“I cannot write poetically, for I am no poet. I cannot make fine artistic phrases that cast light and shadow, for I am no painter. I can neither by signs nor by pantomime express my thoughts and feelings, for I am no dancer; but I can by tones, for I am a musician.”
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
••• The Mad Gallery •••
••• The Poetry Forum •••
This last week on Mad Swirl’s Poetry Forum… we went where we go for a really good show; we enjoyed imagination of a girl at the station; we gnawed on the boneses of catching the Joneses; we played with the fire of touch and desire; we shivered in the show of a brush with the blow; we remembered the leaves from the myth of trees; we settled sublime in the squeak of time. The tick of the tock can clear our block. Write like the time is more than our talk… ~ MH Clay
Everything in the Room by Peycho Kanev
Rusty tea kettle,
tablecloth with birthmarks,
cockroach with tiny suitcases.
A dog that kicks in his sleep
and eats the falling snowflakes.
(His tail is tied in a knot.)
In the rocking chair there’s a heart
that no longer exists.
The old woman sprinkles hemlock in the cauldron
on the stove and whistles forbidden song.
Well, this is it my child,
all fairy-tales begin like this.
The sunset falls in the window.
Time squeaks and hides
January 26, 2019
editors note: When, once (if not twice) upon a time, the bread crumbs followed themselves. – mh clay
SUBVERSIVE SCRIBBLE: 2069 by Tony Gentry
I’ve tried to imagine trees.
Thin giants with boisterous heads
mirrored in down-reaching roots
and filmy almost translucent
solar panels unfurled along their limbs.
A protective layer called bark
sometimes scaly or it could be smooth as skin.
And their only movement was in growth
each year of the sun adding a ring of width
some meters to their up yearn
to the sky and down stretch in the nourishing soil.*
They lived as long as (some longer than) we do.
Cradled all sorts of mythical beasts – beetles,
bees, a quick thing called a squirrel, even those
with feathery wings and twiggy toes.**
But let’s focus just now on the one
tree and then another near it.
Some say they spoke among themselves
feeding oxygen to the sky their aspiration
a gift of breath to us oh here we go again.
Why do all my musings come back
to this our crime? To learn too late
what we might have known all along
that recollection cannot match the
thing remembered. That death
comes slowly until it doesn’t. That
more goes with the rustling of leaves
than their undeciphered whisper.
I can almost imagine a tree.
*Next week’s imaginative reflection.
**See annual celebration of Earthian Nature.
January 25, 2019
editors note: What’s concrete now, becomes concept later; when later is too late? That’s subversive! – mh clay
B.S. (Before Sobriety) by S. A. Gerber
‘This is bull-shit’,
I thought to myself,
as this burned out
record producer poured
most of my ‘blow ski’ into a
vial of water and baking soda.
When it had coagulated
into solid form,
I took a hit from a
small glass pipe…
got the fear!
The others took to it like
flies to shit and started
handing him their vials.
I needed air.
I stepped out on the balcony.
There was a girl passed out in
a lounge chair, whom I didn’t
even bother to try and wake.
In the cool and clear of the
evening I could see the LA skyline
from Boyle Heights downtown to
Santa Monica Beach.
I opened my shirt against the
misty-cool night in an attempt
to un-alter myself.
When I could swallow again it
took me over a pint of Scotland’s
finest to feel normal again.
No more of that crap…
This could lead to ruination.
I didn’t touch that shit again…
even when it became fashionable.
January 24, 2019
editors note: Sometimes, it takes “the fear!” – mh clay
The desire… by Kristina Krumova
The desire to touch me
The desire to touch myself
and the smell of…rain
in the plural
And let’s not meet our glances
The expectation is sweeter in the dark
Guess what my taste is
Look for the moans
Collect my sweat in your cupped hands
in order to find me again
And let’s repeat everything
January 23, 2019
editors note: To find a love, lost and forgotten? Let’s dance to that… – mh clay
The Heretic Yawned Away Their Anger by Paul Tristram
… after spitting disgust into the eye of Convention.
With brain upon a different plane,
he ‘Followed The Lead’ nowhere.
Sitting upon a solitary rock
with defiant back to the herd animals…
scratching at his own ankle
made much more sense
than arguing the obvious merits of individualism.
‘Manicured Lawns’ are obscene’ he mused…
and ‘The Joneses’ an idiot-circle
where both energy and money are channelled
into a merry-go-round of petty pointlessness.
An honest-to-god unique thought
would cripple some folk
and frighten to death most others within their vicinity.
Pets, and Slaves, and Hurdles, and Stepping Stones…
the Rules were made up by people already in Power.
Blind pawns in another man’s game…
I use the word ‘No’ in its true meaning,
and refuse to dilute the Magic in my beautiful Soul,
jigsaw-piece fitting myself into a Machine
which has no room for personal meaning nor feeling.
January 22, 2019
editors note: And, still, a poet can pull poetry from the maw of the machine. What rhymes with ‘Joneses?’ – mh clay
Dignity in Loving [comma] by David Susswein
catching a glimpse
a train window smear
catching a glimpse
that certain face
her golden hair, prism’s light
divided against itself
magazine posters or dreams of avarice
the watched watching briefly,
girls and men stumble
pushing prams and talking,
casting poses for attention
pausing for the world to take note,
have i seen the face before?
been caught looking,
uneager to return the stare
doubt and uncertainty,
make my heart beat faster,
struggling to be free
she wore a cocked hat, that
certain parting of her hair;
copied in posters, hairdressers,
the train leaving the station,
she does, she turns to look up at me,
i am nothing more
gossiping mothers, children skipping
awaken world! the dull green
and useless lives, the
cemented over aerodrome,
future’s promise in childhood so
sweet, ages sour in this the year
into an introspection of a printed
circuit, appearance is being;
the stars as curtain decorations
on the permanently falling stage,
drift away from me; for i am not moving
wave to me? leaving, leaving.
January 21, 2019
editors note: Oh, to be more; to be exclamation point, noticed and taken away for more than the day. (We welcome David to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay
Beatin’ The Bishop (into submission) by Randall Rogers
once in a while
put away all the
the guns and knives
lock the door
turn off the lights
light the candles
get the snacks
smoke the bong hits
watch retro T.V.
you were (and her)
and enjoy some
really good shows.
January 20, 2019
editors note: A good show. If you can’t be one, then might’s well see one. – mh clay
••• Short Stories •••
If the Need-a-Read feelin’ is strong today, aim your mouse right over here & pull the proverbial trigger on this week’s featured short story at Mad Swirl, “He Did Not Shoot the Deputy“ by longtime Contributing Writer & Poet Carl Kavadlo!
Here’s what Short Story Editor Ty Malone has to say about this straight-shootin’ story:
One song, one fight at a time, we try to punch ourselves into history and out of the past.
If anyone questions your mouse move, just tell ’em, “Reflexes got the better of me / And what is to be must be”…then aim your cursor here and get your read on!
••• Mad Pics •••
Mad Swirl has been usin’ Flickr’s FREE database for years now to document our Open Mic photos (4,532 in 74 albums to be exact!). Now they wanna be paid lest we risk losin’ 3,532 of Dan Rodriguez‘s mad mic snaps. Needless to say, we paid! So, IF you’ve ever graced our stage, there’s a great chance your mug has been captured. Come check out our photostream and have a look-see…
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…
Swirlin’ it UP,
Short Story Editor