The Best of Mad Swirl : 05.17.14
”I see too deep and too much.” Henri Barbusse
••• The Mad Gallery •••
permanently bummed (above) by featured artist Madelyn Olson. To see more Mad works from Madelyn, as well as works from our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we separated the cream from the curd, engaged in the business of words; we succumbed to a chef's sensibilities presented in bite-sized morsels; we strode through the strife of a hero's struggle (mother fueled, rightly ruled); we kindled a flame in stone enshrouded, ignited the flesh of a multitude crowded; we wound our way above wind and storm, found a haven safe from harm; we hoved o'er honey, held our breath, untouched by funny; we found fulness filled full throttle, romance rended from a bottle. We are winos, all; lustful, luscious life enthralled. Drink deep this defining draught. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
CHEAP DATE
Wining the afternoon away
With my favourite girl Chenet
And her, some random bottled red
Love is a bottle of fun which
Girls bring when visiting me
We drink it down until it’s gone
With wine come women
Lovely, full-bodied, red but cheap
My utter favourite of both of these kinds
- Bradford Middleton
(2 poems added 05.17.14)
editor's note: Why discard a working model for the sake of PC? (If you feel you need an apology, Bradford offers one on his page; check it out!) - mh
honey seconds
keep it short and full of sugar
stir the air with your finger and your elbows and your hips and always dance with the broom
stand like my mother at the stove with the day in her forehead
bake me as fast as you can
inhale because you can't stand metaphors
exhale because you can stand
exhale because your lungs are not in pieces
exhale because you are capable
stir with your finger
stand like a mother
exhale
i could list off the reasons as to why i want you to keep breathing but
"keep it short, and full of sugar"
- Annie Winder
(added 05.16.14)
editor's note: That's a sugar rush for everyone; sweet seconds, thirds, forevers... - mh
AMONGST THE UMBRELLAS
She wants to fly amongst the umbrellas
up there she feels the wind
and winds around the globe
Mary Poppins ain't got nothing on her
if only she could reach further up
there might be something she could grasp
tangible...solid...some kind of answer
back on the ground she had stretched
her body...her arms...as high as they
could go...and so she flew...a joy
seeped into her being that she
could not even describe if she tried
she feels light...lighter than the air
around her...it blows her around
and she is traveling further than
she has ever been...it is a little bit
frightening to have cast all fate
to the wind...and yet the wind
is soft around her like a warm
friend's embrace...and so she
knows deep in her heart that
she will be safe...but the questions
still rise as she rises and they will
not fade until worry leaves her
brow...up and up she soars above
all the uncertainty...and hunger for
any answer...above the conflicts
that plague her societies below
she notices a quiet reverence
taking place inside this kind wind
as if she is in the eye of all
turmoil swirling below her...she is
satisfied that she will ride this one
out...and find herself somehow
she wanted to fly amongst the umbrellas
and so she did
- James Downs
(added 05.15.14)
editor's note: So light, so high. No question could justify this answer. - mh
The Poor Crowd
At Last, the poor crowd was made calm
in a mysterious night,
the witness - the moon, was compelled to
hide behind the escaping clouds,
flushing a course of darkness in the sky;
an owl - the other witness,
sitting on the top of a banyan tree
sneaked, swinging the old leaves to shed down.
In the previous scene,
amid the encircling crowd -
hungry, thirsty, disturbed and agitated,
icy and hard was the mountain,
provoked the crowd to
set ablaze a flame of unrecognised emotions,
causing the melting of the icy mountain into
a few streams and fountains -
the blessings for meeting
hunger and thirst of the crowd.
Alas! The haughty mountain was merciless -
featured by devilish cruelty and destructive anger,
erupted fountains of fire and streams of lava
and engraved the poor crowd - hopeful for a new morning,
under the burning blanket of death in that cursed night.
- P.K. Deb
(1 poem added 05.14.14)
editor's note: Pompeii or apocalypse; poet or prophet? Hmmm... (We welcome P.K. to our raucous ranks of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page.) - mh
Your strength
When I parted from thee,
My separation was thy very own.
When I came back after defeating oppressor,
Oppressed came to thee to give their thanks.
Ah! Mother at last they come to know;
My bravery was thy strength.
- Tenzing Sherpa
(added 05.13.14)
editor's note: Mother, father, family, race; credit where credit is due. - mh
In coherence.
Writing a poem
for a submission, succinct
I try my words to appear –
stylish, bare-less, brisk,
like baked-crisps they snap
in classy (as can be), proving
like a piece of bread, set
aside like a soliloquy in play
of the protagonist, not vice
versa; verses drizzle runny
missing flour and yolk
to hold together the contents
of an otherwise crumbling
(edible) delicacy.
I take myself out
of the kitchen, figuratively
of course, return a pint
of sense to the ledge
by the larder, housing
a few empty jars (airtight)
that once contained
secrets to cooking
a wordy piece.
