Eat the Storms – The Podcast Podcast – Episode 6 – Season 3

A great episode with info on upcoming projects with us at Fevers of the Mind. Thanks to Damien Donnelly and Eat the Storms Podcast. Listen to them all.

eat the Storms

Podcast available on Spotify, Google Podcasts, Apple Podcasts, Anchor, Breaker, Player FM, Radio Public, OverCast, PocketCast, CastBox, ITunes, Podbean and many more platforms.

This episode aired first on Saturday 31st July 2021. The guests were Matthew Rice, Ellie Rees, Andy Brechenridge, Susan J Farese and Champion Things, produced and hosted by Damien B. Donnelly. Below are details and links to all the guest stars…

Susan Richardson

Matthew Rice was born in Belfast. Poems have appeared inPoetry Ireland Review, Asheville Poetry Review, The Dark Horse, The Tangerine,and in the anthologiesThe Best New British and Irish Poets 2017(Eyewear), andHold Open the Door: The Ireland Chair of Poetry Commemorative Anthology(UCD Press / University of Chicago Press). He was awarded runner-up for the Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing 2017, and was selected for the Poetry Ireland Introductions Series the same year. He was the recipient of a…

View original post 1,527 more words

3 new poems by Michael Igoe : “The Way of A Hero” “Tunnel Vision” & “Human Intervention”

The Way of A Hero

Certain castes tend to agree                                                                                                                     to own a certain anonymity.                                                                                                                     Though its lessons may sag                                                                                                                           it continues outlining plans.                                                                                                                                It no longer ages,                                                                                                                                               it plays all things                                                                                                                                                                         closer to the vest.                                                                                                                                                     Not extreme,                                                                                                                                            nor exuberant.                                                                                                                                They got that spirit                                                                                                                                                  of cautious departure                                                                                                                              from an ill lit corridor.    

Tunnel Vision 

Using glass eyes                                                                                                                                                    you fill the roles                                                                                                                                                                                             of  missing eyes.                                                                                                                                                                         Both will be judged                                                                                                                                                                                                           by rhythmic method                                                                                                                                                     in older swan songs.                                                                                                                                   Songs of Adam,                                                                                                                                           those from Eve.                                                                                                                                                                One precedes another                                                                                                                               in two separate gardens.                                                                                                                                  We made a decision                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     completely dead set                                                                                                                                               against their slander.    

Human Intervention

As you entered,                                                                                                                                       you were saying,                                                                                                                                      “We carry baggage                                                                                                                                                from the living years.”                                                                                                                                It’s the meaning                                                                                                                                                      of living in sin.                                                                                                                                                You know I am the one                                                                                                                                                                                             who gave you a cornet.                                                                                                                          But it’s been ages                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      since you played it.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  You stored in a crate                                                                                                                                       with the grease guns.                                                                                                                                                        Marked as property                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       of the Christ Child.                                                                                                                                          Its later posed in secret                                                                                                                                 alongside a steel guitar.         

  A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Michael Igoe 
          
 Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor's Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.                                                              

A new short poem by Sarika Jaswani

Untitled poem

Life a sartorial dress of tan, blue and green
breast bony breaths in laced corset cinched

A gala of joy and woe, foxtrot to rhythm
two beats slow and step, two counts quick

Spirited I roll in some such way as
tumbleweed reliably waltzing with the breeze

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Sarika Jaswani (artincrochet)

Bio: Doctor by profession. I’m a Crochet Artist, Art Tutor Writer of Children’s Stories, Philanthropist. Poet. Published. Passionately reads & writes poetry. Art Lover. Bird lover. Dreamer and blogger.Published on ‘Tide Rises Tide Falls’ & on Medium with A Cornered Gurl @ACG @Scittura

Fevers of the Mind Poetry on WordPress

Silver Birch Press

The Organic Poets

A frequent VSS prompt writer on twitter

My poems run on theme of love, reflection and philosophy of life.

ArtinCrochet on Twitter @sarikajaswani



A Book Review for Stuart Buck “Blue the Green Sky” review by Matthew da Silva

There are places people go to when they use their minds, places like poems that furnish them with the material they need to escape the bounds of mortality. Stuart M. Buck’s poems are either long or short in this collection, they use humour of an incisive brand to pare away the scales that lie over your eyes and once they have been removed you can perhaps see the poet laughing beside you like a statue of Bhudda you can think about buying online when the mood takes you to browse.

A Welshman, Buck gives you something to think about, something that will not only break the tedium of web surfing, but that provides open windows through which to view a world of contradictions. The role of sex, for example, is paradoxical. In ‘dear richard’ the narrator talks to a neighbour or a friend – someone he knows well enough to look after his house while he’s out of town – and tells him caustically that he’s “fucking your wife” but in ‘midnight in prague’ a different narrator imagines, as he’s walking around the eastern European city, that a woman is following him (“her scent a whisper, her taste. her taste. I burn for it.”) But then he thinks about infinity, as if the thought of the possibility of a strange woman following him around a strange city makes his imagination take flight and soar.

Humour works to temper such transcendent impulses, as happens in ‘rejection letter to the crow that just flew into my bedroom window’ which needs little to accompany it as the main gist of the poem is cemented in the title. Yet even while commiserating with a bird that came to an unpleasant end, the narrator celebrates the creature’s “innocence” and recognises “the delirium of flight” as something that he wants and, perhaps, dreams of. Is this the same thing the poet uses to anchor the unreality of sex and desire? In the longer poem his avatar muses, “i feel sad. these buildings deserve more than to be fucked, impregnated by moneymakers and endless tourist traps.” He wants more.

