Poetry Inspired by Monet “Water Lilies” Challenge #1

https://www.artic.edu/artworks/16568/water-lilies by Claude Monet

Michigan Water Lilies by Rachel Ashcraft

The water lilies are not the ones by Monet, I’ve seen hanging in the museum
Covered in glass
made only to glimmer by the reflective light, 
fingerprint smudged as if someone thought to reach in and pluck one
 - pull it up and out of the water, attached to the silt 
like an umbilical cord

The ones I hold are real in a small dirtied dammed pond on a capsized canoe
And we break the pads from their stems and cut the stems from the silt 
And we think that to drink the water through the stems will take out all the bacteria
And it tastes likes fish scales and the scent of snakes, 
And I know you’re lying when you tell me we’re survivalists
And the sun catches you and I think of drinking milkshakes in Santa Claus, Indiana with you
And I pretend this lily-straw we’ve made, because you’ve watched too much Crocodile Hunter, is made of paper and the water is chocolate
 and I don’t think of all the little things that call it home. 
I don’t think of that at all.

Twitter: @RachCraftsTales

A Letter to Monet by Kevin DeLaney

you're supposed
to feel things
behind beauty
there is supposed
to be pain.
but when
I look at you
I feel nothing.
I don't feel weight.
I don't feel broken
or any sort of sad.
I don't even feel
I don't feel
like fucking or
any sort of heat.
I hardly feel strange.
when I read you,
I am coherent
and I can remember
my own name,
and that is not
supposed to happen.
I should feel
some sense of death,
and I feel none
but sincerely,
there is no shame...
it's not you,
it's me
at least
your work
is pretty.

Twitter: @kpdela

The Pond of Life by Vipanjeet Kaur

A dream-like pond mirrors Life 
like a glass painting:
A microcosm of the cosmos
and of human life;
An image of the illusive world;

A dark water palate 
reflecting loneliness of Life
where mix, merge and emerge
coloured dreams of Life –
The turquoise of the sky and
silver grey of clouds 
painting the centre,
The tree top olives colouring 
its bankless margins;

A backdrop for unfolding
the play of Life –
Enacted in the foreground by
Water lilies-red, pink and white-
The majestic aquatic autumn beauties
Shining like stars and fireflies,
Twinkling, illuminating and dotting
the dull sky-like surface.

Standing upright with slender stalks
on the circular plates of green leaves
after shedding impurities of Life;
Emerging immaculately from the mud of life;
Dreaming of rebirth and resurgence;
Deep in meditation or sleep
within their enclosed petals
like souls seeking redemption.

Opening the cup of petals at night,
like seekers awakening from trances
bearing the enlightened light
and effulgence of moonlight,
and worthy of partaking nectar of purity,
They bloom and embalm
the darkness of night
giving wholeness to the transient Life.

Bio: Ms. Vipanjeet Kaur from India is a poet fond of writing poems on various themes like nature, women empowerment, self, spiritualism and life.  Her haikus have been featured in the international online journals like Haiku Dialogue of The Haiku Foundation, The Haiku Pond, The Cold Moon Journal and the Scarlet Dragonfly Journal and her micropoetry has been published in the Five Fleas (Itchy Poetry). She has also read research papers on the topics of Literature, Human Rights and Women Empowerment in a few national seminars and international conferences. 
She can be followed on Twitter @vjpoeticmusings.  
wordpress website: https://vjpoeticmusings.com 

An Impressionist's Perspective by Pasithea Chan

Who needs an eye when holding a brush
with a heart full of love to paint beauty?
Why reminisce beauty when you can witness-
love’s purity and experience its peaceful bliss?
You don’t have to be Hercules’-
Amalfi to understand a lover’s agony-
or sympathize with Melite’s envy.
Death does not distinguish between 
lament for lovers or unrequited love.
Only an impressionist seeks clarity to be free 
from a sky that pulls aspirations with memory.
His brush pulls lives into a scene with sentiments.
Only a cataract eye overridden by artistic mentality
leaves out trees’ shadows haunting reflections. 
that haunt lovers’ souls before waters.
The pond’s waters pulled Monet with its lilies-
pulling the river from rushing back.
His brush joined them in their colorful strokes
to sing life’s it is what it is peacefully.
Today he invites thee to be like him free
of interpretations held in minds & simile.
Monet’s Water Lilies’ Pond shuts down a sky 
crowded with echoes of lost wishes and goodbye.
Let its blue hues carry you on its lilies’ tunes 
to where Alice lives on with your impressions
on the beauty of living in the present.  

