Poetry: Crack of the Wind by David L O’Nan (From Lost Reflections)

Crack of the Wind

With a crack of the wind
The moans bend over a shaking house
A winter’s bruise is calmed by the warmth of love
The healing began when the coagulation broke
And the freedom of mind rested the demons,
The fears, the endless end
Now, there is hope in a gust of wind
Instead of inevitable destruction

Hard Rain Poetry Anthology U.S. Link https://tinyurl.com/2p938cy8 International links on this page. https://feversofthemind.com/2022/06/23/hard-rain-poetry-forever-dylan-anthology-available-today/   

Available Now: Before I Turn Into Gold Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology by David L O’Nan & Contributors w/art by Geoffrey Wren 

 Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.

Poetry: The Crow by Kushal Poddar

The Crow

A crow needles together
the shadows and the reflections.
The railings stir in the puddle.
The portico crumbles on the water
and reconstructs itself.

All blur a little. All come alive.
The rain-torn clothesline
wires a knotted s.o.s
from a shirt, forgotten, left behind,
towards the kin to the dead.

"Will you be not-lonely again?"
Caws the crow.
I thumb through the literary precedent,

Bio -
An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, works as a journalist. He authored eight books and has been translated into eleven languages across the globe.

Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
Find and follow him at amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet

Poetry Showcase from Jayanti Biswal Behuria (translated by Pitambar Naik)

The Farmer’s Daughter

Till yesterday I was thinking your body was 
too hard; your intelligence was solid as the soil
shedding the blood and sweat where you can
grow plants, bear fruits and bloom flowers
but then you never possess the tactics of 
hoarding the grains in the barn, never 
your pain oozes like the water 
your eyes never know the dishonest sun. 

When the darkness is encompassed 
in the cleave of the mountain and you hang 
yourself one day in the bough of a tree
without letting someone know 
I’m a daughter of this country, the daughter of 
a farmer, I burst out for you when you are
thrashed by the rain, but why
the lights are expelled from your ways 
potholes are dug in your way, the four 
directions are surrounded by barbed wire.

When the entire country sleeps in the fear of 
the virus you awake in pain for reaching rice 
to every mouth, you remain steadfast and say
if you die, die but not because of hunger 
when you become so strong like the floor 
making all the trickery futile, you stand up raising 
your shoulder, I smile even from the periphery 
of death as I’m the daughter of a farmer.


Hunger blazes on the edge of the train lines
hunger blazes on the premises of the temple 
and in the shanties below the darkened slum
in the corner of the hearth place hunger blazes.
There’s no sleep in the eyes to extinguish 
this hunger; nothing can be availed for free here
not even a word; to compensate I can give only 
the fragile body, if you want to take it, 
I’ll pour it out into your hands—-oh, hunter. 

How can you understand the torture of hunger?
Can a dog understand?
When my child spread his hands in uncombed 
shagged hair or soiled clothes in wriggling pain 
in hunger, you take back your legs frowning your
eyebrows and the same feet spend sleepless 
nights in my shanty; I can’t see anything in front 
of hunger, as it snatches food from the mouth of 
my child; and can sell me—-to the enemy. 

If it goes, let my body go, if I watch over the 
body, my death is apparent and then my body 
will be eaten up by the vultures and crows
in the whirlpool of hunger, I’m just a small twig—-
quite helpless; hunger forces me into the 
darkness away from the light; my stomach 
doesn’t understand anything—-caste, religion 
or morality which I should refrain from! 

The Faces Resemble God are not of God's

If someday, you are asked to leave the house
no matter who the person is
spitting a lump of phlegm, come out, no issues
purify the tears in the fire holding in your palms
make your fist strong, time is very cruel. 
I’ve not become a shoulder for anyone
wherever the daybreaks, he lives there 
the mild darkness is no less enigmatic than 
this street alleyway, I threw a fist of moonlight
set your feet seeing the speed of the wind
your activeness is the thorn in someone’s throat 
if you are a silly girl, your road goes to hell
for sure. Whether you’re a class 9th girl 
or a girl  who has never gone to school
whether your age is fifteen or fifty, it doesn’t 
matter to them; no matter how thick is your cloth
the unsatiated tongue can pierce up to the 
lower abdomen, wherever you go disguised 
people are watching your way, once you fall in 
their hands they’d just swallow you; the 
faces resemble god's are not of god's, just 
construe soon and return back towards life.

