The Best of Mad Swirl : 06.15.13
“A poet must leave traces of his passage, not proof.” Rene Char
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Blue Sketch (above) by Ana Vohryzek, 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
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we opened with body fantasy, a search for someone able to make believe; we prep'd an' preen'd some sweet cuisine, to sate abdominal appetites; we wound unwrested repose 'round unchecked rampant rapacity for blunt black rose; we plucked appropriate verse, in painter's palette, words immersed; we tendered all on "There's no doubt, love's long fall will not tap out"; we "irr'd" in favor of reverence, reconciled but not responsible, ever rooting for relevance; we stacked up transitory statements, odd encounters, life's abatements. Always onward, move our minds; life unravels and unwinds; gather remnants, mind the signs. Read on ever an' unrelenting... ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
‘D O M I N I C’
he spelled his name
to me
I’d thought
he’s French
‘no, British’
he said
he was with Karen and
they were going to Betla Tiger reserve...
we talked about
the British Raj
the ultra leftists
the caste system in India
the depleting ozone layer...
and then
the train came...
- Kanchan Chatterjee
(2 poems added 06.15.13)
editor's note: These transitory conversations; unwitting additions to our life's landscape. (We welcome Kanchan to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. See more of his mad visions on his page.) - mh
The Sinner
irredeemable the soul within my core,
irreverent the tongue within my mouth,
irreconcilable my spirit with my mind,
irreparable the state of my health,
irresponsible the actions of my body,
yet I live one day,
awaiting the next,
hopeful for better days,
praying my life relevant,
at least in some small way.
- Douglas Polk
(1 poem added 06.14.13)
editor's note: Sinners for absolution, poets for relevance; hoping god is an editor. - mh
Ready Now
Someday
I will love you
Someday I will show you
I know how
When when
is then
I will
love you
But until then
I’m not ready now
Every time I see you
I know our future is together
I’m just inclined
To wait for better weather
Some day
We will be a team
Someday we will survive
the dream
When then
is when
You will
call the tune
But until then
It’s too soon.
- Craig Kurtz
(1 poem added 06.13.13)
editor's note: Hope both are equipped with the same intentions when then is now, ready or not. - mh
You and I
You, the troubadour
orbit away from yesterday
I – a mistress to memories
Hold a pen to life
You squeeze tubes of color on
the bare canvas of tomorrow
I remember the palette in verse
- Susan Dale
(added 06.12.13)
editor's note: A poet chronicles a painter's conquests; brings new meaning to "kiss and tell." - mh
Fiery Passion
I wish, I wish, I wish,
I could bury in finality,
a lingering pain,
deep in the Pacific Ocean.
I wish, I wish, I wish,
I knelt,
pleaded for the frenzied rain
to drown my maddening thirst
and swirling ache for you,
for this fiery tempest,
inscrutable,
irresistible,
that shawled my heart,
caped my mind,
clambered up my soul,
spiraled,
stifled,
every fiber in my body
ingrained
like a wild riot
of the vainglorious
thorny Black Rose.
- Amy Barry
(added 06.11.13)
editor's note: Never thought a garden stroll could bring to blossom this mad maelstrom "de mer"; emblem of an unsatisfied heart. - mh
Orange and Cinnamon
Her hair in a quick up-do bun
rushing for the am rail
Captains and dommes of industry jostle
along with the flotsam and jetsam.
My purse on my arm
Your lunch bag on my lap
Not quite contained into designated spaces
How to peal and cinnamon an orange
without the expense of a dry cleaning bill
The cinnamon puffs in the air;
fine particles escape the maroon container
I close the lid
eager for the rush of citrus and cinnamon.