The problem of physicality the poem about the crow also contains is not resolved here but in other places the poet gains altitude and seems to leave the earth – or is this an illusion? In ‘tom waits and an infinite softness’ a trope the poet sometimes uses – global warming – arises at the outset but it’s immediately subsumed in the minute progress of imagination’s random ephemera that graze the consciousness of the narrator as she daydreams – it might be a bad trip she’s experiencing – but then, “suddenly i knew things i never knew before and i was in love and i had lost and i was in every moment of every life”. The dry evidence of a shared life on a lonely planet – the awareness of impending disaster – mutates without any interruption into contemplation of the divine.

This is the measure of this poet’s achievement. It’s there in the Prague meditation as well, in the way, at the end of that poem, he is tangling with things that cannot have a voice because they are too fragile even for words, things as hard to even think of, like infinity, which sits smiling beyond imagination. But still the poet tries to express what it looks, feels, and tastes like. “to feel infinity is, i believe, to place your thumbs over the eyes of a ghost. to feel the soft, giving eyeballs below. to have the power to end the sight of another, but instead to feel the flitting, papery wings of their dreams.”

At the other end of this spectrum is a hard-nosed and blank humour, almost humourlessness, as in ‘cat’ (which opens the collection): “on my way to kill myself i met / a very friendly cat” and as the narrator turns, deviating his progress along the street – the cat is probably one of those sociable felines that sits on walls in the sun waiting for passersby to stop and stroke them – he thinks about the universe. As you would if you were, for some outrageous instant, thinking of putting an end to your life. And what does the man think? He thinks, “we are all decomposing slowly / so that is of some comfort”. This is dead, stone cold but then you get the feeling that this flash of awareness has helped the narrator to get through another tortured moment. Perhaps there is a God and on this day the eternal deity just happened to take the form of a roadside moggy?

An interview with Stu Buck of Bear Creek Gazette

A Book Review of Alan Parry “Neon Ghosts” A Review by Matthew da Silva

Many of the poems in this collection are very short and are designed to capture a single lived moment where memory and experience merge in the flux of consciousness. When I was reading I was trying to place the poet geographically – was he British? American? (he’s British) – and so had to search for his name online but the universality of these observations of life is what strikes the reader, the poet’s ability to reach inside you as you scan each short line, picking up the referents and passing them to the mental synapses in your brain.

If there’s a narrative set up within this fragmentary world it’s one of the night in a foreign place, such as we find in the eponymous poem (‘Neon Ghosts’) in which, it appears, a man and a woman are getting ready to go out for dinner. The man is in the living room going about his business and the woman is in the shower getting ready. The man occasionally stares vacantly at the TV, which is on, and catches brief sequences of segments aired for viewers throughout the city. A politician is caught up in a scandal. The politician is a neon ghost but what about the man and the woman? Are they, also, something like ghosts? It seems, as a reader, that they might be indeed – and then what about me who’s writing this review about a book which contains a poem with, embedded in it, like a flash of lightning, three particular, vivid neon ghosts? What’s real and what’s just a stray phenomenon like a thought?

Where is the boundary between fiction and reality? The ephemeral nature of existence is catalogued in this relatively long poem. In ‘The Scene’, which is much shorter, an almost fictional America is imagined by the poet, a place “Stuart Davis knew” with “skyscrapers in / technicolour” full of “gas pumps” and “rooftops” that is “in full swing”. As in the first poem I talk about, here Parry economically reaches into the reader’s subconscious and drags out images that “belong” to a particular place at a specific point in time. Stuart Davis, a painter inspired by jazz, is a signal referent that pulls you back to the middle of the last century, a time when America’s place in the world was still being negotiated.

Perhaps it was a more innocent time because it came before all of the struggles of the second half of that century, but because of the link to now-still-popular artforms, it was perhaps a time when the soul of the nation was nevertheless cemented in the global imagination. Or else it’s because of the struggles of the second half of the century that the achievements of an earlier age finally came to be celebrated. What’s important is that the ideas the poet places in words are also inside the reader. A brief, mediated connection is made that links minds. All of the special resonances evoked by the name “America” suddenly rise up like ghosts to inhabit the room where the reader sits, focused on the grey page.

The dark energies of humanity are also canvassed, for example in ‘God’ and ’15:30’ – poems that appear conveniently on facing pages. A theme opened in ‘Neon Gods’ takes flight in ’15:30’ where “young daughters in / green pencil skirts & / high socks / hold their knees close” while boys stand watching them on the opposite corner. The shopkeeper is like a guardian in this dynamic scene that is fresh as a bird’s wing and just as swift, being over almost before it’s begun. In ‘God’, the man who’s focalising the narrative is “watching women walk under speechless green trees” and because of where this poem sits in the collection – right opposite the one already mentioned – you’re left wondering what is given to the reader to contemplate without speech.

The underbelly of society is exposed and the position of America – almost as if the name had been tattooed on life – is a refrain the poet keeps returning to like a memory of a tune heard in a commercial that aired in a hotel room while he was waiting to go out for dinner with his girlfriend. Though he thinks about getting into the shower he knows that there’s no time for monkey business – they have a reservation – and so he contents himself with daydreaming. In his mind old jazz tunes mix with the neon ghosts that are his brothers and sisters.

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Alan Parry

Poetry/Sonnet by Matthew da Silva : On my Way to New England