A Poetry Showcase with Pasithea Chan (September 2022)

Changing Light on Water by Louise Longson
"Colours pursue me like a constant worry. They even worry me in my sleep." 
(Claude Monet, December 1914)

A cold brush of sleet stipples 
the windows with sound, tapping
in the grey-rose dawn. A dream-
jumbled code of unsolved impressions
lays wresting, half-forgotten 
on the tip of my vision, hesitating 
like a horse refusing to jump. Broken 
now into blurred, incoherent shades,

the cool-blue world seems far away, far
from familiar; increasingly coloured in red
and sepia tones, even as the winter-soft
yellow light washes over the waking day

Bio: A qualified psychotherapist, Louise Longson works remotely from her home in a small village for a charity that offers a listening service to people whose physical and emotional distress is caused by loneliness and historic trauma. Not having to go into the office since the start of the pandemic in 2020(a 2 hour plus round trip) allowed her the time and headspace to write. She has since been widely published in print and online. She is the author of the chapbooks Hanging Fire (Dreich Publications, 2021) and Songs from the Witch Bottle; cytoplasmic variations (Alien Buddha Press, 2022). Her poems contain themes of trauma, abuse, loneliness, grief and loss, seen through the twin prisms of myth and nature.

Monet With Water Passes By Me by Maid Čorbić 

I am unaware again
that my life has no more ravages
only my hopes still stand
to be an old man
and to strive for my dreams

I know I have to be so strong.
because the meaning of life for me is
to save myself from hell
and that every day I strive just to be
all that I am and am not

I know that my fate hangs in the balance.
but that monet has become all to me.
because without him I am nobody and nothing.
and I have to make all my wishes come true.
while my body swirled at the bottom

and I am ready to sign my agreement
as long as the soul is still looking for its own sea
because without him I became an ordinary man,
a desire for direction and a goal that has become irrelevant
all because of the children's black game!

Bio: Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 22 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 in Bhutan. 

The Lilies by Thasia Anne Lunger

The Lilie's 
give up
They float
and bloom
They refuse
to go under 
The lilie's
have learned
how to 
stay calm
and persevere   

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Thasia Anne Lunger

Monet/Hockney haiku by Ivor Daniel

I am so seduced
by your water lilies I
take my glasses off

squint and look deeper.
More like water lilies than
actual lilies

like Hockney’s big splash
pools look more like swimming pools
than swimming pools do.  

Inspired by Bob Dylan poetry by Ivor Daniel

Blue Moon by Marianne Tefft
Blue Moon appeared in the Spring 2022 issue of Literary Cocktail Magazine in May 2022. 

You splashed your watercolors  
Across my stony heart 
Like Monet in his garden  
You made me your work of art 
With perfect lines and sketches  
You knew just where to start 
By sunrise I was dreaming  
We’d never be apart 
All your shades and shadows  
Painted pictures in my mind 
A brilliant fairytale that came 
Once upon a time 
Never-ending rainbows  
Telling stories line by line 
By sunset I was dreaming  
Of our Technicolor night 
Like chalk dust on a rainy street 
Love slipped through our frame 
No dashing knight to count on 
No pot of gold to claim 
No longer close by my side 
You still come now and then 
The album in my mind’s eye 
Tells me where and when 
I’ll see you again 
Blue Moon 

