swirl issue 1
DESCRIPTION
an online zine & chapbook pressTRANSCRIPT
issue 1 november 2014
swirlissue 1
editor: lars palmcover design: Petra Palm (aka social photographer)
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in this issue
a short note on what & howPansy Maurer-Alvarez
6 poemsEric Dickey
Train 19: Atlanta to TuscaloosaEileen R. Tabios
I Forgot the Exploded World Coming Down Like Rainlars palm
(hastings)
short note on what & how
a new online zine. do we really need that? & does the answer to that question really matter? i've edited blog zines before & enjoyed it immensely. the contact with to me previously unknown poets doing cool things. giving some little thing back to a community that is so patient with my scribbles. & yes. we really do need another online zine. swirl will focus mainly, though not exclusively, on poetry, including translations of living & consenting poets. i also welcome comics, vispo, stories (crime is more than welcome), non-academic essays, reviews of newish small press poetry (chap)books & music with a bias toward anarchists, punk in all its permutations & whatnot. Issues will be published when i (your undemocratic editor) deem there is enough good material. & if some ambitious person sends enough good stuff there's the possibility of a single author issue (aka chapbook). send your finest unpublished, in any form, things & keep in mind that the format is A5. &, as usual, if i like it i publish, if i reject i'm only one editor with his own odd taste & not an objective judge on quality. yes. & now invade that inbox atswirleditorATgmailDOTcom our first issue features 3 lovely poets & persons & myself. have fun with it
Pansy Maurer-Alvarez
DEFINITION
roll a coconutdown the stairs
it’s the sound of a word
POEM
a mouth slip
noonday view
unusual with his hands
desire way below
because you’re in such a hurry
with a full belly
belie
you will settle for
the sky misspells water again
and you wanted a noonday view
SONNET (1)
The detachment of the feminine was
red & sultry a day gone by
Youthfully rounded she laughed & asked
It was the kind of rhythm that feels pretty nice
What could I do but visualize
the sense that each Goodbye & God Bless You
would fall into 2 parts
1 of which would pull me down
There was no one around
the day I heard something drop
into my own country, I’m obliged
that I must consider her
remember now in black & white
that look of surprise, those earrings
SONNET (2)
to think that the dance in already contained
in the presence of our bodies
that we are the gesture and the verb
the word takes up space
the word takes up time
the verb, the fall and its recovery
song and poetry, balance, dance and circus
how fast the key to light and sound can slip
away, touch as we might our worldly possessions
as if in answer to a wish to not
love afterwards, again or anything
dance cannot be contained in reason
static silence will finish off this space
I wince and I feel scared
SONNET (3)
O briar rose here’s your mirror
and my hand here the flower
and the berries Sinews of rain
in what tranquil axis tree
touching morning in a compatible presence
for a moment etching a scarce shortage
on the filaments of reason
There was someone lying there unattended
in turbulence in dailyness
in the elegant full circle of the self
Meanwhile overheard a slip of doubt
rises up yet within plate glass
enclosures lies the curvature of stillness
THE CABINET OF HUMAN PASSIONS IS MEASURED
show me that case, show me
your body first smile
smile open your palms, palms up
give me the palms up of your ears
tango your hands on head
hair in the way
given the palms up there, no your ears are gone
so your eye laughs black
in its gold setting
there’s someone caught in there
smoke and a violin solo
breathing pink
the rest is fictitious
Eric Dickey
Train 19: Atlanta to Tuscaloosa-after lars palm
the rambling man two seats behind me talks to himself:“when the helicopter crashed the white and black peoplecame out black in Fort SamFort Sam Houstonthe silver bullet was named‘a penny silver’
a green colored Trojan schoolthe color of my barberthe fake cowboy
last Mondayhe gave out $50 then added up to R & K. A, R, T & Kand he saved it cleanI thought he said ‘the machine’”
the rambling manruffles passengersthey ask to moveto different seats
out the window
kudzu over a playground slide and swing trellis
linemen in the heat
red dirt road
speckled sunlight
speckled forest
the rambling man still talksbut I tune him out
train crossingred trucka Ford1972
the forest floor a speckled leopard
cleared fields
old white snag pokes out the middle
a rock crop with holes
we’ve arrived in Alabama
the words of the poetthe natterings of the rambling manthe clattering of the train tracksinterpreting the scriptureof the landscape through the picture windoware one and the same
another train startles mewhen it rushes past my window in the opposite directionjust inches from my face
a freshly painted fire hydranthalf-circle cut around itin the kudzu
pine glen shooting range
blue garbage cans
rusty red roofs
trailers, trailers, trailers
a patch of corn