I snap all my cookies
caught helplessly
in a cicada of exchanges
between my head and fingers,
refresh, reboot, restart,
fall into error, turn
off, I drift into sleep.
- Sheikha A.
(added 05.12.14)
editor's note: All poets, if not chefs, are gluttons; drowsy after a sumptuous stuff-fest. - mh
A Writer’s Credo
This business of words
can make you either
prosperous or bankrupt
depending
on the purpose
with which you propel
the weight of your investment.
First, lay out to yourself
your portfolio of intentions:
the wish to use your gift
to open paths beyond your own gain
that they may moor
your world
to some state more secure
invested in eternal currencies
of truth, benevolence and high-
mindedness.
Choose to eschew
the handling of your assets
with uncaring self-
interest. Learn
from past deficits
how mindless speculation
is like throwing seeds
on famished ground.
Know how words are not just
discardable appellations,
how they thrive munificently
in clearest,
purposeful minds.
- Rina Angela Corpus
(1 poem added 05.11.14)
editor's note: Those slippery little things have life - watch how you speak'em. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
We here at Mad Swirl know exactly what you need. You. Need. A. Read. And this week’s featured story is a real pisser! No really, it is. Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Yellow Whiz, Cracking Concrete" by Addie Soaraki: "When all you want to do is get the poison out of you, just know that some poisons are our own concoctions." Here's a taste to get the stream movin’…
At least Joe did get to see Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon on cable. Sure. He was a movie buff from way back. And yes, while the Ang Lee cinematic display, an American-Chinese-Hong Kong-Taiwanese co-production, seemed vaguely entertaining with its goofy, Photoshop-eradicated tension cables that indeed allowed the chop-saki actors to swiftly glide from building to building in The Forbidden City of yore, that aspect of the entertainment seemed hokey to Joe, private and up-close film critic of solitude out there on the outskirts of Chicago.
Crimony. Joe’s excuse for an efficiency had dirty carpets of beige, tattered walls, some with fist indentions that indicated, at least to the critic, domestic abuse by past tenants, all high-drama and out-of-control anger over nothing, he figured, nothing more than the dude yelling, “STELLA!” in the cinematic version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but what the hey? At least Joe, a fast-food cashier at a huge Wal-Mart, had him a place to go.
Don’t hold it… just go! Get the rest of your read 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...
Seein’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
permanently bummed (above) by featured artist Madelyn Olson. To see more Mad works from Madelyn, as well as works from our other contributing artists, please visit our Mad Gallery.
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum... we separated the cream from the curd, engaged in the business of words; we succumbed to a chef's sensibilities presented in bite-sized morsels; we strode through the strife of a hero's struggle (mother fueled, rightly ruled); we kindled a flame in stone enshrouded, ignited the flesh of a multitude crowded; we wound our way above wind and storm, found a haven safe from harm; we hoved o'er honey, held our breath, untouched by funny; we found fulness filled full throttle, romance rended from a bottle. We are winos, all; lustful, luscious life enthralled. Drink deep this defining draught. ~ MH Clay
Just in case you missed it, here's a taste...
CHEAP DATE
Wining the afternoon away
With my favourite girl Chenet
And her, some random bottled red
Love is a bottle of fun which
Girls bring when visiting me
We drink it down until it’s gone
With wine come women
Lovely, full-bodied, red but cheap
My utter favourite of both of these kinds
- Bradford Middleton
(2 poems added 05.17.14)
editor's note: Why discard a working model for the sake of PC? (If you feel you need an apology, Bradford offers one on his page; check it out!) - mh
honey seconds
keep it short and full of sugar
stir the air with your finger and your elbows and your hips and always dance with the broom
stand like my mother at the stove with the day in her forehead
bake me as fast as you can
inhale because you can't stand metaphors
exhale because you can stand
exhale because your lungs are not in pieces
exhale because you are capable
stir with your finger
stand like a mother
exhale
i could list off the reasons as to why i want you to keep breathing but
"keep it short, and full of sugar"
- Annie Winder
(added 05.16.14)
editor's note: That's a sugar rush for everyone; sweet seconds, thirds, forevers... - mh
AMONGST THE UMBRELLAS
She wants to fly amongst the umbrellas
up there she feels the wind
and winds around the globe
Mary Poppins ain't got nothing on her
if only she could reach further up
there might be something she could grasp
tangible...solid...some kind of answer
back on the ground she had stretched
her body...her arms...as high as they
could go...and so she flew...a joy
seeped into her being that she
could not even describe if she tried
she feels light...lighter than the air
around her...it blows her around
and she is traveling further than
she has ever been...it is a little bit
frightening to have cast all fate
to the wind...and yet the wind
is soft around her like a warm
friend's embrace...and so she
knows deep in her heart that
she will be safe...but the questions
still rise as she rises and they will
not fade until worry leaves her
brow...up and up she soars above
all the uncertainty...and hunger for
any answer...above the conflicts
that plague her societies below
she notices a quiet reverence
taking place inside this kind wind
as if she is in the eye of all
turmoil swirling below her...she is
satisfied that she will ride this one
out...and find herself somehow
she wanted to fly amongst the umbrellas
and so she did
- James Downs
(added 05.15.14)
editor's note: So light, so high. No question could justify this answer. - mh
The Poor Crowd
At Last, the poor crowd was made calm
in a mysterious night,
the witness - the moon, was compelled to
hide behind the escaping clouds,
flushing a course of darkness in the sky;
an owl - the other witness,
sitting on the top of a banyan tree
sneaked, swinging the old leaves to shed down.