Water Lilies Ballet by Jacqueline P. Dempsey-Cohen

A frolic of dustlight
a merriment of sunlight
slowly deliquesce 
into arabesques of color
violet shimmer, cobalt gleam
cadmium yellow, viridian green 
tonal mist glimmers the air 
a playful pirouette of pigment
sending sense of sunlight asunder
Yet below, quiet wonder,
a muted requiem of hue
cobalt swirls with palest blue
vermillion fades to rose
A delicate dance
in shadowed depths
Sunlight plundered.

twitter @boscoedempsey

A Monet haiku and monoku by Lev Hart
sunny afternoon
         painting the light 
within Water Lilies

art gallery        visitors lost        amid Water Lilies

bio: Lev Hart, having lived on this planet for 69 years,
is becoming impatient with the tardiness of his
rescue ship. Meanwhile he has majored in English,
worked with homeless people, moved to the Gulf of
Aqaba, and returned to Canada. His beloved and he
have been together almost forever.

The Water Lilies in Claude Monet's Mind as I Feel Grave by David L O'Nan

A whole, a dump, I worship in my sadness. 
To be a flower that is not dead in this dark room where my mind has shed.
I feel like I cannot break any further as my body hits the water.
Caution: the water is too cool.  But it looks warm enough to me.
A blue day reflects through the trees and my eyes obey the power of the water lilies.

The fears begin to fade, although I have not moved from my internal shade.
I have dreamt myself into a Garden, I have began to feel Giverny.
You hear the echoed voices from outside from the unruly. 
Tune them out and swim in my friend!  Your only true friend right now is the imagination and escape.
I have deleted out the traumas of my past, my current, my midnight tremors.
I have held the water lily in my hand and worshiped to the gods of art, of beauty.  

Repaired.  In a sweet dream. Kidnapped away to the Water Gardens. 
A blink out of the trance.    Neglected.  The dream vanishes.   I want back my Paradise.   Another dream some other night....hopefully Monet will haunt me again.  

Two Haikus by Jessica Swafford

Pink water lilies
gone - gasp as frog quickly leaps
safe from my big foot

dragonflies gather
quiet multitudes swarming
water lilies gone

A Super Deluxe Poetry Showcase from David L O’Nan (from several books pt 1)

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

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 

Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle


A Poetry Showcase with Pasithea Chan (September 2022)

Author’s Notes:

Ekphrastic Wrap inspired by Chinese painter Liu Maoshan’s La Friterie.
Written in 10 lines with 94 words with the rhyming scheme of aa bb cc dd ee
Credit for the photo goes to: http://pixdaus.com/files/items/pics/6/52/85652_03455f879e6bc09eec67c4a1e426af93_large.jpg
Please visit the Liu Maoshan’s page on: http://www.wanfung.com.cn/eng/tjysj_gh_show.asp?id=275
And a gallery page with clear display of Liu Maoshan’s work on: http://www.wanfung.com.cn/eng/tjysj_gh_zpxs.asp?id=275

Sadness & Loneliness in Color

Cream and beige loneliness cling on sadness in drab buildings,
buildings with windows holding drabness like its belongings

Belongings heavy with gloom spinning a grayish loom,
loom of desolation weaving threads of isolation that loom.

Loom of ghosts and haunted thoughts running in silence
silence that dawns reverence to break dissonance with silence.

Silence that falls on pavements with brackish pigments
pigments segmented with asphalt hues on walls with yellow pigments. Pigments from nostalgic mind figments of scattered leaves on Chinese Firs
Firs daubed in silver pigments to give light strokes showing fading firs

Much or Match

They will tell you:
friends are family
we choose ourselves.

I will tell you:
friends are either
much or a match.

Much in a bunch
gives hurt a punch
from friends in life’s crunch.

A much that burns
with love and care
with kindness so fair
with understanding
before being understood.

Match of disgrace
gives hurt a face
from fake friends in life’s crunch.

A match that burns:
respect with lies
success with envy
love with jealousy
and kindness with hurt.

Between much and match
are fires of desire and satire.
All hearts go down that gyre
until time lets truth transpire.

