The Best of Mad Swirl : 08.04.13
“I know there is strength in the differences between us. I know there is comfort, where we overlap.” Ani DiFranco
Hello, Johnny O here. Breakin' the mold a bit this week with this intro note because this week has been a break the mold kinda week. Hope you don't mind :) Good, 'cos I'm coming off a fine creative buzz! The fine folks at the Fermoy International Poetry Festival allowed the mad ones in Dallas to broadcast live to their fine fest via the www! We were given the chance to give a poetic and musical taste of what we do here in Dallas every 1st Wednesday of the month. And did we ever! We even went so far as to ship off my mic co-host and our poetry editor extraordinaire MH Clay to the land'o'Ire! OK, he went on his own as a featured poet (congrats!) He and I shared our hosting gig like we were right next door. We had a strong line-up on this side of the pond and they did on their side too. It truly was a Crazy-Frantic-Transatlantic-Mad Swirl-Up! Now we can say that our words and voices and images have been to Ireland and vice versa. We here at Mad Swirl would like to thank Gene Barry for allowing us to swirl madly. We hope it was as good for them as it was for us. I now return you to your regularly scheduled Best of...
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...we copped a plea to forget the crime; we hatched an egg, laid on paper, bled with ink; we bore the breakage from a wrecked right turn; we enjoyed a fantasy shopping spree (brought to us by our sponsors); we loved a loud linguist from afar; we were thunder-struck and bed-ridden to distract another's lust; we dipped moon in ocean to draw out love. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
at dawn
fireflies
what a strange kinship
light and fire
its flickering song
the lament of you and moon
yesterday morning
made of dreams
the Ocean
a letter
enveloping currents
man on fire
horizon
us against the world
monument
standing tall
learning from lunar love
its firmament
a wreck
inside dawn
romantic fool
- Rafael Andrade Garza
(1 poem added 08.03.13)
editor's note: In the dawn light, always a fool to be rescued from underneath wreckage. - mh
On A Perfect Day
On a perfect day you would be here—
in this bed where I lay alone... now
This tear on my cheek would be a rain drop
a thunder storm all day---
I would open all the windows while the wind and rain whip wildly around our
bodies,
And we would never get enough of this--
And she would never cross your mind---On a perfect day
And being together—
Lying together
making love forever-- would never be long enough.
And the dreams that I dreamt would never leave me without you.
On a perfect day-- you wouldn’t leave my bed to return to her’s
If forever must be just one night--than this night shall live forever
As we slip into eternity together, on a perfect day.
- J. Wynter
(added 08.02.13)
editor's note: Love or longing; ever eclipsed by an obsession to achieve an ecstatic, eternal now. - mh
Redolence of the Orator
He inhabits the air
with energy and sensuality.
Words vibrate,
a great storyteller.
His voice ignites
like the scent of a storm.
Some listen, their mouths
gape wide, indelicately open.
I wonder what it is like
to sleep in the same bed,
to hear each other’s breathing,
to inhale the scents of each other,
to press my face beside his head,
and keep it there forever.
To ravish his intelligence,
to violate his vulnerability,
To tremble with unrestrained love,
the fullness of a woman’s pleasure,
as I've never had before.
Watching him,
I have no idea
if this is madness.
Fate can be magical,
abstract,
mysterious,
left to chance.
His presence,
a recorded impression of words,
pounding
on my poetic memory.
I don’t know
if he has a sweetheart,
to ask would be pointless.
- Amy Barry
(added 08.01.13)
editor's note: Ah, to love a loud linguist from afar! - mh
Shopping in Zara’s
The fields with fairies laugh and dance
the hills with toadstools grow
as the merry makers stop their hearts
with treasures from the trove
and beat beat beat goes the jamboree drum
the tables heave with wine
the souls browse the racks in a state of flux
either side of the twilight time
and ring ring ring goes the register bell
the maidens skim the cream
and the little death dies into life again
like a ghost in a mirror of dreams
- Silas Gorin
(1 poem added 07.31.13)
editor's note: The ultimate consumer experience. Marketing moguls everywhere are absolutely green... - mh
The Art of Reinventing Time
Two days after the horrific accident the events unhappen...
the traffic island of bitter bone-crushing mirage no fender bender spilled guts through the alligator polo shirt defrosts into an easy pancreas of ultraviolet hospital gown wishing it were a set of green scrubs. My emergency arrival in critical condition is unrazor nicked, singing glory hallelujah to the silenced hot pants scalpel, or diving off a rusty bridge with other thrill-seeking bungee jumpers. There is no longer a need for gold-plated Band-Aids or straight-jacketed crazy glue, or fleshy Congressional action pending the approval of health care legislation. My bloodshot eyes cease to float at the bottom of the whiskey bottle, while making an illegal left turn at the stop light. Even my five hundred dollar a day hospital room agrees to come in from the ten storey ledge then orders a pizza with no anchovies. I should have ordered one too. Instead, I make the ridiculous mistake of eating a few spoonfuls of the hospital food that's been wheeled in by a candy-striper, and end up with diarrhea that's made from some kind of wood, then painted to resemble real grenades.
