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.
Month: July 2022
Poetry: The Crow by Kushal Poddar
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, "Nevermore." 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 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
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. Recall 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
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).
1/ from the opening the red bud/this stinking corruption classless/injured/democracy 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. 2/ 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 3/ 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