Much with loving desire
bids respect you can admire
from real friends showing life at its best..

Match with jealousy’s fire
bids disrespect and ire
from fake friends making life a test.

Take it from me:
let much light your match.
Keep those much because they match
but lose those matches like a boring klatch.

Hold on to much to light your fire
with dedication’s matching desire!
Who needs a match when you have a bunch
capable of giving life’s mishaps a punch?

Author’s Notes:
You may not have much friends or your friends may not have much but that bunch is all you need to give hurt and trials a punch. But you may also have many friends that burn your existence with waste and lies like a match. So why keep that bunch? Matches were made to set fires. Hence the poem : Much or Match.

Ships that Never Come

You look behind me
and see potential’s horizon.
But you don’t see
the ocean that divides us.

You look up to the sky
but I look under my feet.
You see clouds coming down
I see the ocean touching heaven.

You chase shadows
but you don’t know I cast them.
You pick up stones
I walk on them.

You go with the flow
a ship I watch from the shore.
You expect me to follow
that’s why I had to let go.

You live in the clouds
parsing stars with scars.
I see you like a farce
masquerading lies as stars.

We are worlds apart
parted by an ocean of thought.
When you arrive I leave
but when you leave I live.

You may be sure
about your ship.
But I am a shore
that’ll never let you anchor.

Some ships never come
because they were never welcome.
Yet many can’t tell
when they’re supposed to leave.

Author’s Notes:
This piece is about emotional and intellectual disconnection between a man and a woman in a relationship. The man sees himself a ship that the woman’s been waiting for all her life on the shore when in fact she sees him a ship that sailed long ago. They are both looking at the same scenery but they aren’t looking in the same direction. People don’t just drift apart, they simply shouldn’t have been together.

Rainbows without Sunshine

Tomorrow seems so grey with clouds so fey
clustered in a maddening fray dragging
souls to fates shaped by those who can stay
under a sky of dreams lost in circumstance raining
hurt and wait for hope’s rainbow to come shining.

Life is a meadow traversed in a bellow shay
bearing lupine smiles, and thistle cries dragging
hurt’s atrocious weeds that spill their whey
on love’s violets and care’s paintbrushes growing
wildly and sparsely dying in winter to live in spring.

Tomorrow is life’s sky overlooking mountains that play
under rainbows on life’s virid meadow showing
souls, that majesty in clay, can rise and have a say
if it can play dreams with actions under an overarching
rainbow even when skies rain and the sun isn’t shining!

Author’s Notes:
A cinquain written in 127 words with the rhyme scheme of ababb in 3 stanzas one for the sky, one for the meadow and one for the mountains.
Inspired by a photo from artist and photographer Candace Diar depicting Colorado’s Wild flowers: 


Old & New Peers

Filter, filter, makes you a trendsetter
hiding the fact that you’re much older.
Sticker and glitter to show you matter
lest you be called a bitter critter.

Slangs, hashtags and comments
define events and moments.
Followers to buy or sell components
otherwise lifetime opponents.

Freedom of speech and gender
to unleash chaos for a new world order.
Because misconduct is the way to be proper,
In a time where being real is harder.

Real issues thrown away like used tissues.
Who needs solutions when we can sell problems?
Why stand together when you can divide and conquer?
Judging is thinking because talking is listening.
New generations claim to know better
because the old ways are no longer
Now that the truth is out of order.

And so we filter pictures creating monsters
because problems create believers
because ideas are dangerous and liars are winners
because politicians have worshipers.
of hashtags and opinions shared as stickers.
Who can afford to snooze when nobody wants losers?

According to the new diction: New generation
are masses in competition choosing a mission
focused on a life based on recognition
even if it leads to self destruction or omission.
With an ideology of indecision
advocating mass incognition,
perversion and corruption define recognition.

Original is a sin in a world of have been.
It doesn’t matter what you’ve seen
because change now comes from a bin
where death and silence are akin
and emotion is a matter of skin
where the truth is a bubble popped by a pin
we call how to be in and stay in.