there are books in my bag but the landscape readsfrom left to right like a ticker tapethat will only stop at Anniston and Birminghamstreaming like the rambling manaltogether a more interesting book
a culvert circle under the roadat noon marks the half way
basalt columnslean like clock hands
after the stop at Annistonthe window scrolls by the history of war since 1941
Abrams tanks
Patton tanks
transporters
Sherman tanks
the grounds around war memorials are like the newly shaved heads of new recruits
the tanks and jeeps stain the earth with greasespots that darken the red clay
the rambling man:“I used to read to kidswhen I went to prisonthey was gonna lie about what I did”
after the war machinesthe forest takes overand the kudzu matted like dreadlocksreturns a feeling of calm
bounding deer
a stag and a doe
a white egret huntingthe edge of a pond
a council of refrigerators
canisters of welding gas
bales of cardboardstacked like bricks behind a mill
Cooks Spring Tunnel
the urge to nap takes overlike a tunnel
I nod off to
the zigzag Zs of fire escapes on the old abandoned buildings of Birmingham
a waking dream
orange propane pipesrising from the groundwill only take a sparkand we will surrender to the powerof Earth
welders dismantletrain equipment
stacks of train axles
piles of scrap
rusty springs
black mud
black water puddles iridesce
the rambling man stopped talkingand I only just noticed
people on porchesno longer waveat passing trains
their children wave
children connect usto the mystery beneath the lawn
the stop and start of the trainthe stop and start of the landscapescripture in the picture window
the start and stop of the rambling man:
“that’s why I don’t worry about you allI don’t worry about your daughterswhat does that have to do with me?if I always look the other waywhy do I always feel wet?”
the train engine howlsGinsberg would approve
he rides the engine like a tricyclehis black beard furls backin the breeze shows the skin of his chinlike a cleave lets us see in
the rambling man is quiet againI look back to see he sleepshe drank three beersand now he sleeps
and only the slight whisperybabbling of giggling childrenripples in the current
of the great southern mythof the single kudzu vinethat grows from Atlantato New Orleans in one runner
it grows along the train tracks
it grows along the power linesthe linemen try to clear
it grows under the red clayjust beneath the surface
it grows disconnected like the rambling man
it networks and networksand networks
until it capturesthe fish of disbeliefthat swim in my stomachin my fishbowl stomach
the train arrives at my destinationI hurry to exitand utter the mythunder my breath “Alabama” which means “I’ve cleared the thicket”
I am snared in its pile of trimmingsthat lie like a dark warrior under the trainand curl around my ankles demanding my surrender
I read the place sign as I step onto the platformsummoning Black Warrior himself I breathe his name as if asking for mercyas if crying “uncle” to an uncle:“TUSCALOOSA!”
Eileen R.Tabios
I Forgot the Exploded World Coming Down Like Rain
I forgot curtains.
I forgot injected air bubbles.
I forgot October mornings with their light of gold and blue so stark they resuscitated anyone.
I forgot wanting to see sky above her cheekbones instead of a mirror reflecting the killer inside me.
I forgot cheekbones so high they were like horizons.
I forgot a detective looking at me with encyclopedias as eyes.
I forgot brown and yellow grass trapped in mud without evoking a precious stone like amber.
I forgot a limp laundry line, almost invisible in the grey air.
I forgot the world going up in smoke and coming down like rain.
I forgot the musk of a stolen wool coat.
I forgot sleeping on a traffic island on a highway near Lyon.
I forgot the days when I wished for just a bit of Heaven.
I forgot intention is a form of focus, at times control.
I forgot a dirty river glittering underneath the false life I created with no intention.
I forgot time slowing into a taut agony.
I forgot the laughter of weary men as they shared a wicker-covered
bottle.
I forgot long lines of Arab workers in cheap suits attached to small bundles.
I forgot too many hot and dusty evenings at train stations.
I forgot the enchanting glow emanating from a murderer’s eyes.
I forgot the tiny woman with huge buckteeth her lover used as a bottle opener.
I forgot rain becoming thick.
I forgot lighting candles but not saying Grace.
I forgot the Frenchman cooking horsemeat in blood, wine and garlic while lecturing on techniques for making plastique.
I forgot sighting a bloodied face through a cracked windshield, and moving on.
I forgot seeing sky as the sea and sea as the sky.
I forgot strolling outside to hear trees murmur.
I forgot the row of prone people on the remains of mattresses.
I forgot the dank air around a man, belt wrapped around one arm, heating a spoon.
I forgot the hollow man in a basement collecting water as it dropped from a corroded hole.
I forgot summer clarified by sitting on a stone embankment on an ancient street: suddenly heat rushed out of the evening!
I forgot the town where all women possessed supple thighs.
