The Best of Mad Swirl : 10.12.13
"I do not go in search of poetry. I wait for poetry to visit me." Eugenio Montale
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Pioneer of No Frontier (above) by this month's featured artist, Tyler Malone.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we prodded particular patterns into adverbially aligned arabesques; we let a lost love linger only in our head, when weakly worded warnings were better left unsaid; we fed a fevered heart with hopes to make a life; we slurped and smiled to start the show then danced a slow a-da-gi-o; we broke a bothersome box, aspired for something higher; we drew needs and notions from a walk by the ocean; we ate from an epicure's oven -
imagination, idea and amazement. Ahhhhh! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
THE TERRESTRIAL SAINT PREPARES A DELICIOUS PASTA DISH
Grey finches
fly
from your thoughts
as you retrieve
the harness
dropped
at the feet
of imagination.
You prepare
several heaping dishes
with plum tomatoes
and burnt cheeses
resembling the stained outline
of a 15th Century Italian map
tacked
to the backside
of a pantry door
hidden
among a natural stone ribbon
of pale blue farmhouses
in Southern Italy.
The earth
is such a part
of our skin
that our emotions
tremble
like cicadas'
glass beads
being pulled
through the reluctant hips of a blond harp.
You reach
for your fallen harness,
only to find it
vaporized
into cinnamon-colored mushrooms
thriving
quite nicely,
now,
among the debris
of your dead thoughts.
- Alan Britt
(1 poem added 10.12.13)
editor's note: Ah, to dine at the table of this sweet muse. Let's eat! - mh
REFLECTIONS
I walk along the white hot sand
of the beach, looking out to sea.
Windblown piles of sand
~~reaching~
Green grass patches bent to ground
from years of wind
~~touching~~
Blue green water waves
cresting with foamy white caps
rushing for my feet
~~tingling~~
From afar, an old house stands
having overcome the test of
~~time~~
Beach, being the same, nature’s
elements a toll
~~taking~~
Unknown occupants, eons ago
hopefully young lovers, walking,
dreaming, their love
~~fulfilling~~
I stroll on, seeking peace for my
soul, hastily spoken, angry words,
wrongfully done deeds needing
~~forgiveness~~
For now, I will ride the crest of the wave
for time holds the reins
~~yearning~~
- Linda Thurmond
(added 10.11.13)
editor's note: Poet takes a walk to cool off; puts a poem in the poem. - mh
Apogee
In the ivory hours
of teentsy-weentsy mornings
they’d break the sound barrier
with huge ka-booms,
those jets taking off from Mather
and McClellan Air Force bases.
The vapor trails they left
in the brilliant blue sky
extended even beyond
heaven’s horizon.
It was the apogee
of Cold War reconnaissance
hysteria that gripped
both sides as they amassed
monstrous nuclear arsenals
in a square world.
- Thomas Piekarski
(added 10.10.13)
editor's note: As we struggle for context in this post cold war existence, poets make the better historians. - mh
Team Building
The wide eyes of the fresh faced staff
at stake; a steel collection plate
making the rounds; the slimy hand
of the greetings dwarf out of sight:
no wonder the air conditioners
work themselves into a frenzy,
blowing and sucking for the mob,
with their bits of fluff and paper
dancing to the tune of the gas
they seep. Into the gaping mouths
of the innocent, blank words form
a funk, like a swarm of horse flies
cruising the dung down horse-shit road.
The pixels crawl on the great screen;
a slave army. We have requirements
by bullet point. The theme is clear:
joy is not to be a given
but must be earned through giving
more. Play hard, work hard.
Ethic is all in our family!
Outside the great hall, a door, high
as heaven, is cracked open. Men,
two of them, stand God skinned, withered,
for once under the microscope.
Tasting fear in the wings, they must
prepare the punch; a meaty brew
of fat boiled off into a brine.
