The Best of Mad Swirl : 01.11.14
"Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding." Khalil Gibran
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Breaking (above) by featured artist, Fanny Marie Crawford.
Allow us to introduce you to our featured artist, Fanny Marie Crawford. Upon first glance, Fanny’s work really caught our eye. Why? Maybe it has to do with her swirlingly dark yet ethereal collages of bodies, faces, and... perhaps a hidden image or two? That would be a big ol’ YES! Fanny’s paintings have almost a calming effect… yet they also seem to stir up something inside you when you look more closely at them. Like an allusive dream that you just can’t quite put your finger on come dawn, Fanny’s work tugs at you as you try to figure out exactly what you should feel. A quick casual glance just won’t do! Don't believe us? Click here and check it out for yourself! - Madelyn Olson
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...we found (un)friendly competition escalated into unfounded fear and social perdition; we looked on a long gone lush lamenting love lost; we sculled creative creek with a different paddle, lulled along to seek new words, not twaddle; we coaxed a clandestine cat to take us soundseeing; we lingered on a lover's haunt, enjoyed some gentle dream detente; we succinctly skipped from scar to scare; we saw a son who said, "'twas I," immortalized in legend from lie. Duplicitous days these be, ever challenged to choose are we. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Under a Cherry Moon
I swallowed the seeds of my own
tongue & choked on words that never
had a chance to form roots, grow bark,
irritate a politician’s son to the point
he bought an ax & told his father a lie
that later would be picked up by hidden
media feed & echo like an earthquake
around the world.
- A.J. Huffman
(2 poems added 01.11.14)
editor's note: The seeds of myth, coughed up or squeezed out, are planted in a swallow - a hard bite could crack teeth. (Another one from Ms. Huffman on her page, a genuine disclosure - I swear.) - mh
Cinquain & Tanka
That scar
under your
breast that no one can see,
left by my mouth, mem'ry of me
Come back
Let the bead curtain
parting, lead you through into
avenues long gone
so that we can walk again
seeking our ghosts, in the park.
- Dr Ampat Koshy
(added 01.10.14)
editor's note: Two distinct poetic forms linked to show how scars lead to spirits. - mh
Still Dreaming
of a sudden i fancied visions of you smiling
directly at me, eyes fixed
to eyes, in a sort of dance
that flowed sensual and smooth
from one yogic position to the next
and gave glad expression of a
separateness without longing
and i spoke to this apparition
with eyes wide and open, and it,
being you, answered reassuringly
and plain and as if it were real,
but real enough that i
spoke to it aloud and
with a peace and contentment
arising from within and pouring
forth as seemingly might
a soul unto a soul
- Jesse Doughty
(1 poem added 01.09.14)
editor's note: If we could bring all correspondence to this level; everyone would be understood and well rested. - mh
Yes, yes, oh, yes
At night she walks her restless cat
on leather leash down black streets
then back, past motels, clubs, shacks,
lets it prowl nighttime sounds --
rat scratch, dog growl, piss splash,
drunk words slurred, slow drum beat,
lover's moan, a few high screams.
- Timothy Pilgrim
(2 poems added 01.08.14)
editor's note: A stroll to steal the feline's senses; it's cat burglary. (Another one for splitting civilly on Timothy's page - check it out.) - mh
Poem Written by Hand
I compose now, when I compose,
at a keyboard, but I remember this –
pen in hand, writing the cursive loops
and lines the nuns taught me, fought
me to use so many years ago.
One end points upward, outward at
some point just beside infinity, while
the other unwinds its blue line down
the empty page.
It’s a pen after all, not a brush, nor a
hammer, nor a gun, for that matter,
and so in its own way it’s harmless,
makes nothing happen, but this, this
temporary smudge, this, this poem
I’m writing by hand.
How many years was this the all of it,
the way it went, but handwriting seems
so private now, impermanence waiting
to dissolve or transform into type on
the screen, or on the print-out page.
It’s an age since I tried to capture
the features of a poem like this,
the strum and straddle, the plum and
paddle of it, and its punctuated pride.