Tell me what you smell you command
I remember our smiles
Us walking in the sun to the park
With a peach, orange, and honey in a bag
Your patient way of guiding my hands
Cinnamon a fine dust over your breast
Freckles adorning them like a lady’s shawl
meeting the orange tang of my tongue
I take the orange from your stomach
kissing the place that held the orange
blow the excess cinnamon across your belly
inhale the scent of clean air
lightly place a section of orange
between my lips and into your mouth
You handed me the peach with a smile
- Gayle Bell
(1 poem added 06.10.13)
editor's note: Sweet and spicy picnic pleasure; delivered with love. Nice! - mh
Body Poetry
Did I not tell you?
to etch yourself on my skin,
partake in my prose,
poem yourself around me.
surround me in words and weave a sordid tale,
twisting around my frame.
leave nothing for the imagination,
spell it out for all too see,
on arm and leg and breast and bone.
pierce my ear and nose and tongue
with my relentless yearning for more.
naked I come to you.
exposed and raw you see me.
make me scream a prayer.
make me make believe.
Did I not tell you?
- Ruth Morris
(added 06.09.13)
editor's note: No dully adorned in dogma, primarily priapic priest, could ever pleasure this pleading proselyte. Can I get a witness!? - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Of course you do! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Flurry" by Owen J Traylor: "Sometimes, and all writers know this, there’s something inside of you that’s as noticeable as a child. Man or woman, you’re pregnant with an idea. Much like any parent, too, you want that idea to mature; you want notice; you want justice for what’s burning inside of you." Here's a taste to tease your eyeballs...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
"Susie turned off the TV and dropped the remote on the coffee table in front of her chair. She felt no ill will towards Kate Middleton. The news said she was the great-great-granddaughter of a coalminer on her mother’s side, so Susie thought her grandfather, who had worked down the mines in Pennsylvania. What Susie resented was the flurry of news-reporting, just because this lucky girl was 12 weeks pregnant. Sure, the child would likely become the King or Queen of England, in maybe 50 or 60 years’ time, whenever the dashing young Prince William died. So that was important, Susie got that. But why all the attention on just one unborn child? What about the 20,000 or more children who die every day out in the real world? She had read that figure in a magazine at the hair salon where she worked, and it had stuck in her mind."
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...
Solvin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Blue Sketch (above) by Ana Vohryzek, 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
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we opened with body fantasy, a search for someone able to make believe; we prep'd an' preen'd some sweet cuisine, to sate abdominal appetites; we wound unwrested repose 'round unchecked rampant rapacity for blunt black rose; we plucked appropriate verse, in painter's palette, words immersed; we tendered all on "There's no doubt, love's long fall will not tap out"; we "irr'd" in favor of reverence, reconciled but not responsible, ever rooting for relevance; we stacked up transitory statements, odd encounters, life's abatements. Always onward, move our minds; life unravels and unwinds; gather remnants, mind the signs. Read on ever an' unrelenting... ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
‘D O M I N I C’
he spelled his name
to me
I’d thought
he’s French
‘no, British’
he said
he was with Karen and
they were going to Betla Tiger reserve...
we talked about
the British Raj
the ultra leftists
the caste system in India
the depleting ozone layer...
and then
the train came...
- Kanchan Chatterjee
(2 poems added 06.15.13)
editor's note: These transitory conversations; unwitting additions to our life's landscape. (We welcome Kanchan to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. See more of his mad visions on his page.) - mh
The Sinner
irredeemable the soul within my core,
irreverent the tongue within my mouth,
irreconcilable my spirit with my mind,
irreparable the state of my health,
irresponsible the actions of my body,
yet I live one day,
awaiting the next,
hopeful for better days,
praying my life relevant,
at least in some small way.
- Douglas Polk
(1 poem added 06.14.13)
editor's note: Sinners for absolution, poets for relevance; hoping god is an editor. - mh
Ready Now
Someday
I will love you
Someday I will show you
I know how
When when
is then
I will
love you
But until then
I’m not ready now
Every time I see you
I know our future is together
I’m just inclined
To wait for better weather
Some day
We will be a team
Someday we will survive
the dream
When then
is when
You will
call the tune
But until then
It’s too soon.