So cheers, here’s to your fears
having the loudest jeers.
Keep your filters, I have my leers.
You have your eyes, I have my ears.
I guess old and new can’t be peers.

#newage #newgeneration #socialmedia #realissues #life #truth #reality #violence #lifematters #division

Candlelit Ice Rinks

Deep in a cagey cradle
it beats pumping endlessly.
Sometimes it pumps
enough to overflow in words.
Sometimes it skips
a beat killing cries.

You can run out
of paper or ink
trying to be heard out.
Or you could die out
like frost on an ice rink.

Dark or bright
heavy or light
hearts and pens
define right or plight.

Poems are hearts’
desolate skating rink.
Sometimes leaving marks
on moments of fire or ice.

Passion is a candle
burning elusively.
It seeps in cracks
pushing or stopping words
in tracks like small sips
halted by gulps or hiccups.

So let your poems handle
your passions loosely.
Pen your works
as per moments
of cares or hurts.
Like all arts, poetry hurts.

Akhal Teke Autumn

She canters freedom like wind
Gallops wilderness like fire
And into metallic dreams
She blazes banter with reverence-
Only to chute through life’s greenbrier-
letting seasons mark her deviance!

As she gaits, bittersweet love is dinned
with a shako of loss and a whimsical rouleau!
She caulks impressions from semblance-
Halting anguish with mystic desire!
Denying cant from reinters is a gyre-
she perfectly forms as she trots!

In her cremello eyes is a mundane escape
from all that is eidolon and bemire!
Waiting for her rider, she dismounts-
popinjays with utmost countenance!
Mettlesome is her autumn full of satire!

Tequila lit Akhal Teke you sire-
Autumn’s passions so Bordeaux-
For your love’s winter pines
my heart with perseverance
overcome with awe and surefire!

Author’s Notes:
Akhal Teke(Turkmenistan Stallion): A horse is the projection of peoples’ dreams about themselves – strong, powerful, beautiful – and it has the capability of giving us escape from our mundane existence

Magician’s Ombre

He trumps with masculine beginnings
under Mercury’s will to command
Renegados: heart, mind, and soul

He is skill’s regal teacher
playing will’s red suit
against a black intellect.

His motive is untainted innocence
draping red passion and experience
unto humans’ conscious existence.

He belts his waist- a divine bridge
for both worlds: spirit and human
manifesting desires into reality.

Eternity is his tiara shining
over elements of an alchemist table
fit for a banquet for three players.

Wearing mismatched red and white lilies
for slippers of majesty: good and evil
He leaves you plagued with creativity.

Drinking a cup of emotional fulfillment
filled with imagination and beauty.
He will dance you to productivity.

He eats from a pentacle of brilliance
molded for perfection, baked in patience-
to serve you excellence and practicality.

Armed with the sword of mental clarity
his judgments are sound and canny
with ideas so profound with relativity.

He is master of illusion and duality
a shaman and a charlatan prodigy-
who’s game only for the witty!

Author’s Notes:
Tarot cards have been associated with card games all over Europe mainly the 3 player game “Ombre” of Spanish origin- known as well as Renegado”. This poem discusses the traits, personalities and behavior of the tarot card ” the Magician” as part of a reading and the personality of the zodiac sign or person it is associated with.

Love and War

Love a child with tantrums
makes demands that are costly.
Like a child taking a stride
wearing your mind
in its little feet for a feat!

Before you know it
the fire around you is lit.
You find yourself waging war
on its behalf and eager to enlist
for proxy wars that may exist.

Love a child with tantrums
plays pretend around family.
Like a child it hides behind
you as you face canons so snide
not knowing defeat is your only treat.

Before you know it
you no longer fit
anywhere except out the door
of loved ones for whom you slit
your wrist as they vanish like mist.

Love a child with tantrums
builds and destroys family.
Like a child it will leave your side
and refuse you if you backslide.
So watch your step and mind your feet.

Without you knowing it
you will get hit
with words that score
your value as per a list
tweaked with blame for a twist.