I forgot feeling more far away than the moon over Ferris wheel.
I forgot the bare arms that defined “summer browned.”
I forgot the stench of spilled wine.
I forgot the fair where I learned loud carnies overpower reason.
lars palm
(hastings)
continuing the breakfast habits of contemporary europeans we get to the french abroad with one of them removing most of the bread from inside a bun before adding cheese & salami while another one cuts open a water melon with a tableknife
last days of april parched streets oblivious of shakespeare & company advising ”be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise”
mark my words with a red & black marker pen & then forget them & if this is a guide you may shape it yourself & it most certainly isn't about politics this time
how about we draw a drinkable cup of coffee for that toothpaste thief sentenced to turn around to face a blood moon
iridium flash
foaming at the mouth of a laughing dog leaping down a flight of stairs at a kid on an electric skateboard or a burning math book
this is how you destroy that which destroys you
i hate maths though i like cooking my family & my pets & how to put words on a town so amorphous & a population so difficult to envision anywhere else?
this door is a jar of red table wine
not to mention those mansions down on millionaires row where those millionaires come & go not thinking of michelangelo
whispering i have no god live with it
is it the day that's random?
or a car called khaled
probably not the same one who planted a large patch of garlic in the park & then spent the night as a bar owner in some small mexican town
at the bottom of the drink list ”molotov cocktail for outside use”
so tell me how does being sentenced to 500 years in prison for a 500 page poem need any more context than that?
distill the life that's inside of me
serve in a nice glass
hold the ice & enjoy out of reach of the surprisingly bright spring sun
or these hardcore bosnians on tour having driven from tuzla to paris to watch their national football team beat france in the final european qualifier being slightly less expansive when we returned to the hotel at about 1.30 a.m
this plane forced to land in england by farting cows
learning fragments of another local language
& that public transport system forced karl & friedrich to move a handful of yards to the east
& the sweet madness in planning a high speed railway line from north east china to the continental u s
loop zero
this is how you argue safely
this is how your face gets cut into cubes
this is how you barbecue your self
your shelf returns seasons seasoned without authority
& of course mr. science works with making robots cooperate with humans in factories & of course the studies include violence
& time to tune that piano in the corner & steal that guitar for the book is handed out for free
& the road side littered with walking dead
& her constant paranoia
every weapon is a tool
& all the people who built that pyramid
& oi the punks are with us
& the first gang of the day marching from the square
& habitats painted red
& that tv squeezed into a corner between couch & chair & covered with pillows & blankets
& talk of agony & revolution
& all cops are bastards & once again they showed that
& all these people facing the same book
& going left of the roses & what's left of the roses
& kangaroos fighting in the street
& a mouth chewing trees
in the quiet area no one is allowed to breathe or even scribble in the old fashioned way
& my hand became a monster again
& he's quite sure he imagines
& if his memory serves him well he never saw the rather large banner saying petra ich liebe dich in real (such as it is around here) life
be tray
meanwhile in istanbul a poet who camped for weeks in ghezi tells a reporter that lemon is good for those tear gas bombs
how about that green bulb near the periphery of your vision?
waiting in the shade to get in & start making paella
waiting in the shadows to turn someone into a paella
asking if this is election or erection day
the rule of vengeance
should you dream of anyone i know, give them my regards
the rule of law
the various laws of physics & the jungle throwing its legislators to the lions who look disdainfully at them & return them for you to enjoy irresponsibly
getting that brogue in order
in my rebellious youth i
wait i'm still heading into it
we are the soma mine explosion killing upward of 300 workers
you must fear your new shoes
we are formaldehyde
it speaks with forked tongues
it uses tongues as forks in the road rather than planting them in the spine of a not fictional dog
& we can only speculate how but the sun sent the clouds running
but oh the horror
hindu fascists win this election in india
& northern europe votes their fascists into the european parliament
while the south voted left & spain said we can
we are everywhere
this lady letting her twin daughters run some of their excessive energy off in the sunny square
& suddenly they get 15 afghan teenage sons
& suddenly they reap the blue lights & go to market
& suddenly they don't quite know what to do with the voices down in the streets at 1.30 a.m on a warm thursday night
& suddenly they decide to cut the cat in half just be cause they can
instead of opening another can of worms lest they find themselves by a quay fishing & finishing loading that ship with their catch of the day
light saving sanity
don't try to get out of your face
it seems your face wants to keep you
through another town with no discernible name on another open road tail lights snake off ahead in to another entertaining day into another mountain pass
passing the friday unaware bakunin had his 200th birthday as if he cared
yet 2 attentive anarchists celebrated him
we are oppositional defiant disorder
we are running down that hill
& what to do with that piece of string?