The Best of Mad Swirl : 11.09.13
"Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard." Anne Sexton
••• The Mad Gallery •••
When There Was Ivory (above) by this month's featured artist, Pd Lietz.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we leapt beyond the length, breadth and depth to wend our way to a win; we envied the in-crowd at a reception, joined to be normal and not the exception; we savored the sensual side of the search; we frittered our time with the mendicant faction, errant ideas seeking agents for action; we parsed poetic proclivities to proclaim a poet's passion; we looked to lift love to the loftiest of notions with a thing and a thing only going through the motions; we deburred a belligerent bight, blue-bathed anger whipped through waves... waning... waning. Wonderful week; in words, our weariness washed away. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Blue moon
The wind flutters above
a warm blue moon
up over the ocean.
The roar of the sea
draws me in like a poultice
sucking the anger
from a boil.
The bulbous thick moon
spills blossoms of light
onto trembling waters.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 11.09.13)
editor's note: Once in a wavy moon to rock the boat and quell all anger. - mh
A Discrete Relationship
I hug you.
You hug me.
your thing bothers me
on my chest...
mine bothers you
on your thigh...
we stand naked
in each other's arms...
Neither your lips,
nor mine
uttered those three magic words...
- Sam Rapth
(1 poem added 11.08.13)
editor's note: No three words ventured, no "thing" gained. Bothersome, indeed! - mh
Am I a Poet?
Poet: 1) a person who composes poetry; 2) a person who has the gift of poetic thought, imagination, and creation, together with eloquence of expression.
Am I a poet? It seems to me there are some missing pieces to complete this puzzle. I'd love to own the romanticized title, but sometimes... most times, I just don't know it. Am I truly a poet of some kind or just an impostor? I gotta ask because...
You won't find me sharing my new born written words freshly delivered off the typewriter... or notebook... or iDevice
And you won't find me presenting a new poem to the world every day... every week... or even every month
And you'll rarely find me pondering my lines of rhyme in some hip bookstore or corner coffee shop
And you won't find me putting out chapbook after chapbook filled to the gills with my prolific words
Only once in a great while will you find my name in forums or in crews spewing out what's currently on my mind
And far and few between will you find me free flowing poetically baring my wares for all to see
And almost never will you find me reading classical or modern or anywhere in between works of poetic masters
And you won't find me riding the train of quatrains or riding on the schemes of sonnets and things
However, you will find me hiding between letters and words and allusive alliterations in the scribbles and riddles flowing from my thoughts, my feelings, my experiences, my dreams. Sometimes I succeed and find a rhyme scheme. Sometimes... I don't.
Sometimes I'm inspired by all the things I see that come to me on muses wings and deemed to be called poetry... by some.
Sometimes my futile attempts fail completely but the act alone is therapy and even if no other eyes see it but mine... it was well worth the time.
And sometimes it all comes together in the beginning, unravels in the middle and then falls all apart in an orgasmic ending, exploding and creating something new in this world. And it is then that it ends and I lay down my pen and nod my head and answer my own question... yes, I am a poet.
- Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 11.07.13)
editor's note: In our Mad annals, this one identifies as erstwhile AND ever. - mh
Chateau
This is where the rock ‘n rollers party—
drinking, singing, doing lines of coke
off a whore’s ass—
they hang from the gutters,
they scream at midnight,
fortunes are won and lost,
fates revealed, devils summoned
into glamour rooms plush
with decadence—see,
there’s the famous comedian
fresh off his last heart-attack,
and there’s the Oscar winner,
and there’s the ingénue,
and there’s, there’s, there’s
another one—common as flies—
we move invisible among them,
not for lack of fame or desire for it,
we let that go—we are
ideas, you see, secrets
waiting for a sunrise life
like the perfect wave
coming in at Zuma Beach,
light breaking after a long
weekend blackout
- Douglas Cole
(added 11.06.13)
editor's note: What has more substance? Us? Or, ideas? Party on! - mh
FINDING YOU
The complex of love...
The eyes beating,
The heart listening,
The ears sensing motion,
The nose touching,
The fingers finding,
The hair slipping,
The feet following,
The lips beginning,
The skin moving...
In the direction of you.
