The Best of Mad Swirl : 08.10.14
”Poetry is always slightly mysterious, and you wonder what is your relationship to it.” Carl Jung
••• The Mad Gallery •••
(photo courtesy of Johnny O)
••• The Poetry Forum •••
Mad Swirl attended a magic, magnificent, mind-expanding, mojo-mixing and momentous event from July 31 through August 4, in Fermoy, County Cork, Ireland. We had six of our North Texas Swirlers go over there to meet many other poets from around the world. We thought it fitting to resume our weekly Mad routine with this, Mad Swirl's Retrospective on the 3rd Annual Fermoy International Poetry Festival. We wanted to share with all of you lovers of the Swirl some of the poets we were privileged and inspired to hear over there.
Polly Munnelly from Ireland, Tsead Bruinja from The Netherlands, Brendan McCormack from Ireland, Daniel Roy Connelly from England (currently residing in Italy), Michael Corrigan from Ireland (and Contributing Poet to Mad Swirl), Saskia Stehouwer from The Netherlands, and Gene Barry from Ireland (Festival Chairman and Contributing Poet to Mad Swirl) presented poems, which represent a slice of the poetry pie we were served at the Festival; though only a slice, it's plenty for all. So, eat up & let the feast begin!...
Letter to self
‘The life we live is rarely the life we were given.’ Oscar Wilde
Denial perched on my heart,
I didn't know this, couldn't have.
It arrived days when inside
my little frame and head
my dictionary had only
white pages and when pain
had nudged me on to
a tangent of self sabotage.
Those lumps of anguish encased
in childhood blindness grew into
mountains of inabilities and rejection,
steering my mother adult to dole out
the oozing jealousies and torments
to a clean new generation.
I never witnessed the brand new
small frame and head torments,
the construction of new tangents, yours.
Today in this word of no heartbeats
I have reassembled my broken heart
and wake to the freedom that is peace,
to the pain that is remorse,
the aftermath of cruelty and rejection
and live in the hope and relief
that when you wake today
it will all be gone.
Forgive me please.
- Gene Barry
editor's note: With no past comes no forgiveness (nor guilt). Thanks, Gene! - mh
we will send no one to bed
draw me a fish
so that I can see what your hands are doing
draw me a fish
we won't teach anyone to stand up for old ladies
we will not select the right schools
we can eat whenever we want
no one will argue with us
draw me a tree
so that I can see where your feet are
draw me a tree
no one will say their first word to us
no one will walk the way we do
we come up with names on paper
draw me a house
our time has a clear look in its eyes
there is space in our heads for an extra bed
our ears spread their arms
we reposition
we do not miss
- Saskia Stehouwer
editor's note: Always seeking recognized points of reference; always dealing with ever changing signs. Yes, draw me... - mh
Wulf Nation (xi)
We became our own Cromwell,
learned the harshest lessons best,
our parishes hermetically sealed
with the national valve of non-return,
an island people on its knees
turned inwards from the heathen world.
We sang piety
in to each other’s face,
loved the pope and JFK,
all wavy hair and well-made teeth,
his one hand on the bible,
his other hand on his heart,
his blue eyed twinkle firmly fixed,
on Marilyn’s curvaceous breasts.
Times moves on
but doesn’t change,
Wulf remains our go-to guy
on how to fear and steal the light,
while at the gates
of the house of pain,
death takes a selfie.
- Michael Corrigan
editor's note: Self-absorbed, self-destroyed, selfie; trending now... (Two more gems from Mick on his page; passages on Cain not found in Genesis...) - mh
Sweat! by Roy
My latest parfum,
irresistible in the ad,
shirtless, ragged,
strafing the Sicilian sand
like a Caliban or something,
seaweed strands glued
to my triceps, pecs,
chestnut hair sun bleached
and matted thick with dreads.
Vulnerable. Clamorous.
Poseidon beached.
Head framed by the known world
my blowfish lips whisper
philosophies of love
straight to camera:
Je ne suis pas humain.
Je suis phéromone.
- Daniel Roy Connelly
editor's note: Aha! The best way to portray the essence of your brand is to BE the essence. Je suis, je suis, je suis... - mh
The Huge Motherfucking USS JFK Came
We made chips all night while the hookers
And local ladies ignoring local fuckers
Lay down for the brave men of the jfk
Moored off dun laoghaire
And the local boys wanked alone in empty rooms
Like forgotten heirlooms
Women swooned and told husbands to fuck off
As they charged after the white suited sailor men
And at 5am stinking of fish
And burned oil
I turned and said
We’ve no more fucking chips
Ya imperial bastards, go home!
And so another year went carried away
By an aircraft carrier
That had loomed like death
Out there in our little bay
and perhaps
Some war
Had been delayed and some violence disturbed
By our brave, wet and willing local birds.