In the previous scene,
amid the encircling crowd -
hungry, thirsty, disturbed and agitated,
icy and hard was the mountain,
provoked the crowd to
set ablaze a flame of unrecognised emotions,
causing the melting of the icy mountain into
a few streams and fountains -
the blessings for meeting
hunger and thirst of the crowd.
Alas! The haughty mountain was merciless -
featured by devilish cruelty and destructive anger,
erupted fountains of fire and streams of lava
and engraved the poor crowd - hopeful for a new morning,
under the burning blanket of death in that cursed night.
- P.K. Deb
(1 poem added 05.14.14)
editor's note: Pompeii or apocalypse; poet or prophet? Hmmm... (We welcome P.K. to our raucous ranks of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page.) - mh
Your strength
When I parted from thee,
My separation was thy very own.
When I came back after defeating oppressor,
Oppressed came to thee to give their thanks.
Ah! Mother at last they come to know;
My bravery was thy strength.
- Tenzing Sherpa
(added 05.13.14)
editor's note: Mother, father, family, race; credit where credit is due. - mh
In coherence.
Writing a poem
for a submission, succinct
I try my words to appear –
stylish, bare-less, brisk,
like baked-crisps they snap
in classy (as can be), proving
like a piece of bread, set
aside like a soliloquy in play
of the protagonist, not vice
versa; verses drizzle runny
missing flour and yolk
to hold together the contents
of an otherwise crumbling
(edible) delicacy.
I take myself out
of the kitchen, figuratively
of course, return a pint
of sense to the ledge
by the larder, housing
a few empty jars (airtight)
that once contained
secrets to cooking
a wordy piece.
I snap all my cookies
caught helplessly
in a cicada of exchanges
between my head and fingers,
refresh, reboot, restart,
fall into error, turn
off, I drift into sleep.
- Sheikha A.
(added 05.12.14)
editor's note: All poets, if not chefs, are gluttons; drowsy after a sumptuous stuff-fest. - mh
A Writer’s Credo
This business of words
can make you either
prosperous or bankrupt
depending
on the purpose
with which you propel
the weight of your investment.
First, lay out to yourself
your portfolio of intentions:
the wish to use your gift
to open paths beyond your own gain
that they may moor
your world
to some state more secure
invested in eternal currencies
of truth, benevolence and high-
mindedness.
Choose to eschew
the handling of your assets
with uncaring self-
interest. Learn
from past deficits
how mindless speculation
is like throwing seeds
on famished ground.
Know how words are not just
discardable appellations,
how they thrive munificently
in clearest,
purposeful minds.
- Rina Angela Corpus
(1 poem added 05.11.14)
editor's note: Those slippery little things have life - watch how you speak'em. - mh
••• Short Stories •••
We here at Mad Swirl know exactly what you need. You. Need. A. Read. And this week’s featured story is a real pisser! No really, it is. Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone has to say about this pick-of-the-week short story, "Yellow Whiz, Cracking Concrete" by Addie Soaraki: "When all you want to do is get the poison out of you, just know that some poisons are our own concoctions." Here's a taste to get the stream movin’…
At least Joe did get to see Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon on cable. Sure. He was a movie buff from way back. And yes, while the Ang Lee cinematic display, an American-Chinese-Hong Kong-Taiwanese co-production, seemed vaguely entertaining with its goofy, Photoshop-eradicated tension cables that indeed allowed the chop-saki actors to swiftly glide from building to building in The Forbidden City of yore, that aspect of the entertainment seemed hokey to Joe, private and up-close film critic of solitude out there on the outskirts of Chicago.
Crimony. Joe’s excuse for an efficiency had dirty carpets of beige, tattered walls, some with fist indentions that indicated, at least to the critic, domestic abuse by past tenants, all high-drama and out-of-control anger over nothing, he figured, nothing more than the dude yelling, “STELLA!” in the cinematic version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but what the hey? At least Joe, a fast-food cashier at a huge Wal-Mart, had him a place to go.
Don’t hold it… just go! Get the rest of your read 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...
Seein’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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