The Best of Mad Swirl : 09.07.13
"Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within." Alfred Lord Tennyson
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Noir (above) by this month's featured artist, Tyler Malone.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...e commenced with a commercial break, bright benefactors bringing truth (not!); we paused to ponder and pontificate on what poetry is (what?); we sought to sink into safety in numbers, not to think outside the can; we filled the night full with crow's cough and moon's pull; we acted out, large as life, rehearsed in the womb (if you don't live largely, life is a tomb); we tried to trick time, struggle and strife, the poet's quest, through verse and rhyme, for endless life; we let rip some riffs, sweet, sad and true, a harp-man's lot, the blues for you. Sing'em if you got'em! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
instruments
when you hear a blues harp
it sounds like a wolf howlin’,
sharp,
pointed,
bellowed,
guttural,
like an attack,
alert,
mournful animal.
those guys were
out there in
those tough territories
and those hard lives:
alcohol,
women,
despair,
poverty.
playing those things.
alert, alive, raging ears
playing those things,
explosive of their sentiments,
their lives.
able to slice
you with those things, those
hallowed instruments.
you get a ride of pain
when you feel theirs.
- Carl Kavadlo
(1 poem added 09.07.13)
editor's note: Yes, indeed! Pain and anesthetic at once. Hurt me, heal me, harmonica man! - mh
Some Change for the Time Man
Anchor me down with the past...
I'm a floating helium-centric
goon of the heavens babbling
incoherent love songs to the sick—
oh well, it was a mighty cause
when I fought it, when I remembered
what it was, but now I'm ground
up in old groundhog day
senility starting 8 hours behind
the sun and escaping into the night
only to sleep never to live
never to live—I'm a lay about—
society bites me, keeps me moving,
I've fallen so far from my feet—
they're dragging toward the gorge,
an endless plastic coffin filled
to the brim with only the faces
I've known, the ones with
concentric circles spinning round their
golden heads—that'd be us Joe—but
they stick the swords to our backs and the
planks vibrate to the frequency
of the queen's machine—
there's no footing, there's no branch
only falling—
- Tom Pescatore
(added 09.06.13)
editor's note: Damn, but he don' take nuthin' smalla than a C-note an' he don' give a flip fo' yo' sweet talk. Poets...Shee-it! - mh
A shroud
The moon collects in a shroud
And shines into the dim night.
I hear the crow cough in the autumn
Sticks and red leaves as the ocean
Pulls in its tides from all ends
Of the earth.
The seagulls' wings are splayed out
Like the fronds of a fern as the night
Dissolves under the unanswering skies.
- Dawnell Harrison
(2 poems added 09.04.13)
editor's note: In the light of moon or dark of night, question those skies. (A note on where babies come from on her page - check it out.) - mh
Enlightenment in a can
You squeeze yourself into
A sardine can,
Warm, dark, oily, with a
Strong sense of fish.
Quiet, they said.
Silence, they said.
If they hear you,
If they see you,
If they as much as smell you,
Then who knows what.
And so,
Living in a sardine can
You've avoided the distant cell
In favor of your hyperlocal gulag,
Every once-in-a-while
Cracking the lid to
Relieve the stench and to
Steal a breath
Even at the risk of
Getting your head bitten off.
- Marya Zilberberg
(added 09.03.13)
editor's note: Sometimes circumstances dictate the benefits of a canned response. - mh
Poetry Is
Poetry is
what you do
instead of what you should be doing
or maybe because you
aren't doing it.
Poetry is
you stop,
and everyone else is going on,
and still you stand. The gap grows greater.
You run ahead and fall into step
and then you stop
again.
Again, and again.
And meanwhile, the sky darkens.
It's raining, or it's not.
Rain and sun and winds that stir
The skin on boiled milk cools and curls
and you are off again
where you should not be.
A thousand tasks beckon,
and still you stand and dream,
counting your fingers,
holding your hands up against the sky
- Ann B-D
(added 09.02.13)
editor's note: Well, um... I guess, yes, that's true - what? Was the moon silver or blue just then? - mh
CONVERSION FACTOR
We come to take you away
from yourselves
and into the dreaming dawn
we the new jihadis
crusaders
huns mongels slavers
conquistadors riding in on
the ebony surf
delivering pain and purification
revelation in the form of
cold objective data –
behold us in our tens of thousands
steely gleaming in
the starlight
unyielding in our brotherly
and sisterly love
at the end of days
the last holy warriors
pilgrims liberators
knights in adamantine armor
bringing true and
irreversible conversion
to you
the welcoming masses.
- Jeffrey Park
(1 poem added 09.01.13)
editor's note: All that's right and best for us, magnificently marketed and packaged to sell. We, the ignorant, need true believers to lead us away from our folly. Welcome, welcome; well... I don't know know about that. - 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, "Integral to the Whole: The Voyeur’s Role in Culture" by Jeff Winke: "We are watchers, aren't we. All of us, the ears of writers and the eyes of photographers, giving stories to strangers who dissolve into shadows." Here's a taste to tempt you...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
I'm a voyeur. / But rather than surreptitiously stealing glances through the open blinds of a neighbor's windows while sauntering or crouching behind a bush for a longer gaze, I sit in plain view. I’m right here. I am not a peeping Tom. My name is not Tom. / I feign the look of disinterest, but I watch and see what's going on. I see life scripts being acted out. I see the depth of lives, from the shallow to the deep yearners. I see the scars and beauty, the heartless and saints. / Amidst the clutter, there are those who sponge attention. They are the lush, broad green leaves that require the sun. It's evidenced in more than how they dress—although, the trim and fit of clothes help. There is an attitude. A tilt of head, sideways glance, a posture that exudes a desire to be admired. They clearly need it...