Love a child with tantrums
never plays fair around family.
Like a child it will deny you’ve tried
and bid you farewell saying you pried.
It’ll run you over like an ironed pleat.

Before you know it
you will be called a dimwit
for choosing love over war.
Do you get the gist
of Love and War’s whist?

Author’s Notes:
Inspired by: Sting- This War https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RsPnF2EawxM
They say All is Fair in Love & War. Love between two people is a messy business but love among family is way messier. You tend to protect and defend and support family but these gestures are sometimes the cause for families to dissolve. Many times the saying: “The road to hell is paved with good intentions” is a reality. This is when you realize that it’s hard to watch someone you love outside behind a glass window but sometimes it’s great because that’s the most you can get close.

Stem Gem Schlemm

Put them anywhere and they will grow
into anything you want them to be.
Whether you are gunning for cancer
cells or growing new limbs!
They call them stem cells
because life stems from them.

Put your heart on anything and it will flow
with passion opening doors like a key.
Whether you are after danger
or fostering love or making sacrifices.
They call it a heart because life holds
unto it like a chord for rhythm.

Hearts’ dynamics stow
fit or misfit attitudes for free.
Whether in severe anger
or one sided compromises.
Qalb in Arabic or heart comes
from the verb “yaqlib” as in flips.
Hearts are thereby a stem gem.

So safeguard your cord from envy’s blow
Mind your heart’s beat from pity.
Such keen cleat can fetter
the art of beat and feat with regrets.
Beat for what’s right with right moves
but choose your feat for the right reasons!
Don’t atrophy your cord with confusion’s hem.

It’s easy to lose tomorrow
with circumstance’s eye.
For when trials’ lenses blur
truth’s lights;
Value’s aqueous humor leaks
out of self respect’s Schlemm.

Author’s Notes:
Inspired by
 : Lindsey Stirling’s Hold My Heart, youtube link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uCTWBHP6lV0

The first Chord is for rhythm of vitality the second cord is for the etymology of the word heart which comes from the EU word Kord to indicate lifeline= cord.
Schlemm: a circular canal lying in the substance of the sclerocorneal junction of the eye and draining the aqueous humor from the anterior chamber into the veins draining the eyeball — called also Schlemm’s canal, sinus venosus sclerae.

Bio: Pasithea is an impressionist poet who dabbles in art and poetry. She enjoys writing about life and her experiences from different perspectives. She believes in art in poetry as in exploring art to emphasize its role in juicing creativity out of a quill. She enjoys writing poetry in symbolism laced with philosophy and psychology.  Combined with varied styles and topics, her motto will always be: poetry is a passionate expression kindled by an impression unlimited by public conviction. To catch more of her work follow her on Instagram @pasitheachan or twitter @pasitheachan and on Ello @ello.co/pasitheaanimalibera where you can find more of her historical fiction and mythological or cultural short stories.

Ekphrastic Poetry by Denise O’Hagan: After Alexandrine, maybe

After Alexandrine, maybe

Blu-tacked to the kitchen wall
The paper holding you is starting to curl,
Ghost of a long-ago, far-away soul. 

Your poise has teased us through centuries,
From a bust carved in original marble 
Through a bevy of terracotta look-alikes
Counterfeited in countless art studios
By slick-eyed, eager apprentices,
Rendering you, in each process,
A shade more indistinct.

A solitary finger of a plait
Leads our gaze down to yours
But you’ve lowered your eyes,
Your lips spell dissent, and we realise,
As the snake of suspicion bites, that this
Is no eighteenth-century childish deference,
And that beneath your well-bred hauteur 
Lie the seeds of defiance.

Had you shrugged off a governess’s request,
Shirked a soirée, flounced off from Madame?
Had they told you you’d be off to the convent?
Or were you simply on the edge of a tantrum
For quite another reason?

Speculation still laps at your edges
Spawning fascination and theories,
Muddying our modern thirst for
Hard-edged, unassailable fact.