War of Life

Let the head go off or the chest crack
let the last drop of blood drip from the heart 
every thoughtful war, taking the larger 
responsibility to descend on a resilient shoulder
a war can begin in a house and can go 
to set the highest mountain peak on earth on fire
and can wipe out the lights from all the roads
with blooming trees. 

The outrage goes on flag marching 
barefoot in silence too, nevertheless, 
the unwavering courage and a chest 
like the blood-pooled floor, both are needed 
if you have to fight then learn how to prolong 
the war first and the disciplines for it.

Whether he takes or gives the head, the knight
fights from the front, in his dying and killing 
he proves heroism, war is not fought from the 
back nor does it seek a mask or the darkness
war lives in the light all the time 
war is life and life searches for war. 

*Translated from the Odia by Pitambar Naik*

Jiyanti Biswal Behuria: is a poet from Baleswar, Odisha in India. She studied for her BA at Utkal University. Mun Mo Sahita is her debut book of poetry and she has her second book of poetry forthcoming.

 Pitambar Naik is an advertising professional. His work appears or is forthcoming in The McNeese Review, The Notre Dame Review, Packingtown Review, Rise Up Review, Ghost City Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Indian Quarterly, and The World That Belongs To Us HarperCollins India among others. The Anatomy of Solitude (Hawakal) is his debut book of poetry. He grew up in Odisha and lives in Bangalore India.      

A Poetry Showcase from Oz Hardwick

from Pixabay

Care in the Community

Every morning I swallow the suspicious pill, vaguely aware of the effect but unsure of what’s inside. I trust the science I don’t understand, mistrust the conversations murmuring through the walls, and misquote song lyrics from my childhood. There’s a bathroom on the right, my ears are alight, and the elephants that gather here are taking up all the chairs and sofas, so I have to stand like a cartoon dunce in the corner to block out their trumpeting. I lower my invisible disability into an invisible wheelchair and push it away from the noise and into the sunlight, but soon we’re at a cliff edge. In the middle distance, an elephant in a pink-striped Edwardian bathing costume pilots a skiff towards the shore. Another, snug in Biggles rig, parachutes from a swallow-bustling sky. A third, in a white coat, a stethoscope dangling round her concrete slab of a neck, gently takes my elbow to coax me home. 


Borrowed bodies never fit correctly but sometimes they’re all that’s available and I have to get out to the city. Library shelves are as empty as supermarkets, as empty as dropped plant pots, as empty as promises to “level up,” and as empty as a school hall after the news has broken. My legs are loose and my forehead pinches beneath unfamiliar ideologies that I don’t want to interrogate too closely: impermeable borders, double-glazed ceilings, promises that ring like threats or reception bells in flooded hotels. Borrowed hands make light work onerous and render heavy work impractical to the point of obsolescence. If this body was my own, I’d take it to the river and teach it to swim; I’d take it to the top of the clock tower and teach it to fly; I’d take it home and hold my mother’s hand again, but it’s already overdue and the fines are racking up like kerbside flowers.

Touching Base

In the neutral space of offices, facades drop, and here we’re back to our real selves, as we were before we filled in the forms and gave away our options. Online security is an oxymoron, so the walls are lined with grey cabinets stuffed with buff card files full of the usual records: handwritten notes, swimming certificates, birthday cards and receipts from chain restaurants. There’s always the risk of espionage or fire – accident or arson – but it’s a risk we choose to accept. We exchange medical reports, and although there’s nothing we didn’t know, the enumeration of facts and observations is reassuring. Likewise, we swap the letters and confessions that we’d kept to ourselves, setting them out like china dogs on a cottage windowsill. We are here to talk about sustainability, incentivisation, and taking things forward, and there’s a spectrum of coloured forms to be completed and signed off, but first we’d better file ourselves away: you under F for forgetting; me under water for an unstable future.