We’ll swallow when instructed; smile
that final frame before the dark,
with our tutus stained, and tip toes
raw to a point. Adagio!
Drink, my children; let our magic
concoction moisten your dry throats;
then dance for us, children. Real slow.
- Silas Gorin
(1 poem added 10.10.13)
editor's note: Make those mindless machinations in slo-mo, yes; as we drank and danced to the same little ditty. - mh
An outlying page
Motivated pen
By the incursion of a thought
Beleaguered page it left.
Write, re-write and cut,
Battle to win: a timeless victory
Collecting some hope.
To preserve in words: a life.
Whose momentary escape
Did nurse his feverish heart.
Observing entire Earth
When the cosmic Moon spread
Radiance of molten rays
Glittering on the earthly page
That speaks the quest
Of a wayward soul.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 10.08.13)
editor's note: Poets, ultimate outliers; struggling to wrestle odd fragments into whole expressions, equaling life. Beleaguered, indeed! - mh
Before I Rise
The scent of you remains;
The bed remembers where you laid;
But all the love left with you – none of it stayed.
All that I asked for, I received;
But what of that fear kept locked within my lips?
Better you not know;
So much easier that you go.
Best to leave my heart guessing in the lack of you
Than to know and have to move on.
Let the pillow remember in solitude for a moment more.
- Lori Brennan
(added 10.07.13)
editor's note: Fears unspoken, loves unfulfilled. Sometimes the fantasy is better... - mh
Eating Peas
Eating peas,
Like popping bubble wrap,
Most often, regardless of school,
Obscures chitchat, fantasy play, kin.
Kissing frogs,
Getting work into print,
Making snide remarks, offsets
Responsibilities to book publishers.
Eschewing notions,
Perhaps, brings about science,
Meant, decades ago, to sort out
Differences of zonkeys, zebroids, okapis.
Taking up basket weaving,
Mirroring The Big Island’s vogue,
In semantics, rhetoric, ethics, pedagogy,
Banishes potential commonplaces, outsells recognition.
Flapping discourse,
Substituting for functional kitchens,
Temporarily grants welcome to negotiated insights
Bring forward ministrations focused on siblings, cousins, dogs.
Generating words,
Ghostwriting sociology or psychology texts,
In spits of small numbers meant for outsourcing,
Kindly predisposes some aliens, standardized patients, doves.
Accommodating random realities,
Easing dreamy expressions breath by breath,
Making eschewed poetry explode, dance the rhumba,
Causes truth to stumble into arabesques, improved turnout.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 10.06.13)
editor's note: Such surreal and sideways syllogisms do not make plain cause and effect but do twist truth titillatingly to one turn goodly deserved. So, yes, eat your peas. (Congrats to KJ on her recently released book, "Citrus-Inspired Ceramics," published by Aldrich Press.) - 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, "On Radishchev Street" by Oleg Razumovsky: "On Alexander Radischev’s street is where every mutilated human we hope doesn’t breathe the same air we do is exiled to. It’s a dark place, a damned place, but a place that has great faith—faith that deaths coming and it’s coming quick." Here's a taste to tempt you...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
At the beginning of the summer, in the heat, I hit the bottle. My wife, as usual, kicked me out of the house. I had absolutely no place to go. / For a while I cried at the window and begged her to let me in, but then I remembered that Father gave me the number of his new mobile the other day. / Father is my last chance in this life. He rescued me many times at critical moments. Just my savior in life, I'll be damned, I thought as I crossed myself and called him. Father was in a good mood. Most often he is not in a good mood and gets angry, then becomes fucking paranoid. / “Come over here, idiot, we will rescue you!” he said. / Well, we got shitfaced drunk, of course, on Radishchev Street, close to the marketplace there where they trade and cheat in the afternoon and rob and kill at night, at the time a rat woman sells moonshine. It's cheap and worse than poison. You can die easily. And a lot of people do die on Radishchev, mostly young men and women...
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...
