The Best of Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum : 03.14.10
“I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop.” Jack Kerouac
Fluidity (above) by the featured artist Tray Drumhann, one of over 20 resident artists currently being displayed in Mad Swirl's eclectic Mad Gallery.
•••••••••••
Just in case you missed it, here's just a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
This Beast
the part I find compelling
is how the longer you read
any poet
the more familiar the face
the more haunting its trace
of pain
of obese suns
of immaculate thoughts
& sunset depressions
& constant compressions
of a life often misunderstood
of pure absolution
but, no lingering audiences
& no gathering mobs
& it often leaves me sad of Bukowski
because, I want to be the one
to tell him that I understand
why his beast comes in the afternoon
or why the bluebird makes him fight
& I want to be the one to tell Lorca
That his gypsy heart still beats
& those constellations still argue with the war sky
because, I want to be the captain verse
in a Neruda song,
I want to sail on a bruised ship
bound for Grenada
with an aching bluebird in my belly
navigating unconquered stars
& steering my beast
in the afternoon…
© December 05, 2009
Rafael Andrade Garza
(1 poem added 03.14.10)
editor's note: Yes, Yes, I want this beast, too! Tell me how you cooked that bluebird, or did you swallow him, feathers an' all? - mh
•••••••••••
STATE OF THE STATE
I’ve got more fingers
than there’s farms,
more toes than there are
wooded hills.
Long gone are
the yellow forsythia,
the cottonwood trees,
the picnic benches.
Many are the
reasons there’s
only new graveyards
not old ones:
money, bulldozers,
politicians, and what
the hell do with all
this garbage.
And, sure
there’s still a pond or two,
brown as the muck
they dump in them.
They chopped down the forest
to put up a Mental Hospital.
After all,
why stop at one lobotomy
John Grey
(1 poem added 03.12.10)
editor's note: Here's a sweet slap of sensibility. Thanks for the wake-up, John! - mh
•••••••••••
...AND THE CHILDREN WILL EAT THEIR FATHERS ALIVE
...and the weak will dance
a
death of human compromise
an
illegitimate cry
however great the sound in size
and the clocks will burn their hands in time...
...and the bored will sodomize
every
inch of field that the martyrs yield
salting
every flower growing out the spine of hell
then the atoms beat upon the walls of their cells
and everything under the sun does melt into one...
...and the sperm is dispersed from
a
male's entrails and the egg
grows to beg
and the infant weeps or at least the unlucky ones survive
just as their fathers before them
...and the children will eat their fathers alive
you're all in the clouds
just
fucking each other
Nicholas Martin
(added 03.11.10)
editor's note: Who's to say what shall come from what? Such proclamations, we are told, brought our universe into existence, while also predicting its demise. So, this poet has done the same. We have been pulled into his universe. Do we worship? Or rebel? - mh
•••••••••••
Status Quo
I grow tall from where I stand now.
Rivers of whiskey, vodka and wine,
thousands of cigarettes.
Still
aching for the Word.
30 years.
And I grow taller.
Hundreds of poems,
awful lot of problems, fights, wrangles,
poverty, starvation, homelessness, lovelessness,
and small flashes of happiness.
Living on three continents,
eager for the Word.
Only 30 years,
still growing.
Emigration,
alienation,
solitude.
Half of my life is gone.
All of my love is ready for donation.
Hundreds of read books,
speaking four languages,
and still…
My fingers are itchy,
my heart hurts,
my soul drifts
for the Word.
The Poetry is my fix.
Peycho Kanev
(3 poems added 03.10.10)
editor's note: We hear again from our Bulgarian friend. He is aching for the Word, while bringing it to us. How strange it is that all the healers are never healed. Get your fix here, and wish one for him. - mh
•••••••••••
EMPRESS OF AGONY
The gum on the window
Runs casually
As her aging broomstick charges the ceiling
Maddened
By the shaking
Of the box springs
The parade
Moves on
The broomstick
SCREAMS
A hostile challenge
Naturally
Justin Test
(added 03.09.10)
editor's note: This is the natural outcome of mad broomsticks confronted by parades? This is a strange dream from gum on the window? I don't know what this is, except it twangs a twisted chord somewhere deep in my the cortex. Someone tell me why... - mh
•••••••••••
Autumn Shade
Would I’d slept where another man wept
Where another man had this leaf
And ‘thin this spring where lullabies sing
I beckoned for her sheath
I gazed at her
Dressed in Ermine fur
She walked and talked of the time
And then she’d say
I’ the middle of day
That she just can’t be mine
I fell to my knees,
And I begged her, “Please!”
But my pleas fell on deaf ear
Another man had come to seize
The hand of my maiden dear
Would I’d leapt where another man kept
Where another man had this she
And in this spring where lullabies sting
I cried and could not be
Julien Edmund Moss
(added 03.08.10)
editor's note: Love lost to another, presented with such whimsy. This poet knocks that whole traumatic experience down to size. - mh
•••••••••••
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 poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be there!
Swirling To the Beat,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“...and everything is going to the beat - it's the beat generation, it be-at, it's the beat to keep, it's the beat of the heart,
it's being beat and down in the world...” Jack Kerouac
Fluidity (above) by the featured artist Tray Drumhann, one of over 20 resident artists currently being displayed in Mad Swirl's eclectic Mad Gallery.