- Brendan McCormack
editor's note: The stimulation of economies, fueled by randy carrier rats; coming and going... (mostly coming). - mh
AN UNWANTED VISIT
visiting a friend in prison
a friend who killed 16 people 9 of them children
visiting a friend who once tried to make you laugh
visiting a friend in hospital
visiting a family without knocking
visiting a family with a gun in your hand
visiting a family as punishment for your mortgage
your fallen comrades two tall buildings
the fear in the eyes of your unborn sons
visiting a friend with empty hands
no painting no banner no forgiveness
visiting a soldier
who risked his life
hoped for a better future and left
everything behind
visiting a soldier
whose widow won't enjoy his pension
for whom no salutes will be fired
above a cemetery
visiting a mother with a flag
who knows that the light of the stars in the blue night
can be blown out from one day to the next
visiting the widow of a murderer
- Tsead Bruinja
editor's note: The visitor's queue is open every other Thursday and on bank holidays. Inmates get no time off for good behavior. - mh
Full Moon
If time stood still
It would be the perfect calm,
No storm could build
Push
Or rush in.
If time failed to tic,
While quietness played
Lulling perfect calm - I’d wake
Lie in moon beams,
Watch light dance through darkness,
When all’s hushed
Except for cows!
Fucking noisy cows
One's always out of sync
Higher pitched, gurgling as if squeezed,
Is it choking on regurgitated time?
Lone fox calls, echoing. Almost duets.
Everything stills, mad dogs come to heel
Low grumbling growls meander,
On guard - In case she knocks - Wailing.
- Polly Munnelly
editor's note: Lowing, barking, moon up high, growls beneath; still for time, calm forever... - mh
••• Short Stories •••
We here on the Mad Swirl staff are giddy with this week’s featured short story! So much so, they just might lock us up for our ecstatic madness and maniacal laughters!
The latest addition to our short stories library, "The Boy Who Laughed Too Much" is by longtime contributing poet and author, Doc Mel Waldman and is a gem of the bestest kind! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about this pick-of-the-week short story… "Laughter is the best medicine because it's damnation: it's us, loving ourselves to death." Here's a tickle to get you smilin':
No one really knew him. He was just a 20-year-old kid who sat in a corner and didn’t speak; another mental case and a mute. When he arrived, one of the psychiatric aides introduced him to me. I said hello and forgot about him immediately.
Then the rumors spread. I heard three of them.
First, the boy swallowed a bottle of pills and OD’d. They pumped his stomach in some ER, sent him to a psyche ward, and transferred him to us.
Second, the boy took LSD and had a bad trip. Which kind did he use? Well, again, I heard three different truths. He took sugar cubes or maybe Orange Sunshine acid or blotter paper LSD. Who knows?
Third, the kid witnessed some horrific event and went berserk. He ran naked in the streets and screamed, “Murder! Murder! Murder!” until the cops restrained him and shipped him off to a mental ward. You hear all kinds of stuff here.”
They call this place The Haven. It’s real beautiful here. I mean, we’re out here in the countryside. The grounds are gorgeous, the lawns manicured, and you can play almost any game you wish-tennis, ping pong, basketball, baseball, and mindf---ing; whatever you wish. Personally, it’s like a dead end street to me. I hate it. Can’t wait till they give me a weekend pass.
Hold it.
Did that get a smirk outta ya'? No? Well then you best get the rest of your read on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Although it's not polite to say "We told you so!" we're sayin' it anyway!
This past 1st Wednesday at "Mad Swirl featuring... Justin Booth" was absolutely everything we'd hyped and hoped it would be... and MORE! Justin's outlaw poetry grabbed us by the b@lls and made us longing for more! Huge THANKS to the Justin for trekking our way from Lil Rock!
And big ol' thanks to all who came to Absinthe Lounge to appreciate & participate in our mic madness. Each and every one of you Mad Ones out there made last night one of THE best in recent memory.
Thanks to ALL the wonderful poets and musicians who shared their words, their verses and their fine light with us. t'was a fine night to be alive and in our Mad Swirl world. In case you missed this Mad action, here is a visual the line-up of who was who…
(photos courtesy of Dan Rodriguez. to see 'em all, visit our flickr page)
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of September (aka 09.03.14) at 8:00 sharp, when we will swirl it up madly in the LIVE way that we do every month. Get to the Lounge early, dig upon the musical musings of Swirve and this month's feature, Dallas Poet, R.A. Hernandez!
Come one, come all! Mad poets, musicians, actors, singers, circus freaks and Elvis impersonators... come-n-strut-yo-stuff. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. Here's the line-up for the rest of 2014!…
October: Kerseymere
November: Karen X
December: Paul Koniecki
•••••••
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...