- Craig Kurtz
(1 poem added 06.13.13)
editor's note: Hope both are equipped with the same intentions when then is now, ready or not. - mh
You and I
You, the troubadour
orbit away from yesterday
I – a mistress to memories
Hold a pen to life
You squeeze tubes of color on
the bare canvas of tomorrow
I remember the palette in verse
- Susan Dale
(added 06.12.13)
editor's note: A poet chronicles a painter's conquests; brings new meaning to "kiss and tell." - mh
Fiery Passion
I wish, I wish, I wish,
I could bury in finality,
a lingering pain,
deep in the Pacific Ocean.
I wish, I wish, I wish,
I knelt,
pleaded for the frenzied rain
to drown my maddening thirst
and swirling ache for you,
for this fiery tempest,
inscrutable,
irresistible,
that shawled my heart,
caped my mind,
clambered up my soul,
spiraled,
stifled,
every fiber in my body
ingrained
like a wild riot
of the vainglorious
thorny Black Rose.
- Amy Barry
(added 06.11.13)
editor's note: Never thought a garden stroll could bring to blossom this mad maelstrom "de mer"; emblem of an unsatisfied heart. - mh
Orange and Cinnamon
Her hair in a quick up-do bun
rushing for the am rail
Captains and dommes of industry jostle
along with the flotsam and jetsam.
My purse on my arm
Your lunch bag on my lap
Not quite contained into designated spaces
How to peal and cinnamon an orange
without the expense of a dry cleaning bill
The cinnamon puffs in the air;
fine particles escape the maroon container
I close the lid
eager for the rush of citrus and cinnamon.
Tell me what you smell you command
I remember our smiles
Us walking in the sun to the park
With a peach, orange, and honey in a bag
Your patient way of guiding my hands
Cinnamon a fine dust over your breast
Freckles adorning them like a lady’s shawl
meeting the orange tang of my tongue
I take the orange from your stomach
kissing the place that held the orange
blow the excess cinnamon across your belly
inhale the scent of clean air
lightly place a section of orange
between my lips and into your mouth
You handed me the peach with a smile
- Gayle Bell
(1 poem added 06.10.13)
editor's note: Sweet and spicy picnic pleasure; delivered with love. Nice! - mh
Body Poetry
Did I not tell you?
to etch yourself on my skin,
partake in my prose,
poem yourself around me.
surround me in words and weave a sordid tale,
twisting around my frame.
leave nothing for the imagination,
spell it out for all too see,
on arm and leg and breast and bone.
pierce my ear and nose and tongue
with my relentless yearning for more.
naked I come to you.
exposed and raw you see me.
make me scream a prayer.
make me make believe.
Did I not tell you?
- Ruth Morris
(added 06.09.13)
editor's note: No dully adorned in dogma, primarily priapic priest, could ever pleasure this pleading proselyte. Can I get a witness!? - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need a read? Of course you do! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Flurry" by Owen J Traylor: "Sometimes, and all writers know this, there’s something inside of you that’s as noticeable as a child. Man or woman, you’re pregnant with an idea. Much like any parent, too, you want that idea to mature; you want notice; you want justice for what’s burning inside of you." Here's a taste to tease your eyeballs...
"Susie turned off the TV and dropped the remote on the coffee table in front of her chair. She felt no ill will towards Kate Middleton. The news said she was the great-great-granddaughter of a coalminer on her mother’s side, so Susie thought her grandfather, who had worked down the mines in Pennsylvania. What Susie resented was the flurry of news-reporting, just because this lucky girl was 12 weeks pregnant. Sure, the child would likely become the King or Queen of England, in maybe 50 or 60 years’ time, whenever the dashing young Prince William died. So that was important, Susie got that. But why all the attention on just one unborn child? What about the 20,000 or more children who die every day out in the real world? She had read that figure in a magazine at the hair salon where she worked, and it had stuck in her mind."
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...
Solvin',
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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