Yet with petulance pencilled
Into the swell of your cheek,
And that perfect pout,
You’ve snared a feeling
In every grown-up child
Who recalls only too well 
When their biggest rebellion
Was to sulk.

After French sculptor Jacques Saly (1717–76) whose bust of a young girl made in Rome (c. 1744) was much copied. Speculation as to her identity endures, one theory being that ‘La Boudeuse’ (she who sulks) was Alexandrine d'Etoilles, nicknamed ‘Fanfan’ (daughter of Mme de Pompadour, mistress of Louis XV), who died at nine years of age in the Convent of the Assumption. This sketch by Dominic West (2019) is based on a reproduction.
First published in The Ekphrastic Review, 28 April 2021

Artist: Jacques Saly. Title of artwork: A young girl. Medium (of original): Marble.

Author bio

Denise O’Hagan is an award-winning editor and poet, born in Rome and based in Sydney. With a background in commercial book publishing in London and Sydney, she set up her own imprint, Black Quill Press, in 2015 to assist independent authors. Recipient of the Dalkey Poetry Prize, her work appears in various journals including The Copperfield Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Quadrant, Books Ireland, Eureka Street and Hecate. Her second poetry collection, Anamnesis, is due to be published in October 2022 (Recent Work Press).
Denise O’Hagan Home

Poetry based on photography “The Lone Road to Moloka’I” from Maggs Vibo

(c)Maggs Vibo

A Lone Road on the Island of Moloka’i by Maggs Vibo

Our plane putters over patchwork pillows of rusty clay 
Celebrating the day's first rays at a coffee plantation

Top down, and around the bend the breeze kicks dust into our locks
We visit spaces of ancient mysteries and forgotten history
Not far from a phallic rock and a peninsula of exiled patients

Where jagged cliffs leap to kiss the sea
Towards desolate paths that stretch and smile at roosters crowing
as if echoing the road sign:

Slow Down
This is Moloka'i

Untitled from Jacqueline Dempsey Cohen

Here the earth glows,  
breathes from its molten core
laying bare its soil 
reborn with radiant heat
This iron-rich clay beckons
hands to touch and feet to scuff
staining fingers, soothing toes
caressing knots of need.
Untouchable limbs frame the path
relentlessly muted 
urging travelers ever onward 
to mountains birthing fire.


A JOURNEY by Petar Penda

He took a fiery road
towards distant hills,
with wild shrubs on its sides
not to let him turn off the path.
This solitary journey led to
his self-knowledge of
the lack of something central
which permeated.

Copper Dust Road by Robin McNamara

I’m on a dust road
unburdened by winds /
unshackled by conformity. 

Humbolt of a cloud; 
wispy in the sky 
where the land lies 
with dust and rust 
and rock and ruin.

I saw a desert man he
was wearing wisdom of
an Indian spirit / I crave  
the aqua of his knowledge.

My face copper-rust from 
the swirling dust of the road  
to nowhere /
rattlesnakes and coyotes on
each side watching /
waiting patiently for hope to die.

ABOUT TO ACHIEVE by Spriha Kant 

Crossed many long tortuous paths
beaded with many thorns
showering under the sun’s anger
Every time, found me 
a bird flying
to touch the horizon.
Cooler sun
Roaming clouds
Swaying thickets on both sides of the path
as if about to welcome me
to my destination
by showering me in water
from the skies.

(c) Spriha Kant

The Red Road by Elizabeth Cusack

Why is this road so red
And what makes it real?

Why is perception a tunnel?

Who decided our destination
And what do they know?

What is a bramble
And why is it dark?

Why are hedges bare
And why do thorns stick up in air?

Why do rabbits fall into lairs?

Everyone knows these skies will part
And our lives will not end here.

Beguiled by Lesley Curwen

Rust bloodroad flares to brightest crux
its russet track armed by hedges' dark
overed by long mynd and sailing cloud 

the eye swept back and back to fiery light 

its centred throb, perplexing Delphic shape. 
Witch trio aflame, altar to neon gods
or haloed mothers keening at a grave? 

