poem. The latest addition to our short stories library, "Northern Boredom" by Neil Rothstein falls into the latter. Want proof? Here. You. Go...
"There is a light in the abandoned house across the road; a half crescent shape winks towards me, a solitary tooth in a cold grin. What would it be like to be a clock? To feel time, to understand each second like a friend or lover? Would every second be the same and act the same as it passed over my face? Would hours pass by like strangers? Could I allow these rigid entities to settle, to resist the drag of want? Yes, hours and days would slip away, uncontrolled, unfettered, as my face gathers dust and atomic accuracy / Words fall sometimes from my mouth. Without real thought, sounds form before thought, then reason comes later; then regret follows that: the dialogue that ensues with your own bizarre logic calling upon every demon and god to rip the very skin from your bones..."
Get the rest of your read on here...
•••••••••••
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 mad conversations going on in Mad Swirl's World? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be here...
Communicatin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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