- Roger G. Singer
(1 poem added 11.05.13)
editor's note: Our object of attraction takes some finding. All our senses mix it up to derive direction, trade tasks to take possession - gotta have her! - mh
A slightly off key love song for the ones who don't quite fit
At the reception
You look across the room
With such substantial yearning
Holding two complete convictions
Contradictory
Yet solid in your sense
The first an exaltation
That this bland and humdrum crowd
Has not the wherewithal
To incite your febrile nature
That their vanilla pleasures
Can never rival
Your intoxicating ones
The second
Just as vibrant
Yet unworthy to concede
That in a heart’s tick
You would cheerfully
Disburden yourself
Of your cumbersome uniqueness
If you could leap
Dauntless
Into their clique
And be enveloped
In their safe and soothing shelter
- David Rutter
(added 11.04.13)
editor's note: Oh, to be a part of those who stand alone - together. Baaa! Baaa! - mh
Two Become Won
Deep, Once boundless Lovers
Become irrevocably delicious
Leaving inelegance to further solitude...
Phantom versus desire, two worlds collide
(Stealing the ability to exist at all)
Against the real, imagined distinction between hearts...
A new dimension created, only they could share
(Once alone, Two become Won)
Laugh indelibly, walking on the Sun.
- Michael R. King
(1 poem added 11.03.13)
editor's note: Cosmic, colossal love roulette. Spinning suns; two for a win. - 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, "Pedro Seaman (Fishing for Tales)” by David Michael Joseph: "Weather and other natural monsters can drive you mad -- madder than what's unnatural: politics, robot attacks, dance floors and bad cocktails. All you need to know is this, though: a smooth sea never made a calm sailor." Here's a taste to tempt you...
(photo by Tyler Malone)
Dave and I sat outside the coffee shop on 6th Street, the one with the crazy Russian Barista who told stories, mostly with an insane and violent bent. The coffeehouse was the place for the dregs, the crazy and the downtrodden, sipping small coffees in between screams, fearful ranting and meth-induced rocking. I knew Dave through Gonzalez, John Gonzalez to be exact. I’d see him at the dark condo that overlooked the harbor. Now, I was on the computer and he was sitting in the corner, waiting for John’s instructions.
The story: years ago John was paralyzed in a surfing accident off Cabrillo Beach. Dave, a random onlooker, had saved his life and they became lifelong friends. He was John’s driver in the family van; chauffeuring him around the harbor city. Dave was a very friendly man with a passive, non-threatening demeanor, but his eyes showed something deeper, scars that only the world can give. He had seen things....
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...
Listenin’
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we leapt beyond the length, breadth and depth to wend our way to a win; we envied the in-crowd at a reception, joined to be normal and not the exception; we savored the sensual side of the search; we frittered our time with the mendicant faction, errant ideas seeking agents for action; we parsed poetic proclivities to proclaim a poet's passion; we looked to lift love to the loftiest of notions with a thing and a thing only going through the motions; we deburred a belligerent bight, blue-bathed anger whipped through waves... waning... waning. Wonderful week; in words, our weariness washed away. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Blue moon
The wind flutters above
a warm blue moon
up over the ocean.
The roar of the sea
draws me in like a poultice
sucking the anger
from a boil.
The bulbous thick moon
spills blossoms of light
onto trembling waters.
- Dawnell Harrison
(1 poem added 11.09.13)
editor's note: Once in a wavy moon to rock the boat and quell all anger. - mh
A Discrete Relationship
I hug you.
You hug me.
your thing bothers me
on my chest...
mine bothers you
on your thigh...
we stand naked
in each other's arms...
Neither your lips,
nor mine
uttered those three magic words...
- Sam Rapth
(1 poem added 11.08.13)
editor's note: No three words ventured, no "thing" gained. Bothersome, indeed! - mh
Am I a Poet?
Poet: 1) a person who composes poetry; 2) a person who has the gift of poetic thought, imagination, and creation, together with eloquence of expression.
Am I a poet? It seems to me there are some missing pieces to complete this puzzle. I'd love to own the romanticized title, but sometimes... most times, I just don't know it. Am I truly a poet of some kind or just an impostor? I gotta ask because...
You won't find me sharing my new born written words freshly delivered off the typewriter... or notebook... or iDevice
And you won't find me presenting a new poem to the world every day... every week... or even every month
And you'll rarely find me pondering my lines of rhyme in some hip bookstore or corner coffee shop
And you won't find me putting out chapbook after chapbook filled to the gills with my prolific words
Only once in a great while will you find my name in forums or in crews spewing out what's currently on my mind
And far and few between will you find me free flowing poetically baring my wares for all to see
And almost never will you find me reading classical or modern or anywhere in between works of poetic masters
And you won't find me riding the train of quatrains or riding on the schemes of sonnets and things
However, you will find me hiding between letters and words and allusive alliterations in the scribbles and riddles flowing from my thoughts, my feelings, my experiences, my dreams. Sometimes I succeed and find a rhyme scheme. Sometimes... I don't.