I haven’t drifted down the river of
a page, like this, like this in years –
my line in the water, the sun beating
down, and those mystery fish moving,
waiting just below the surface,
the surface of my words.
- J.K. Durick
(1 poem added 01.07.14)
editor's note: So many ways to ride the river. Use a paddle, an outboard or your best breast stroke; just ride. (We welcome J.K. to the resplendent ranks of our Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more from his journeys down the river on his new page.) - mh
A poem for Momma
Momma she was so distraught I
remember like it was only yesterday.
Pa loved us but he was a bum,
a waster, thrown his life away.
Pa workin 9 to 5 a dream,
she died I remember still thinkin of it.
Have I done my best for you son?
There echo her words in spirit.
He showed up at our Momma’s wake,
no family of mine would try to contest.
Son! I’m as sober as a judge
I’ve come to see momma at rest.
Guess I warmed to him on that day,
and so did ma kin too forgetting his past.
He died 12 months later, yea! Drunk,
a paupers grave? I never asked
- DCM
(added 01.06.14)
editor's note: One who could wrest no rest, came to see one other at rest, then rested after. The rest were left to fend for themselves. - mh
Two Neighbours
In every night,
time steers the magical stick,
makes the hilarious houses unconscious
from the huts to the skyscrapers-
shutting their doors and windows
but enchants the two shrewd neighbours,
who express their concealed friendship through hotline,
organise a luxurious party in a secret paradise,
exchange surprise gifts and packages
and discover the tactics of making people fools.
Routine-wise the sun appears in the morning,
makes everything from material to immaterial
transparent and comprehensible
to open eyes and ears and to hearts and souls.
The two clever neighbours wash out the friendship,
proclaim hostility in front of micro phone,
throw the bombs to each other
made of synthetic hatred and anger,
inject the alcohol of enmity into people’s minds
and build up an aggressive and toddling society.
Within a fraction of a moment-
universal friendship and fraternity get mingled,
peace and harmony commit suicide,
intelligence and intellectuality hide in the knees
and all fools join in well-planned hustle and bustle
on the top floor and on the ground floor-
cheating, pillaging, and even blood shedding.
Alas! The earth rotates and again night appears,
brings the two neighbours lips to lips through cell phone
and in the outside a pathetic weeping reverberates in the air.
- P.K.Deb
(added 01.05.14)
editor's note: The game of one-upmanship played on a large scale. Heads down, People! Wait 'til the dust clears... - 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, "Bars" by Carl Kavadlo: "We are all Charles Bukowski, living long, dying quick, only to live on again, or so we hope. But soon, once we breathe in all his body’s wandering atoms, we’ll all have a little Bukowski inside of us, just like Isaac Newton, just like Mr. Rogers, just like Jesus." Here's a taste to tempt you...
photo by Tyler Malone
…And so, there are bars for the daring of the night.
Then I left too.
And that’s what you see. The wild cherry cocktail sticks inviting adventure. Bars give you relief from the ordinary humdrum.
In front of the club, I lit a Marlboro cigarette. “A band named Pacific Radio Fire…” I inhaled, exhaled twice. “And who thought people under 25 read Richard Brautigan again in 2014?” I took another drag, staring at headlights, considering the possibility of Bukowski’s transmigration. I was pretty drunk, and maybe the whole thing happened, or maybe it didn’t happen at all.
Then I flipped the cig high in the air watching the yellow, glowing arc spin.
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Mad Swirl was the place to be in this poetic community this past Wednesday! This month we featured the multi-faceted, multi-talented, multi-fabulous Cj Critt! We knew this was surely gonna be a feature to remember. And was it ever! If you were there, you know what we mean. If not, well, you snooze you lose!
Then your hosts Johnny O and MH Clay got to callin' all the mad poets, musicians & a few other miscellaneous mad ones in the Lounge to come & strut their mad stuff! A couple never-before-seen faces mingled with the usual mix of mad suspects you expect to see on our 1st Wednesday mad romp. And romp it we did! Mad Swirlin' thanks to ALL the mad ones that came to participate, to appreciate...
(all photos courtesy of Dan Rodriguez
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING in February James “Bear” Rodehaver!
Fo' mo' info visit our open mic page 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...
