Month: January 2024

A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase: Edward Lee (January 2024)

Short Bio: Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, Fevers Of The Mind and Poetry Wales. His poetry collections are Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge, The Madness Of Qwerty, A Foetal Heart and Bones Speaking With Hard Tongues. 

He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.

His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

TOTAL

The blade of ice
you lovingly slid
into my stomach
is still there,
yet to melt,
if it will melt at all.

I can feel its chill
kiss my bones,
harden my organs.

I shiver for hours
on end, only knowing warmth
as I sleep, and even then
I think my dreams are blurred
by the cold.

I guess this was
your plan all along,
the deceit in your love
revealing the heat
of your hate
for what you claimed
I made you:

a woman lost in a love
that did not allow room
for any other.

HOPE (OF A KIND)

At this stage
in the game
I can only hope
my voice will make a sound
after I’m dead, the silence
my words usually instill finally broken,

just like any misunderstood poet
misunderstanding the limit of their ability
hopes for, while the immortality
that can only be achieved
after dying seems like a delusion
greater than all the lies we tell ourselves
and those around us, those lies
we try to believe, or at least write about.

DIRGE

Dancing barefoot on broken glass
I can’t hear the music
the orchestra is playing
over the ferocity
of my cries, shards
piercing my skin
to race towards
my heart, blood
leading tracks from
where I began.

I do not know
if this is a dream
or reality, or perhaps
simply life now,
its living and surviving,
this broken world of ours
far from infinite, our place
in its folds never permanent

A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase: Abel Johnson Thundil (January 2024)

Bio: Abel Johnson Thundil is a young poet from India. His poems are sometimes sentimental, sometimes dark; but always with a madness that’s very enjoyable. His works have appeared in The Hooghly Review, Terror House Magazine, The Pangolin Review, Minimag, Tap into Poetry etc. His latest anthology, an ebook titled ‘Wilted: Poems of Modern Tragedy’ is available on Amazon

My Sweet Bride, The Wind

I sit on a hillside
With my sweet bride, the wind
And let her sob and sob at my shoulder
about every beggar,
every broken cart,
About every dew that drips from its mossy wheels
That the sun eats away…
I sit on a hillside
With my sweet bride, the wind
And hear the sorrow
Of the snake in the eagle’s beak,
The shattered pot,
The weed removed from the wheat
It was feeding off of…
I sit on the hillside
And hear the sweet sorrow of the hills
Through my bride,
The wind…



Enlightenment

I awake upon a hill
With the sand blowing around me
Like bees looking for their nest,
Sticking to my sweaty skin,
And burning it here and there,
Like little diamonds slowly piercing in…
I awake upon a hill
And look down at the crumbled house,
The dead river,
The horses scattering away in search of a new Eden
That does not exist…
There is no collective neigh,
No music,
No synchronization in their muscles…
It is every beast for itself
In search of a new Eden…
There is clamor,
There is killing…
For it is every beast for itself
In search of a new Eden
That does not exist…


Collective Death

Oh what clamors in me is the red, red sea;
Blushing not with the bird’s song,
Or the setting sun’s desperate fondling,
But by the blood of those that sank by night
Willingly,
Like anchors searching the darkness
For the earth’s stony heart…
Blushing from those that sank
Holding onto their wounded legs
With their hands,
Many it impossible to swim…
But the blood remains,
Making the sun unaware whether his mistress blushes or not.
The blood remains to tell a collective tale
Of how collective death
Keeps the dead live…

New Poem “Copper Harbor” by Michael Igoe

Copper Harbor
Sharing the company of riches                                                                                                                  like a crate full of white wines.                                                                                                            Starting to wonder,                                                                                                                                  if all of the itching                                                                                                                            could be scratched.                                                                                                                                  In disenchantment                                                                                                                               shown in the teeth,                                                                                                                                        down at the mouth.                                                                                                                                            We dedicate our lives                                                                                                                                    to watch them scatter.                                                                                                                                          As if there are                                                                                                                                                better dreams                                                                                                                                          in better days.                                                                                                                                                                                                 We find our daydreams                                                                                                                         concealed under floors,                                                                                                                                  elusive between boards.                                                                                                               Wariness of the jinx,                                                                                                                              about ready smiling                                                                                                                               as a terrific disguise.                                                                                                                              We waited in the cabin,                                                                                                                                        underneath the tin roof.                                                                                                                             I conquer my opponent                                                                                                                                     in the bathroom mirror.                                                                                                                                     Because I never bother,                                                                                                                                                      with brushes or bristles.                                                                                                                               On hems of a faded sundress,                                                                                                                        two hands buried underneath.                                                                                                                              Taking a notion from rainfall,                                                                                                                      that lasted through December.                                                                                                                                   Here underneath the archway                                                                                                                                                             two immaculate brown hands                                                                                                                                                          are reaching into a burlap bag                                                                                                                                                 spreading sea’s salt in chunks.

“Roundhouse” a poem by Michael Igoe

A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase: Kushal Poddar (January 2024)

Bio: The author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe.
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

The New Year Banner

Someone made the rock
a god; progeny forgot.
Near the tree’s toes the sun rolls.
Last night is pale vomit.
Sunnrests its head on the rock.
The New Year banner, taut
while the young men held it high,
flows free from the fists.
You laugh, hoot, turn,
and it is already gone.

After A Fight With You, Old Friend

We, still red, pungent and liquid,
dusty and torn, ride
the same homing tram.

I would have offered a gasper
to you as an offering
to honour our conflict,

but you cannot smoke here
and I no longer do.
Night is darker in the part of the city
we just left. We’ll go
to the part where night never comes,
albeit we need some sleep.

A dreamless slumber after a fight
feels like water after something sour.

A Grave Provocation

After a sudden friend’s old death
we found it hard not to make love
every dusk, returning home mid-work
as if that could cure gunshots
and the memories not bled
because death didn’t delay
pushing through the cafe door.

Death could have been late, kept
the bullet for a day in May or thereafter
and found our by then best friend
sad with his love for both of us.
He might not have any solution,
startled and relieved, desired to ask death,
“Why are you so late?” The cafe
would have the same white out.

Insane, Self

Insane, if you call me
I’ll agree, not because
of my soliloquies frequent
in front of a ghost audience
and not because provoked,
I turn violent,
because I repeat my old defeats.
I shall answer, desire to know
about your children and you will show
anger because you have blue
and gray at heart regarding that.
Look at me watching my dirty water
trembling twin. Look at that toenail
born and reborn yellow between
flesh and reflection.
A wind touches your head, glad
that madness is not airborne,
you say, “Stay well.” I see you go.
I shall see you go again

Poetry by Maid Čorbić “Love Is My Weapon”

Bio: Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 23 years old. In his spare time he writes poetry that repeatedly praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world. He is world 44. poet in the world and five in the Balkan. He has over the 10.000 successes on Facebook.

LOVE IS MY WEAPON

My meaning of existence is happiness
I give people only justice
because love is too special for me
in almond-colored eyes

I know that I am a very special person
because my love is very constant
and the meaning of my existence is hope
that I will never be alone

My hope is the meaning of existence
I want to give you love now
because my love has limits
when I set perm only msebi

Love is my weapon
the meaning of my existence
and part of my reason for existence
when the world stops i have you