- Maurice Oliver
(1 poem added 07.30.13)
editor's note: Ha! A healthcare parable, a medical metaphor: All are well who don't eat the hospital food. - mh
Offspring
A dead matter,
Flown out soul,
Though I intend, I indulge
Many a times I kill
Rendering to death
Offspring to shape.
Give life!
Though the ink is cold
Every sitting, a new transplant
Born in solitude,
Words are the oxygen,
I let you breathe.
Thoughts where I am grown,
Feelings, I am planted in
Before I let it run.
Quietness is all I ask
The hen is brooding
Eggs will break
Life is coming out.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 07.29.13)
editor's note: If you want to make an omelette, you gotta break some eggs. - mh
AFTER THE SEVENTH DAY
The eighth day, well rested, the miracle of universe complete,
the dark dung of darkness and sad light cleansed and organized.
Forgive us our moment when all prayer becomes short stories,
shell shocked inability to listen to vibrations of silence,
people wading into the brakes of words--
the sharp shark shard of vowels and their choking curves,
consonants threading into a grand forest choir
each stitch a slip in the wrong direction.
Forgive us our greed and simple idiocy, our lists,
our tears in flesh and psyche, our anger, our augers,
our metal plates, forgive us for taking the deeds
holding the great desk together, forgive us the robberies
of paper and light, of organization and disbelief,
forgive us for stealing purity in psalm and purity in image,
forgive us for every nine day week after week,
forgive us for forgetting where we are, where we come from,
where we belong, forgive us the miracle of rest.
- Michael Brownstein
(added 07.28.13)
editor's note: Exhausting, these endless confessions. Forgive ourselves and move on. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need is a read? Then check out the latest addition to our short stories library, "A Random Hardworking Man" by Chad Stroup. Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story: "Humanity, we work hard (damn hard!) to have to not work at all. Robin Hoods, though, those guys live to die, and not just get by. And that’s why you don’t know a Robin Hood. Sure, you might see them shining, magnificent and short, because when you burn the candle at both ends, it gives off that magnificent but brief light." Here's a taste to whet your readin' whistle...
"A random hardworking man punches Friday’s clock, wipes the grime from his brow, walks toward his ’84 Ford Ranger that’s in desperate need of a tune-up. If I choose to rob him for his easily forgeable paycheck and whatever pittance happens to be in his wallet at that moment, would the karmic scales be balanced if I were to donate half the money to Jerry’s Kids? Or would it be best to blow the dough on a twenty-buck BJ from a hooker with two kids? / I don’t exactly have Friar Tuck within my ranks, if you catch my drift."
You know you wanna read more. Where? 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...
Bein' Comfortably Different,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Hello, Johnny O here. Breakin' the mold a bit this week with this intro note because this week has been a break the mold kinda week. Hope you don't mind :) Good, 'cos I'm coming off a fine creative buzz! The fine folks at the Fermoy International Poetry Festival allowed the mad ones in Dallas to broadcast live to their fine fest via the www! We were given the chance to give a poetic and musical taste of what we do here in Dallas every 1st Wednesday of the month. And did we ever! We even went so far as to ship off my mic co-host and our poetry editor extraordinaire MH Clay to the land'o'Ire! OK, he went on his own as a featured poet (congrats!) He and I shared our hosting gig like we were right next door. We had a strong line-up on this side of the pond and they did on their side too. It truly was a Crazy-Frantic-Transatlantic-Mad Swirl-Up! Now we can say that our words and voices and images have been to Ireland and vice versa. We here at Mad Swirl would like to thank Gene Barry for allowing us to swirl madly. We hope it was as good for them as it was for us. I now return you to your regularly scheduled Best of...
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...we copped a plea to forget the crime; we hatched an egg, laid on paper, bled with ink; we bore the breakage from a wrecked right turn; we enjoyed a fantasy shopping spree (brought to us by our sponsors); we loved a loud linguist from afar; we were thunder-struck and bed-ridden to distract another's lust; we dipped moon in ocean to draw out love. ~ mh
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
at dawn
fireflies
what a strange kinship
light and fire
its flickering song
the lament of you and moon
yesterday morning
made of dreams
the Ocean
a letter
enveloping currents
man on fire
horizon
us against the world
monument
standing tall
learning from lunar love
its firmament
a wreck
inside dawn
romantic fool
- Rafael Andrade Garza
(1 poem added 08.03.13)
editor's note: In the dawn light, always a fool to be rescued from underneath wreckage. - mh
On A Perfect Day
On a perfect day you would be here—
in this bed where I lay alone... now
This tear on my cheek would be a rain drop
a thunder storm all day---
I would open all the windows while the wind and rain whip wildly around our
bodies,
And we would never get enough of this--
And she would never cross your mind---On a perfect day
And being together—
Lying together
making love forever-- would never be long enough.
And the dreams that I dreamt would never leave me without you.
On a perfect day-- you wouldn’t leave my bed to return to her’s
If forever must be just one night--than this night shall live forever
As we slip into eternity together, on a perfect day.
- J. Wynter
(added 08.02.13)
editor's note: Love or longing; ever eclipsed by an obsession to achieve an ecstatic, eternal now. - mh
Redolence of the Orator
He inhabits the air
with energy and sensuality.