Understandin’
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
Allow us to introduce you to our featured artist, Fanny Marie Crawford. Upon first glance, Fanny’s work really caught our eye. Why? Maybe it has to do with her swirlingly dark yet ethereal collages of bodies, faces, and... perhaps a hidden image or two? That would be a big ol’ YES! Fanny’s paintings have almost a calming effect… yet they also seem to stir up something inside you when you look more closely at them. Like an allusive dream that you just can’t quite put your finger on come dawn, Fanny’s work tugs at you as you try to figure out exactly what you should feel. A quick casual glance just won’t do! Don't believe us? Click here and check it out for yourself! - Madelyn Olson
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...we found (un)friendly competition escalated into unfounded fear and social perdition; we looked on a long gone lush lamenting love lost; we sculled creative creek with a different paddle, lulled along to seek new words, not twaddle; we coaxed a clandestine cat to take us soundseeing; we lingered on a lover's haunt, enjoyed some gentle dream detente; we succinctly skipped from scar to scare; we saw a son who said, "'twas I," immortalized in legend from lie. Duplicitous days these be, ever challenged to choose are we. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
Under a Cherry Moon
I swallowed the seeds of my own
tongue & choked on words that never
had a chance to form roots, grow bark,
irritate a politician’s son to the point
he bought an ax & told his father a lie
that later would be picked up by hidden
media feed & echo like an earthquake
around the world.
- A.J. Huffman
(2 poems added 01.11.14)
editor's note: The seeds of myth, coughed up or squeezed out, are planted in a swallow - a hard bite could crack teeth. (Another one from Ms. Huffman on her page, a genuine disclosure - I swear.) - mh
Cinquain & Tanka
That scar
under your
breast that no one can see,
left by my mouth, mem'ry of me
Come back
Let the bead curtain
parting, lead you through into
avenues long gone
so that we can walk again
seeking our ghosts, in the park.
- Dr Ampat Koshy
(added 01.10.14)
editor's note: Two distinct poetic forms linked to show how scars lead to spirits. - mh
Still Dreaming
of a sudden i fancied visions of you smiling
directly at me, eyes fixed
to eyes, in a sort of dance
that flowed sensual and smooth
from one yogic position to the next
and gave glad expression of a
separateness without longing
and i spoke to this apparition
with eyes wide and open, and it,
being you, answered reassuringly
and plain and as if it were real,
but real enough that i
spoke to it aloud and
with a peace and contentment
arising from within and pouring
forth as seemingly might
a soul unto a soul
- Jesse Doughty
(1 poem added 01.09.14)
editor's note: If we could bring all correspondence to this level; everyone would be understood and well rested. - mh
Yes, yes, oh, yes
At night she walks her restless cat
on leather leash down black streets
then back, past motels, clubs, shacks,
lets it prowl nighttime sounds --
rat scratch, dog growl, piss splash,
drunk words slurred, slow drum beat,
lover's moan, a few high screams.
- Timothy Pilgrim
(2 poems added 01.08.14)
editor's note: A stroll to steal the feline's senses; it's cat burglary. (Another one for splitting civilly on Timothy's page - check it out.) - mh
Poem Written by Hand
I compose now, when I compose,
at a keyboard, but I remember this –
pen in hand, writing the cursive loops
and lines the nuns taught me, fought
me to use so many years ago.
One end points upward, outward at
some point just beside infinity, while
the other unwinds its blue line down
the empty page.
It’s a pen after all, not a brush, nor a
hammer, nor a gun, for that matter,
and so in its own way it’s harmless,
makes nothing happen, but this, this
temporary smudge, this, this poem
I’m writing by hand.
How many years was this the all of it,
the way it went, but handwriting seems
so private now, impermanence waiting
to dissolve or transform into type on
the screen, or on the print-out page.
It’s an age since I tried to capture
the features of a poem like this,
the strum and straddle, the plum and
paddle of it, and its punctuated pride.
I haven’t drifted down the river of
a page, like this, like this in years –
my line in the water, the sun beating
down, and those mystery fish moving,
waiting just below the surface,
the surface of my words.