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna 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...
Revealin' & Concealin'
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Noir (above) by this month's featured artist, Tyler Malone.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...e commenced with a commercial break, bright benefactors bringing truth (not!); we paused to ponder and pontificate on what poetry is (what?); we sought to sink into safety in numbers, not to think outside the can; we filled the night full with crow's cough and moon's pull; we acted out, large as life, rehearsed in the womb (if you don't live largely, life is a tomb); we tried to trick time, struggle and strife, the poet's quest, through verse and rhyme, for endless life; we let rip some riffs, sweet, sad and true, a harp-man's lot, the blues for you. Sing'em if you got'em! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
instruments
when you hear a blues harp
it sounds like a wolf howlin’,
sharp,
pointed,
bellowed,
guttural,
like an attack,
alert,
mournful animal.
those guys were
out there in
those tough territories
and those hard lives:
alcohol,
women,
despair,
poverty.
playing those things.
alert, alive, raging ears
playing those things,
explosive of their sentiments,
their lives.
able to slice
you with those things, those
hallowed instruments.
you get a ride of pain
when you feel theirs.
- Carl Kavadlo
(1 poem added 09.07.13)
editor's note: Yes, indeed! Pain and anesthetic at once. Hurt me, heal me, harmonica man! - mh
Some Change for the Time Man
Anchor me down with the past...
I'm a floating helium-centric
goon of the heavens babbling
incoherent love songs to the sick—
oh well, it was a mighty cause
when I fought it, when I remembered
what it was, but now I'm ground
up in old groundhog day
senility starting 8 hours behind
the sun and escaping into the night
only to sleep never to live
never to live—I'm a lay about—
society bites me, keeps me moving,
I've fallen so far from my feet—
they're dragging toward the gorge,
an endless plastic coffin filled
to the brim with only the faces
I've known, the ones with
concentric circles spinning round their
golden heads—that'd be us Joe—but
they stick the swords to our backs and the
planks vibrate to the frequency
of the queen's machine—
there's no footing, there's no branch
only falling—
- Tom Pescatore
(added 09.06.13)
editor's note: Damn, but he don' take nuthin' smalla than a C-note an' he don' give a flip fo' yo' sweet talk. Poets...Shee-it! - mh
A shroud
The moon collects in a shroud
And shines into the dim night.
I hear the crow cough in the autumn
Sticks and red leaves as the ocean
Pulls in its tides from all ends
Of the earth.
The seagulls' wings are splayed out
Like the fronds of a fern as the night
Dissolves under the unanswering skies.
- Dawnell Harrison
(2 poems added 09.04.13)
editor's note: In the light of moon or dark of night, question those skies. (A note on where babies come from on her page - check it out.) - mh
Enlightenment in a can
You squeeze yourself into
A sardine can,
Warm, dark, oily, with a
Strong sense of fish.
Quiet, they said.
Silence, they said.
If they hear you,
If they see you,
If they as much as smell you,
Then who knows what.
And so,
Living in a sardine can
You've avoided the distant cell
In favor of your hyperlocal gulag,
Every once-in-a-while
Cracking the lid to
Relieve the stench and to
Steal a breath
Even at the risk of
Getting your head bitten off.
- Marya Zilberberg
(added 09.03.13)
editor's note: Sometimes circumstances dictate the benefits of a canned response. - mh
Poetry Is
Poetry is
what you do
instead of what you should be doing
or maybe because you
aren't doing it.
Poetry is
you stop,
and everyone else is going on,
and still you stand. The gap grows greater.
You run ahead and fall into step
and then you stop
again.
Again, and again.
And meanwhile, the sky darkens.
It's raining, or it's not.
Rain and sun and winds that stir
The skin on boiled milk cools and curls
and you are off again
where you should not be.
A thousand tasks beckon,
and still you stand and dream,
counting your fingers,
holding your hands up against the sky
- Ann B-D
(added 09.02.13)
editor's note: Well, um... I guess, yes, that's true - what? Was the moon silver or blue just then? - mh
CONVERSION FACTOR
We come to take you away
from yourselves
and into the dreaming dawn
we the new jihadis
crusaders
huns mongels slavers
conquistadors riding in on
the ebony surf
delivering pain and purification
revelation in the form of
cold objective data –
behold us in our tens of thousands
steely gleaming in
the starlight
unyielding in our brotherly
and sisterly love
at the end of days
the last holy warriors
pilgrims liberators
knights in adamantine armor
bringing true and
irreversible conversion
to you
the welcoming masses.
- Jeffrey Park
(1 poem added 09.01.13)
editor's note: All that's right and best for us, magnificently marketed and packaged to sell. We, the ignorant, need true believers to lead us away from our folly. Welcome, welcome; well... I don't know know about that. - 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, "Integral to the Whole: The Voyeur’s Role in Culture" by Jeff Winke: "We are watchers, aren't we. All of us, the ears of writers and the eyes of photographers, giving stories to strangers who dissolve into shadows." Here's a taste to tempt you...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
I'm a voyeur. / But rather than surreptitiously stealing glances through the open blinds of a neighbor's windows while sauntering or crouching behind a bush for a longer gaze, I sit in plain view. I’m right here. I am not a peeping Tom. My name is not Tom. / I feign the look of disinterest, but I watch and see what's going on. I see life scripts being acted out. I see the depth of lives, from the shallow to the deep yearners. I see the scars and beauty, the heartless and saints. / Amidst the clutter, there are those who sponge attention. They are the lush, broad green leaves that require the sun. It's evidenced in more than how they dress—although, the trim and fit of clothes help. There is an attitude. A tilt of head, sideways glance, a posture that exudes a desire to be admired. They clearly need it...
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna 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...
Revealin' & Concealin'
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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