Sometimes I'm inspired by all the things I see that come to me on muses wings and deemed to be called poetry... by some.
Sometimes my futile attempts fail completely but the act alone is therapy and even if no other eyes see it but mine... it was well worth the time.
And sometimes it all comes together in the beginning, unravels in the middle and then falls all apart in an orgasmic ending, exploding and creating something new in this world. And it is then that it ends and I lay down my pen and nod my head and answer my own question... yes, I am a poet.
- Johnny Olson
(1 poem added 11.07.13)
editor's note: In our Mad annals, this one identifies as erstwhile AND ever. - mh
Chateau
This is where the rock ‘n rollers party—
drinking, singing, doing lines of coke
off a whore’s ass—
they hang from the gutters,
they scream at midnight,
fortunes are won and lost,
fates revealed, devils summoned
into glamour rooms plush
with decadence—see,
there’s the famous comedian
fresh off his last heart-attack,
and there’s the Oscar winner,
and there’s the ingénue,
and there’s, there’s, there’s
another one—common as flies—
we move invisible among them,
not for lack of fame or desire for it,
we let that go—we are
ideas, you see, secrets
waiting for a sunrise life
like the perfect wave
coming in at Zuma Beach,
light breaking after a long
weekend blackout
- Douglas Cole
(added 11.06.13)
editor's note: What has more substance? Us? Or, ideas? Party on! - mh
FINDING YOU
The complex of love...
The eyes beating,
The heart listening,
The ears sensing motion,
The nose touching,
The fingers finding,
The hair slipping,
The feet following,
The lips beginning,
The skin moving...
In the direction of you.
- Roger G. Singer
(1 poem added 11.05.13)
editor's note: Our object of attraction takes some finding. All our senses mix it up to derive direction, trade tasks to take possession - gotta have her! - mh
A slightly off key love song for the ones who don't quite fit
At the reception
You look across the room
With such substantial yearning
Holding two complete convictions
Contradictory
Yet solid in your sense
The first an exaltation
That this bland and humdrum crowd
Has not the wherewithal
To incite your febrile nature
That their vanilla pleasures
Can never rival
Your intoxicating ones
The second
Just as vibrant
Yet unworthy to concede
That in a heart’s tick
You would cheerfully
Disburden yourself
Of your cumbersome uniqueness
If you could leap
Dauntless
Into their clique
And be enveloped
In their safe and soothing shelter
- David Rutter
(added 11.04.13)
editor's note: Oh, to be a part of those who stand alone - together. Baaa! Baaa! - mh
Two Become Won
Deep, Once boundless Lovers
Become irrevocably delicious
Leaving inelegance to further solitude...
Phantom versus desire, two worlds collide
(Stealing the ability to exist at all)
Against the real, imagined distinction between hearts...
A new dimension created, only they could share
(Once alone, Two become Won)
Laugh indelibly, walking on the Sun.
- Michael R. King
(1 poem added 11.03.13)
editor's note: Cosmic, colossal love roulette. Spinning suns; two for a win. - 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, "Pedro Seaman (Fishing for Tales)” by David Michael Joseph: "Weather and other natural monsters can drive you mad -- madder than what's unnatural: politics, robot attacks, dance floors and bad cocktails. All you need to know is this, though: a smooth sea never made a calm sailor." Here's a taste to tempt you...
Dave and I sat outside the coffee shop on 6th Street, the one with the crazy Russian Barista who told stories, mostly with an insane and violent bent. The coffeehouse was the place for the dregs, the crazy and the downtrodden, sipping small coffees in between screams, fearful ranting and meth-induced rocking. I knew Dave through Gonzalez, John Gonzalez to be exact. I’d see him at the dark condo that overlooked the harbor. Now, I was on the computer and he was sitting in the corner, waiting for John’s instructions.
The story: years ago John was paralyzed in a surfing accident off Cabrillo Beach. Dave, a random onlooker, had saved his life and they became lifelong friends. He was John’s driver in the family van; chauffeuring him around the harbor city. Dave was a very friendly man with a passive, non-threatening demeanor, but his eyes showed something deeper, scars that only the world can give. He had seen things....
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...
Listenin’
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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