Wonderin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
••• The Mad Gallery •••
••• The Poetry Forum •••
Mad Swirl attended a magic, magnificent, mind-expanding, mojo-mixing and momentous event from July 31 through August 4, in Fermoy, County Cork, Ireland. We had six of our North Texas Swirlers go over there to meet many other poets from around the world. We thought it fitting to resume our weekly Mad routine with this, Mad Swirl's Retrospective on the 3rd Annual Fermoy International Poetry Festival. We wanted to share with all of you lovers of the Swirl some of the poets we were privileged and inspired to hear over there.
Polly Munnelly from Ireland, Tsead Bruinja from The Netherlands, Brendan McCormack from Ireland, Daniel Roy Connelly from England (currently residing in Italy), Michael Corrigan from Ireland (and Contributing Poet to Mad Swirl), Saskia Stehouwer from The Netherlands, and Gene Barry from Ireland (Festival Chairman and Contributing Poet to Mad Swirl) presented poems, which represent a slice of the poetry pie we were served at the Festival; though only a slice, it's plenty for all. So, eat up & let the feast begin!...
Letter to self
‘The life we live is rarely the life we were given.’ Oscar Wilde
Denial perched on my heart,
I didn't know this, couldn't have.
It arrived days when inside
my little frame and head
my dictionary had only
white pages and when pain
had nudged me on to
a tangent of self sabotage.
Those lumps of anguish encased
in childhood blindness grew into
mountains of inabilities and rejection,
steering my mother adult to dole out
the oozing jealousies and torments
to a clean new generation.
I never witnessed the brand new
small frame and head torments,
the construction of new tangents, yours.
Today in this word of no heartbeats
I have reassembled my broken heart
and wake to the freedom that is peace,
to the pain that is remorse,
the aftermath of cruelty and rejection
and live in the hope and relief
that when you wake today
it will all be gone.
Forgive me please.
- Gene Barry
editor's note: With no past comes no forgiveness (nor guilt). Thanks, Gene! - mh
we will send no one to bed
draw me a fish
so that I can see what your hands are doing
draw me a fish
we won't teach anyone to stand up for old ladies
we will not select the right schools
we can eat whenever we want
no one will argue with us
draw me a tree
so that I can see where your feet are
draw me a tree
no one will say their first word to us
no one will walk the way we do
we come up with names on paper
draw me a house
our time has a clear look in its eyes
there is space in our heads for an extra bed
our ears spread their arms
we reposition
we do not miss
- Saskia Stehouwer
editor's note: Always seeking recognized points of reference; always dealing with ever changing signs. Yes, draw me... - mh
Wulf Nation (xi)
We became our own Cromwell,
learned the harshest lessons best,
our parishes hermetically sealed
with the national valve of non-return,
an island people on its knees
turned inwards from the heathen world.
We sang piety
in to each other’s face,
loved the pope and JFK,
all wavy hair and well-made teeth,
his one hand on the bible,
his other hand on his heart,
his blue eyed twinkle firmly fixed,
on Marilyn’s curvaceous breasts.
Times moves on
but doesn’t change,
Wulf remains our go-to guy
on how to fear and steal the light,
while at the gates
of the house of pain,
death takes a selfie.
- Michael Corrigan
editor's note: Self-absorbed, self-destroyed, selfie; trending now... (Two more gems from Mick on his page; passages on Cain not found in Genesis...) - mh
Sweat! by Roy
My latest parfum,
irresistible in the ad,
shirtless, ragged,
strafing the Sicilian sand
like a Caliban or something,
seaweed strands glued
to my triceps, pecs,
chestnut hair sun bleached
and matted thick with dreads.
Vulnerable. Clamorous.
Poseidon beached.
Head framed by the known world
my blowfish lips whisper
philosophies of love
straight to camera:
Je ne suis pas humain.
Je suis phéromone.
- Daniel Roy Connelly
editor's note: Aha! The best way to portray the essence of your brand is to BE the essence. Je suis, je suis, je suis... - mh
The Huge Motherfucking USS JFK Came
We made chips all night while the hookers
And local ladies ignoring local fuckers
Lay down for the brave men of the jfk
Moored off dun laoghaire
And the local boys wanked alone in empty rooms
Like forgotten heirlooms
Women swooned and told husbands to fuck off
As they charged after the white suited sailor men
And at 5am stinking of fish
And burned oil
I turned and said
We’ve no more fucking chips
Ya imperial bastards, go home!
And so another year went carried away
By an aircraft carrier
That had loomed like death
Out there in our little bay
and perhaps
Some war
Had been delayed and some violence disturbed
By our brave, wet and willing local birds.