•••••••••••
Just in case you missed it, here's just a taste of the poetry we featured this week in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum...
This Beast
the part I find compelling
is how the longer you read
any poet
the more familiar the face
the more haunting its trace
of pain
of obese suns
of immaculate thoughts
& sunset depressions
& constant compressions
of a life often misunderstood
of pure absolution
but, no lingering audiences
& no gathering mobs
& it often leaves me sad of Bukowski
because, I want to be the one
to tell him that I understand
why his beast comes in the afternoon
or why the bluebird makes him fight
& I want to be the one to tell Lorca
That his gypsy heart still beats
& those constellations still argue with the war sky
because, I want to be the captain verse
in a Neruda song,
I want to sail on a bruised ship
bound for Grenada
with an aching bluebird in my belly
navigating unconquered stars
& steering my beast
in the afternoon…
© December 05, 2009
Rafael Andrade Garza
(1 poem added 03.14.10)
editor's note: Yes, Yes, I want this beast, too! Tell me how you cooked that bluebird, or did you swallow him, feathers an' all? - mh
•••••••••••
STATE OF THE STATE
I’ve got more fingers
than there’s farms,
more toes than there are
wooded hills.
Long gone are
the yellow forsythia,
the cottonwood trees,
the picnic benches.
Many are the
reasons there’s
only new graveyards
not old ones:
money, bulldozers,
politicians, and what
the hell do with all
this garbage.
And, sure
there’s still a pond or two,
brown as the muck
they dump in them.
They chopped down the forest
to put up a Mental Hospital.
After all,
why stop at one lobotomy
John Grey
(1 poem added 03.12.10)
editor's note: Here's a sweet slap of sensibility. Thanks for the wake-up, John! - mh
•••••••••••
...AND THE CHILDREN WILL EAT THEIR FATHERS ALIVE
...and the weak will dance
a
death of human compromise
an
illegitimate cry
however great the sound in size
and the clocks will burn their hands in time...
...and the bored will sodomize
every
inch of field that the martyrs yield
salting
every flower growing out the spine of hell
then the atoms beat upon the walls of their cells
and everything under the sun does melt into one...
...and the sperm is dispersed from
a
male's entrails and the egg
grows to beg
and the infant weeps or at least the unlucky ones survive
just as their fathers before them
...and the children will eat their fathers alive
you're all in the clouds
just
fucking each other
Nicholas Martin
(added 03.11.10)
editor's note: Who's to say what shall come from what? Such proclamations, we are told, brought our universe into existence, while also predicting its demise. So, this poet has done the same. We have been pulled into his universe. Do we worship? Or rebel? - mh
•••••••••••
Status Quo
I grow tall from where I stand now.
Rivers of whiskey, vodka and wine,
thousands of cigarettes.
Still
aching for the Word.
30 years.
And I grow taller.
Hundreds of poems,
awful lot of problems, fights, wrangles,
poverty, starvation, homelessness, lovelessness,
and small flashes of happiness.
Living on three continents,
eager for the Word.
Only 30 years,
still growing.
Emigration,
alienation,
solitude.
Half of my life is gone.
All of my love is ready for donation.
Hundreds of read books,
speaking four languages,
and still…
My fingers are itchy,
my heart hurts,
my soul drifts
for the Word.
The Poetry is my fix.
Peycho Kanev
(3 poems added 03.10.10)
editor's note: We hear again from our Bulgarian friend. He is aching for the Word, while bringing it to us. How strange it is that all the healers are never healed. Get your fix here, and wish one for him. - mh
•••••••••••
EMPRESS OF AGONY
The gum on the window
Runs casually
As her aging broomstick charges the ceiling
Maddened
By the shaking
Of the box springs
The parade
Moves on
The broomstick
SCREAMS
A hostile challenge
Naturally
Justin Test
(added 03.09.10)
editor's note: This is the natural outcome of mad broomsticks confronted by parades? This is a strange dream from gum on the window? I don't know what this is, except it twangs a twisted chord somewhere deep in my the cortex. Someone tell me why... - mh
•••••••••••
Autumn Shade
Would I’d slept where another man wept
Where another man had this leaf
And ‘thin this spring where lullabies sing
I beckoned for her sheath
I gazed at her
Dressed in Ermine fur
She walked and talked of the time
And then she’d say
I’ the middle of day
That she just can’t be mine
I fell to my knees,
And I begged her, “Please!”
But my pleas fell on deaf ear
Another man had come to seize
The hand of my maiden dear
Would I’d leapt where another man kept
Where another man had this she
And in this spring where lullabies sting
I cried and could not be
Julien Edmund Moss
(added 03.08.10)
editor's note: Love lost to another, presented with such whimsy. This poet knocks that whole traumatic experience down to size. - mh
•••••••••••
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 poetic conversations going on in Mad Swirl's Poetry Forum? Then stop by whenever the mood strikes! We'll be there!
Swirling To the Beat,
Johnny O
Editor-in-chief
MH Clay
Poetry Editor
“...and everything is going to the beat - it's the beat generation, it be-at, it's the beat to keep, it's the beat of the heart,
it's being beat and down in the world...” Jack Kerouac
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