Words vibrate,
a great storyteller.
His voice ignites
like the scent of a storm.
Some listen, their mouths
gape wide, indelicately open.
I wonder what it is like
to sleep in the same bed,
to hear each other’s breathing,
to inhale the scents of each other,
to press my face beside his head,
and keep it there forever.
To ravish his intelligence,
to violate his vulnerability,
To tremble with unrestrained love,
the fullness of a woman’s pleasure,
as I've never had before.
Watching him,
I have no idea
if this is madness.
Fate can be magical,
abstract,
mysterious,
left to chance.
His presence,
a recorded impression of words,
pounding
on my poetic memory.
I don’t know
if he has a sweetheart,
to ask would be pointless.
- Amy Barry
(added 08.01.13)
editor's note: Ah, to love a loud linguist from afar! - mh
Shopping in Zara’s
The fields with fairies laugh and dance
the hills with toadstools grow
as the merry makers stop their hearts
with treasures from the trove
and beat beat beat goes the jamboree drum
the tables heave with wine
the souls browse the racks in a state of flux
either side of the twilight time
and ring ring ring goes the register bell
the maidens skim the cream
and the little death dies into life again
like a ghost in a mirror of dreams
- Silas Gorin
(1 poem added 07.31.13)
editor's note: The ultimate consumer experience. Marketing moguls everywhere are absolutely green... - mh
The Art of Reinventing Time
Two days after the horrific accident the events unhappen...
the traffic island of bitter bone-crushing mirage no fender bender spilled guts through the alligator polo shirt defrosts into an easy pancreas of ultraviolet hospital gown wishing it were a set of green scrubs. My emergency arrival in critical condition is unrazor nicked, singing glory hallelujah to the silenced hot pants scalpel, or diving off a rusty bridge with other thrill-seeking bungee jumpers. There is no longer a need for gold-plated Band-Aids or straight-jacketed crazy glue, or fleshy Congressional action pending the approval of health care legislation. My bloodshot eyes cease to float at the bottom of the whiskey bottle, while making an illegal left turn at the stop light. Even my five hundred dollar a day hospital room agrees to come in from the ten storey ledge then orders a pizza with no anchovies. I should have ordered one too. Instead, I make the ridiculous mistake of eating a few spoonfuls of the hospital food that's been wheeled in by a candy-striper, and end up with diarrhea that's made from some kind of wood, then painted to resemble real grenades.
- Maurice Oliver
(1 poem added 07.30.13)
editor's note: Ha! A healthcare parable, a medical metaphor: All are well who don't eat the hospital food. - mh
Offspring
A dead matter,
Flown out soul,
Though I intend, I indulge
Many a times I kill
Rendering to death
Offspring to shape.
Give life!
Though the ink is cold
Every sitting, a new transplant
Born in solitude,
Words are the oxygen,
I let you breathe.
Thoughts where I am grown,
Feelings, I am planted in
Before I let it run.
Quietness is all I ask
The hen is brooding
Eggs will break
Life is coming out.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 07.29.13)
editor's note: If you want to make an omelette, you gotta break some eggs. - mh
AFTER THE SEVENTH DAY
The eighth day, well rested, the miracle of universe complete,
the dark dung of darkness and sad light cleansed and organized.
Forgive us our moment when all prayer becomes short stories,
shell shocked inability to listen to vibrations of silence,
people wading into the brakes of words--
the sharp shark shard of vowels and their choking curves,
consonants threading into a grand forest choir
each stitch a slip in the wrong direction.
Forgive us our greed and simple idiocy, our lists,
our tears in flesh and psyche, our anger, our augers,
our metal plates, forgive us for taking the deeds
holding the great desk together, forgive us the robberies
of paper and light, of organization and disbelief,
forgive us for stealing purity in psalm and purity in image,
forgive us for every nine day week after week,
forgive us for forgetting where we are, where we come from,
where we belong, forgive us the miracle of rest.
- Michael Brownstein
(added 07.28.13)
editor's note: Exhausting, these endless confessions. Forgive ourselves and move on. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
Need is a read? Then check out the latest addition to our short stories library, "A Random Hardworking Man" by Chad Stroup. Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story: "Humanity, we work hard (damn hard!) to have to not work at all. Robin Hoods, though, those guys live to die, and not just get by. And that’s why you don’t know a Robin Hood. Sure, you might see them shining, magnificent and short, because when you burn the candle at both ends, it gives off that magnificent but brief light." Here's a taste to whet your readin' whistle...
"A random hardworking man punches Friday’s clock, wipes the grime from his brow, walks toward his ’84 Ford Ranger that’s in desperate need of a tune-up. If I choose to rob him for his easily forgeable paycheck and whatever pittance happens to be in his wallet at that moment, would the karmic scales be balanced if I were to donate half the money to Jerry’s Kids? Or would it be best to blow the dough on a twenty-buck BJ from a hooker with two kids? / I don’t exactly have Friar Tuck within my ranks, if you catch my drift."
You know you wanna read more. Where? 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...
Bein' Comfortably Different,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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