Waitin'
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Pioneer of No Frontier (above) by this month's featured artist, Tyler Malone.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we prodded particular patterns into adverbially aligned arabesques; we let a lost love linger only in our head, when weakly worded warnings were better left unsaid; we fed a fevered heart with hopes to make a life; we slurped and smiled to start the show then danced a slow a-da-gi-o; we broke a bothersome box, aspired for something higher; we drew needs and notions from a walk by the ocean; we ate from an epicure's oven -
imagination, idea and amazement. Ahhhhh! ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
THE TERRESTRIAL SAINT PREPARES A DELICIOUS PASTA DISH
Grey finches
fly
from your thoughts
as you retrieve
the harness
dropped
at the feet
of imagination.
You prepare
several heaping dishes
with plum tomatoes
and burnt cheeses
resembling the stained outline
of a 15th Century Italian map
tacked
to the backside
of a pantry door
hidden
among a natural stone ribbon
of pale blue farmhouses
in Southern Italy.
The earth
is such a part
of our skin
that our emotions
tremble
like cicadas'
glass beads
being pulled
through the reluctant hips of a blond harp.
You reach
for your fallen harness,
only to find it
vaporized
into cinnamon-colored mushrooms
thriving
quite nicely,
now,
among the debris
of your dead thoughts.
- Alan Britt
(1 poem added 10.12.13)
editor's note: Ah, to dine at the table of this sweet muse. Let's eat! - mh
REFLECTIONS
I walk along the white hot sand
of the beach, looking out to sea.
Windblown piles of sand
~~reaching~
Green grass patches bent to ground
from years of wind
~~touching~~
Blue green water waves
cresting with foamy white caps
rushing for my feet
~~tingling~~
From afar, an old house stands
having overcome the test of
~~time~~
Beach, being the same, nature’s
elements a toll
~~taking~~
Unknown occupants, eons ago
hopefully young lovers, walking,
dreaming, their love
~~fulfilling~~
I stroll on, seeking peace for my
soul, hastily spoken, angry words,
wrongfully done deeds needing
~~forgiveness~~
For now, I will ride the crest of the wave
for time holds the reins
~~yearning~~
- Linda Thurmond
(added 10.11.13)
editor's note: Poet takes a walk to cool off; puts a poem in the poem. - mh
Apogee
In the ivory hours
of teentsy-weentsy mornings
they’d break the sound barrier
with huge ka-booms,
those jets taking off from Mather
and McClellan Air Force bases.
The vapor trails they left
in the brilliant blue sky
extended even beyond
heaven’s horizon.
It was the apogee
of Cold War reconnaissance
hysteria that gripped
both sides as they amassed
monstrous nuclear arsenals
in a square world.
- Thomas Piekarski
(added 10.10.13)
editor's note: As we struggle for context in this post cold war existence, poets make the better historians. - mh
Team Building
The wide eyes of the fresh faced staff
at stake; a steel collection plate
making the rounds; the slimy hand
of the greetings dwarf out of sight:
no wonder the air conditioners
work themselves into a frenzy,
blowing and sucking for the mob,
with their bits of fluff and paper
dancing to the tune of the gas
they seep. Into the gaping mouths
of the innocent, blank words form
a funk, like a swarm of horse flies
cruising the dung down horse-shit road.
The pixels crawl on the great screen;
a slave army. We have requirements
by bullet point. The theme is clear:
joy is not to be a given
but must be earned through giving
more. Play hard, work hard.
Ethic is all in our family!
Outside the great hall, a door, high
as heaven, is cracked open. Men,
two of them, stand God skinned, withered,
for once under the microscope.
Tasting fear in the wings, they must
prepare the punch; a meaty brew
of fat boiled off into a brine.
We’ll swallow when instructed; smile
that final frame before the dark,
with our tutus stained, and tip toes
raw to a point. Adagio!