The Price of Everything

Inch by inch, the sky lifts into light, letting the beasts and birdsong back into the day’s equation. I’d love to be wild and devil-may-care, but I’m the kind of person who draws round the edge of my face in the shaving mirror so I’m sure I’m not an imposter the next time I wake up. It’s full light and the fauna of the flatlands are queueing for handouts at the kitchen window, tongues a-lolling and expecting scraps. I appreciate their commitment to routine and I tear up crusts and banknotes to feed their hunger and curiosity. Along with the light of the morning Sun, this predictable act should surely be sufficient for all of us; but there are accountants in the bedroom, in the bathroom, and in every email that chokes my inbox, insisting that everything is reduced to arbitrary numbers and invisible transactions. I tell them about a big, black wall with flashing figures, more than a million detuned radios, and the endless earthquake that derails the underground train of my logical thought. I gesture to the glutted world as it drifts away across a lawn which is growing mountains. They demand whole numbers, demand to see my workings-out, and demand an abstract of my conceptual underpinnings. I gesture to birdsong, the back window, and the broken bathroom mirror with its sharp and seductive edges.

Homemaking for the Apocalypse

Fires in the north, ice in the south, and we’re plum centre, squeezing our little bits of earth into comforting shapes. You make a house with a white – no, blue – door and frosted – no, clear – windows, and a dream kitchen in which you stew visions down to juice and steam. It has a dishwasher full of broken crockery and freezer stacked with animals hacked beyond easy recognition. Its buzz and chatter eases you into sleep at night, where you dream of plush hotel rooms in city after city, country after country, each one sealed from the outside world as you drink green tea and watch the BBC. There’s no place for me in house or hotel, so I roll a clay balloon which, though heavy and slightly misshapen, rises, graceful as a ghost, and drifts over fire and ice. My perfect kitchen is one I’ll never visit, and just look – look – at this beautiful, broken world.

Bio: Oz Hardwick is a European poet and dabbler in diverse arts, who has been published, performed, and held residencies in the UK, Europe, the USA, and Australia. He has recently released the album Paradox Paradigm with international space rock collective Space Druids, is the main photographic contributor to Martin Popoff's Hawkwind: A Visual Biography (Wymer, 2022), and is co-editor with Anne Caldwell of Prose Poetry in Theory and Practice (Routledge, 2022). His eleventh collection, A Census of Preconceptions, will be published by SurVision Books in late 2022. Oz is Professor of Creative Writing at Leeds Trinity University (UK).

Poetry Showcase: Poems DNA by Clive Gresswell

From Erbacce Press


Clive Gresswell is a 64-year-old innovative writer and poet who has appeared in many mags from BlazeVOX to Poetry Wars and Tears in the Fence. He is the author of five poetry books the last two being ‘Strings’ and ‘Atoms’ from erbacce-press (see their website for more details).

DNA etc

from the opening
the red bud/this stinking corruption
drawn into the life before
drawn into the death before
the mouth moves silently as
he questions how those sub-atomic
particles can grasp what was said
in the beginning and scheduled
thru the chromosomes as if wired
to capture the plasticity/this combination
this horror show that freezes the breath

naked to the accordion blasts & the inclination
to grow and grow and claw its fetid muscle
cramped in an unworkable spasm ripped
forward from the tongue and its hue and cry
deep into the animal instinct captured
and regenerated through the queer
curiosity of time & space

its talons grown cold in gripping
the perfect neurons which fell like
snow into distillations of a worldwide DNA
fluttering like the intrinsic eye howling
by the borderline where time and tide betray.


new horizons stick in throats of silver platitudes
to roaming gypsy hoards and their impolite tongue
snaked and roughed with the background accordion
the flair from witness witches into soft harbingers

dressed in almighty rags and sentenced with long-jowls 
martyred in their fading opinions rested at the junction
to which a symphony plays regretful tunes of tiger-moths
and hotel rooms or hostels for the first-born
whose mothers’ wailing is now torn on the agony
and ecstasy the deliberate throbbing of the vowels

leapt forth in antique matrimony slithered from vows
the hissing and green ink scrawled across this black
and white graffiti blessed in memory of frivolous clouds
and the ancient merchants of their entire misery cast

the fruitful birds which rest
complete in the region where
cutting circular gesticulations
morbid on the mind and cast
along the centrifugal force

shattered by society’s flattering
insipid dreamlike vestiges
cut-free from wandering chance
& loosened to the tongue a final
baying by the wolves of fate
beyond castigations of forever verbs
                                    & into their annals ripped by ropes of despair