- Brendan McCormack
editor's note: The stimulation of economies, fueled by randy carrier rats; coming and going... (mostly coming). - mh
AN UNWANTED VISIT
visiting a friend in prison
a friend who killed 16 people 9 of them children
visiting a friend who once tried to make you laugh
visiting a friend in hospital
visiting a family without knocking
visiting a family with a gun in your hand
visiting a family as punishment for your mortgage
your fallen comrades two tall buildings
the fear in the eyes of your unborn sons
visiting a friend with empty hands
no painting no banner no forgiveness
visiting a soldier
who risked his life
hoped for a better future and left
everything behind
visiting a soldier
whose widow won't enjoy his pension
for whom no salutes will be fired
above a cemetery
visiting a mother with a flag
who knows that the light of the stars in the blue night
can be blown out from one day to the next
visiting the widow of a murderer
- Tsead Bruinja
editor's note: The visitor's queue is open every other Thursday and on bank holidays. Inmates get no time off for good behavior. - mh
Full Moon
If time stood still
It would be the perfect calm,
No storm could build
Push
Or rush in.
If time failed to tic,
While quietness played
Lulling perfect calm - I’d wake
Lie in moon beams,
Watch light dance through darkness,
When all’s hushed
Except for cows!
Fucking noisy cows
One's always out of sync
Higher pitched, gurgling as if squeezed,
Is it choking on regurgitated time?
Lone fox calls, echoing. Almost duets.
Everything stills, mad dogs come to heel
Low grumbling growls meander,
On guard - In case she knocks - Wailing.
- Polly Munnelly
editor's note: Lowing, barking, moon up high, growls beneath; still for time, calm forever... - mh
••• Short Stories •••
We here on the Mad Swirl staff are giddy with this week’s featured short story! So much so, they just might lock us up for our ecstatic madness and maniacal laughters!
The latest addition to our short stories library, "The Boy Who Laughed Too Much" is by longtime contributing poet and author, Doc Mel Waldman and is a gem of the bestest kind! Here's what Short Story Editor Tyler Malone had to say about this pick-of-the-week short story… "Laughter is the best medicine because it's damnation: it's us, loving ourselves to death." Here's a tickle to get you smilin':
No one really knew him. He was just a 20-year-old kid who sat in a corner and didn’t speak; another mental case and a mute. When he arrived, one of the psychiatric aides introduced him to me. I said hello and forgot about him immediately.
Then the rumors spread. I heard three of them.
First, the boy swallowed a bottle of pills and OD’d. They pumped his stomach in some ER, sent him to a psyche ward, and transferred him to us.
Second, the boy took LSD and had a bad trip. Which kind did he use? Well, again, I heard three different truths. He took sugar cubes or maybe Orange Sunshine acid or blotter paper LSD. Who knows?
Third, the kid witnessed some horrific event and went berserk. He ran naked in the streets and screamed, “Murder! Murder! Murder!” until the cops restrained him and shipped him off to a mental ward. You hear all kinds of stuff here.”
They call this place The Haven. It’s real beautiful here. I mean, we’re out here in the countryside. The grounds are gorgeous, the lawns manicured, and you can play almost any game you wish-tennis, ping pong, basketball, baseball, and mindf---ing; whatever you wish. Personally, it’s like a dead end street to me. I hate it. Can’t wait till they give me a weekend pass.
Hold it.
Did that get a smirk outta ya'? No? Well then you best get the rest of your read on here!
••• Open Mic •••
Although it's not polite to say "We told you so!" we're sayin' it anyway!
This past 1st Wednesday at "Mad Swirl featuring... Justin Booth" was absolutely everything we'd hyped and hoped it would be... and MORE! Justin's outlaw poetry grabbed us by the b@lls and made us longing for more! Huge THANKS to the Justin for trekking our way from Lil Rock!
And big ol' thanks to all who came to Absinthe Lounge to appreciate & participate in our mic madness. Each and every one of you Mad Ones out there made last night one of THE best in recent memory.
Thanks to ALL the wonderful poets and musicians who shared their words, their verses and their fine light with us. t'was a fine night to be alive and in our Mad Swirl world. In case you missed this Mad action, here is a visual the line-up of who was who…
(photos courtesy of Dan Rodriguez. to see 'em all, visit our flickr page)
Join Mad Swirl this 1st Wednesday of September (aka 09.03.14) at 8:00 sharp, when we will swirl it up madly in the LIVE way that we do every month. Get to the Lounge early, dig upon the musical musings of Swirve and this month's feature, Dallas Poet, R.A. Hernandez!
Come one, come all! Mad poets, musicians, actors, singers, circus freaks and Elvis impersonators... come-n-strut-yo-stuff. Come to participate. Come to appreciate. Come to be a part of this collective creative love child we affectionately call Mad Swirl.
AND, as you may or may not know, every 1st Wednesday we get all giddy with the swirlin' madness. Here's the line-up for the rest of 2014!…
October: Kerseymere
November: Karen X
December: Paul Koniecki
•••••••
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...
Wonderin’,
Johnny O
Chief Editor
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
Tyler Malone
Short Story Editor
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