- J.K. Durick
(1 poem added 01.07.14)
editor's note: So many ways to ride the river. Use a paddle, an outboard or your best breast stroke; just ride. (We welcome J.K. to the resplendent ranks of our Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more from his journeys down the river on his new page.) - mh
A poem for Momma
Momma she was so distraught I
remember like it was only yesterday.
Pa loved us but he was a bum,
a waster, thrown his life away.
Pa workin 9 to 5 a dream,
she died I remember still thinkin of it.
Have I done my best for you son?
There echo her words in spirit.
He showed up at our Momma’s wake,
no family of mine would try to contest.
Son! I’m as sober as a judge
I’ve come to see momma at rest.
Guess I warmed to him on that day,
and so did ma kin too forgetting his past.
He died 12 months later, yea! Drunk,
a paupers grave? I never asked
- DCM
(added 01.06.14)
editor's note: One who could wrest no rest, came to see one other at rest, then rested after. The rest were left to fend for themselves. - mh
Two Neighbours
In every night,
time steers the magical stick,
makes the hilarious houses unconscious
from the huts to the skyscrapers-
shutting their doors and windows
but enchants the two shrewd neighbours,
who express their concealed friendship through hotline,
organise a luxurious party in a secret paradise,
exchange surprise gifts and packages
and discover the tactics of making people fools.
Routine-wise the sun appears in the morning,
makes everything from material to immaterial
transparent and comprehensible
to open eyes and ears and to hearts and souls.
The two clever neighbours wash out the friendship,
proclaim hostility in front of micro phone,
throw the bombs to each other
made of synthetic hatred and anger,
inject the alcohol of enmity into people’s minds
and build up an aggressive and toddling society.
Within a fraction of a moment-
universal friendship and fraternity get mingled,
peace and harmony commit suicide,
intelligence and intellectuality hide in the knees
and all fools join in well-planned hustle and bustle
on the top floor and on the ground floor-
cheating, pillaging, and even blood shedding.
Alas! The earth rotates and again night appears,
brings the two neighbours lips to lips through cell phone
and in the outside a pathetic weeping reverberates in the air.
- P.K.Deb
(added 01.05.14)
editor's note: The game of one-upmanship played on a large scale. Heads down, People! Wait 'til the dust clears... - 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, "Bars" by Carl Kavadlo: "We are all Charles Bukowski, living long, dying quick, only to live on again, or so we hope. But soon, once we breathe in all his body’s wandering atoms, we’ll all have a little Bukowski inside of us, just like Isaac Newton, just like Mr. Rogers, just like Jesus." Here's a taste to tempt you...
…And so, there are bars for the daring of the night.
Then I left too.
And that’s what you see. The wild cherry cocktail sticks inviting adventure. Bars give you relief from the ordinary humdrum.
In front of the club, I lit a Marlboro cigarette. “A band named Pacific Radio Fire…” I inhaled, exhaled twice. “And who thought people under 25 read Richard Brautigan again in 2014?” I took another drag, staring at headlights, considering the possibility of Bukowski’s transmigration. I was pretty drunk, and maybe the whole thing happened, or maybe it didn’t happen at all.
Then I flipped the cig high in the air watching the yellow, glowing arc spin.
You wanna keep readin'? Of course you wanna! Get the rest of your wanna on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Mad Swirl was the place to be in this poetic community this past Wednesday! This month we featured the multi-faceted, multi-talented, multi-fabulous Cj Critt! We knew this was surely gonna be a feature to remember. And was it ever! If you were there, you know what we mean. If not, well, you snooze you lose!
Then your hosts Johnny O and MH Clay got to callin' all the mad poets, musicians & a few other miscellaneous mad ones in the Lounge to come & strut their mad stuff! A couple never-before-seen faces mingled with the usual mix of mad suspects you expect to see on our 1st Wednesday mad romp. And romp it we did! Mad Swirlin' thanks to ALL the mad ones that came to participate, to appreciate...
(all photos courtesy of Dan Rodriguez
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. COMING in February James “Bear” Rodehaver!
Fo' mo' info visit our open mic page 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...
Understandin’
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
Madelyn Olson
Visual Editor
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