Drink, my children; let our magic
concoction moisten your dry throats;
then dance for us, children. Real slow.
- Silas Gorin
(1 poem added 10.10.13)
editor's note: Make those mindless machinations in slo-mo, yes; as we drank and danced to the same little ditty. - mh
An outlying page
Motivated pen
By the incursion of a thought
Beleaguered page it left.
Write, re-write and cut,
Battle to win: a timeless victory
Collecting some hope.
To preserve in words: a life.
Whose momentary escape
Did nurse his feverish heart.
Observing entire Earth
When the cosmic Moon spread
Radiance of molten rays
Glittering on the earthly page
That speaks the quest
Of a wayward soul.
- Hem Raj Bastola
(1 poem added 10.08.13)
editor's note: Poets, ultimate outliers; struggling to wrestle odd fragments into whole expressions, equaling life. Beleaguered, indeed! - mh
Before I Rise
The scent of you remains;
The bed remembers where you laid;
But all the love left with you – none of it stayed.
All that I asked for, I received;
But what of that fear kept locked within my lips?
Better you not know;
So much easier that you go.
Best to leave my heart guessing in the lack of you
Than to know and have to move on.
Let the pillow remember in solitude for a moment more.
- Lori Brennan
(added 10.07.13)
editor's note: Fears unspoken, loves unfulfilled. Sometimes the fantasy is better... - mh
Eating Peas
Eating peas,
Like popping bubble wrap,
Most often, regardless of school,
Obscures chitchat, fantasy play, kin.
Kissing frogs,
Getting work into print,
Making snide remarks, offsets
Responsibilities to book publishers.
Eschewing notions,
Perhaps, brings about science,
Meant, decades ago, to sort out
Differences of zonkeys, zebroids, okapis.
Taking up basket weaving,
Mirroring The Big Island’s vogue,
In semantics, rhetoric, ethics, pedagogy,
Banishes potential commonplaces, outsells recognition.
Flapping discourse,
Substituting for functional kitchens,
Temporarily grants welcome to negotiated insights
Bring forward ministrations focused on siblings, cousins, dogs.
Generating words,
Ghostwriting sociology or psychology texts,
In spits of small numbers meant for outsourcing,
Kindly predisposes some aliens, standardized patients, doves.
Accommodating random realities,
Easing dreamy expressions breath by breath,
Making eschewed poetry explode, dance the rhumba,
Causes truth to stumble into arabesques, improved turnout.
- KJ Hannah Greenberg
(1 poem added 10.06.13)
editor's note: Such surreal and sideways syllogisms do not make plain cause and effect but do twist truth titillatingly to one turn goodly deserved. So, yes, eat your peas. (Congrats to KJ on her recently released book, "Citrus-Inspired Ceramics," published by Aldrich Press.) - 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, "On Radishchev Street" by Oleg Razumovsky: "On Alexander Radischev’s street is where every mutilated human we hope doesn’t breathe the same air we do is exiled to. It’s a dark place, a damned place, but a place that has great faith—faith that deaths coming and it’s coming quick." Here's a taste to tempt you...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
At the beginning of the summer, in the heat, I hit the bottle. My wife, as usual, kicked me out of the house. I had absolutely no place to go. / For a while I cried at the window and begged her to let me in, but then I remembered that Father gave me the number of his new mobile the other day. / Father is my last chance in this life. He rescued me many times at critical moments. Just my savior in life, I'll be damned, I thought as I crossed myself and called him. Father was in a good mood. Most often he is not in a good mood and gets angry, then becomes fucking paranoid. / “Come over here, idiot, we will rescue you!” he said. / Well, we got shitfaced drunk, of course, on Radishchev Street, close to the marketplace there where they trade and cheat in the afternoon and rob and kill at night, at the time a rat woman sells moonshine. It's cheap and worse than poison. You can die easily. And a lot of people do die on Radishchev, mostly young men and women...
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...
Waitin'
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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