She is on fire by Constance Bacchus

not going anywhere she is rambling on to the lake she stops off at one of two gas stations won’t eat anything but licorice candy extreme pop she spins out of control across so many hills the vultures at the top pay attention she has passed the other one watches the fire blend in arrives at the launch hardens her heart in the water you could say it fossilized you can say you miss it you can say anything you want it is cold doesn’t care breaks apart amongst milfoil

Inspired by Leonard Cohen lyric visual piece from Maggs Vibo  

Congrats! To Fevers of the Mind contributor Maggs Vibo 

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Margaret Viboolsittiseri aka Maggs Vibo 

Visual Poetry by Maggs Vibo: Drinking the Ash Pt 1 & 2 

Poem from Constance Bacchus : Memories from a party last 4th of July 

Poetry based on photography Challenge from Ankh Spice pt. 1 

Poetry based on Photography challenge from Ankh Spice pt. 3 

2 poems by Spriha Kant from Hard Rain Poetry Forever Dylan Anthology 

A Sylvia Plath inspired poetry showcase by Robin McNamara 

A Poetry Showcase from Robin McNamara 

August 2022 Poetry Showcase from Elizabeth Cusack 

Poetry by Petar Penda : Tiresias

Ekphrastic Poems “Hopper Hooks” from Damien Donnelly for #NaPoWriMo

The Hopper Hooks – A Sequence in Three



after Habitación de hotel, 1931, by Edward Hopper

She unpacks all that she can fit into a space not hers, these

sheets scented of other skin, that others left while passing.

She undresses before the window          pulls a black shade

 up against the light of a day    at odds with the night of this

room. Sound swims through heat    and laughter – too light

for a single weight – forces its way in, a wave-punch in the

gut of all she has swallowed. There are trains in her hands,

times of parting, but all she wants is to sink down, in there,

under the magnolia of a room not hers or theirs. The carpet

 is moss and she wonders if it will climb along the skin that’s

 grown tired of touch, until she becomes just another stain in

its thread, a disappearance, but for her scent    that someone

 will find while passing, though it won’t remember her name



Violet Opening

after Automat 1927, by Edward Hopper

A hissing in the corner, serpentine heat slivering beneath a sky

of other unidentified objects  refusing her request to abduct. As

she stirs her tea, wormholes open behind her.  She did not pack

this time. Things do not travel well      on the run. Rings turn to

hooks to hold you back. Concessions in chapels of acceptances

choke later in a bedroom she never knew how to decorate.  She

ordered a bowl of fruit to disguise his cologne, still between her

thighs, hissing, snakelike. Unknown to him, it was his last time

in her garden, the violets trembling. Sitting crossed legged, tight

enough to strangle the years      she surrendered, wondering how

it might feel, one day, to bring to the tip of her tongue    the lips

of a woman. Snakelike. Table for two? the waitress asked, when

she’d entered and she’d said yes, as she’d said yes to everything

for 28 years. Empty chair opposite. Judgements. But she was off, to where she’d no longer be an alien       to the want of a woman.




after Sun in an Empty Room, 1963 by Edward Hopper

He locked the door, after she left, after that time she never spoke of

but the disappearance of her scent from the sheets    in the days that

followed, twisted itself around the truth of her                    no return.

He locked the bedroom door, hoping to catch her shadow,   particles

of skin that had fallen, a droplet or two of sweat      cycle     saliva or

one of the many tears he knew she’d expelled                    in the dark

behind his back        after he’d cum & she, while in situ, appeared to

depart. He spied, at times, through the keyhole, how the outside light

slipped in, how it cast a door   upon solid wall from the shut window

and he imagined her frame, unfading into focus,             coming back

for things she’d left behind like the ring     that he hoped would hook.


Wolfpack Contributor: Damien Donnelly

5 poems & interview from Damien Donnelly in Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020

3 Poems from Damien B. Donnelly writer/host of Eat the Storms Podcast