Memory Flames
(after Chelsea Hotel #2, and other songs by Leonard Cohen)
If you remember the Sixties
you were not there, some bore said
later, at a clever dinner.
The Sixties, yeah.
We were there
and we remember it well.
I went down on you
while the limousines still waited
and the afternoon light
fell, slatted gold
on our emboldened bodies.
Now that we are both
passed
I think of you more often.
And you, Suzanne.
And Marianne.
You are all hot flames to me still.
And your light still gets in.
And not one of us is mentally aching now.
Or ill.
Bio: Ivor Daniel lives in Gloucestershire, UK. His poems have appeared in A Spray of Hope, wildfire words, Steel Jackdaw, Writeresque, iamb~wave seven, Fevers of the Mind, The
Trawler, Roi Fainéant, Ice Floe Press and The Dawntreader,
After..., Re-Side, Alien Buddha, The Orchard Lea Anthology (Cancer) and The Crump’s Barn
Anthology (Halloween). .
@IvorDaniel
Utopia I have seen
in a glimmer, in a dream
in a moment of pure bliss
from a lover’s kiss
or
a baby’s suckle
Utopia I have seen
in a glimmer, in a dream
in a moment in between
the setting of the sun
or
the fresh drip of honeydew
Utopia I have seen
in a glimmer, in a dream
in a moment where I am free
inside a marriage vow
or
witnessing first steps
Utopia I have seen
in a glimmer, in a dream
in that moment I’m serene
beneath her dress
and
hoisted upon his chest.
Previously published in Sensual; An Erotic Life
https://medium.com/sensual-enchantment/utopia-i-have-seen-84f11002ce6bPurple Rain
When purple rain
is falling, falling,
dropping, fast,
furious, and then
slowly
maybe even a bit
deliriously
from the open sky…
Letting it all out
just you,
the little old world,
and I.
That’s when we find
it’s okay to say
let’s go crazy
despite the tsunami
elevator we ride
up and down
side to side
but that doesn’t mean
we have to slide.
As Prince says:
“I’m not gonna let de-elevator
Bring us down
Oh, no let’s go.”
Previously published in Put It To Rest
https://medium.com/put-it-to-rest/when-purple-rain-is-falling-as-doves-cry-let-s-go-crazy-in-the-sky-3e277a07ccb6Blood Orange Heart
I’m so tired of playing
Playing with this bow and arrow
Gonna give my heart away
Leave it to the other girls to play
For I’ve been a temptress too long
Just…Give me a reason to love you
Give me a reason to be a woman
I just wanna be a woman ~ Portishead
She’s so tired,
tired of being a temptress
tired of playing,
playing with the slingt
of what it used to be
as she slips on an orange peel
before locking it in the glory box
“Leaving it
to the other girls
to play”
Oh, it didn’t have to be this way, she laments
as she eats the blood orange
by the light of the full moon in full bloom.
Previously published in iPoetry https://medium.com/ipoetry/blood-orange-heart-66c90602d862Like Suzanne
I always wanted to be like Suzanne
feeding men tea and oranges
by the river like a siren
or one of Cohen’s lovers
shacked up in Hydra
like the Paris ex-pats buzzing around
abstract words and images.
But then that would somehow mean
that I would also be in love
with a man who struggled to love
because he struggled to love himself.
But does that matter?
Does it matter
that he didn’t love in their way
in the right way
but in his way
and was it not better than no way.
Is it not
better to have loved and lost
than never to have loved at all?
I still want to be Suzanne
free to love
how and whomever
she wants
because she’s tameless
and irresistible…
because
“you touched her perfect body
with your mind.”
Previously published in Marlene in a Pubhttps://medium.com/marlene-in-a-pub/like-suzanne-3162457758c0Like A Muse In A Cage
Like a muse in a cage
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a ballerina teetering on a music box
like a skunk stuck in an hour
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like an aloof armadillo in an explosion
like a translucent paper nautilus exposed
I have tried in my way to be free.
But even when my heart spills
like black squid ink upon a page
my essence remains chained.
But you swore on that song
and all you had done wrong
that you would make it up to me.
You said that together we would be free.
But the world’s handprints are still on me.
Previously published in Marlene in a Pub https://medium.com/marlene-in-a-pub/like-a-muse-in-a-cage-5a024f0d9b71This Body is Electric
He sang her body|
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
e -l-e-c-t-r-i-c
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Honouring
Maternity
Nature
Divinity
and the soul
Taking only what is granted
never plundering
or mining for blood diamonds
rubies, emeralds, or gold
The female form is
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
e -l-e-c-t-r-i-c
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
he sang it
felt it
spoke it
to cherish
the gateway to life
in all of its wonder
curves and delight
soft and succulent
ripe and opulent
in the reflection
of ascension
Your body is
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
e -l-e-c-t-r-i-c
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
wired to be admired
and hardwired to
sing siren’s reveries
wrapped in longing
and moving in ways
that reveal shades of
grace
Timelessness
art and
perfectionism in
imperfection
Mother and
babe as one:
babe becomes girl
girl becomes woman
all interconnected
in the seeds sown
from inside the womb
The giving force
of mother and woman
are one and the same:
you cannot honour and
feed on the one who nurtures you
while you mare the one
you take from
She is waiting
somewhere in between
sound waves and heat waves
of heart waves crashing
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
e-l-e-c-t-r-i-f-y-i-n-g
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
all she tends to
She is the vessel
She is the song
~my body is electric
*Previously published
https://medium.com/literary-impulse/this-body-is-electric-acd2ee14037d
Biography:
Debut Chapbook
With life moving at a slower pace and travel coming to a halt due to the pandemic, Lindsay Soberano-Wilson crafted a hybrid journal of poetry and memoir about how her sense of community, identity, and home was shaped by her past travels. Casa de mi Corazón: A Travel Journal of Poetry and Memoir (Poetica Publishing) is the story of a Canadian woman on an inner and outer journey to find a home.
Lindsay Soberano-Wilson is a poet, teacher, and freelance writer who lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband and three sons. She is a member of the Canadian League of Poets. Her poems and articles have appeared in publications such as FreshVoices22, Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine, Canadian Woman Studies Journal, The Canadian Jewish News, Scary Mommy, Travel Thru History, and Poetica Magazine. In addition to addressing self-identity and travel, her writing explores motherhood, feminism, sex-positivity, education, relationships, mental health, and literature. She holds a MA (English Literature) and a BEd from the University of Toronto, and a BA (Creative Writing and English Literature) from Concordia University.
Touch Wood by R.G. EvansThe poem/lyrics below were inspired by an interview about songwriting with Leonard Cohen. The first line and refrain or both quotes from that interview
Raise an altar of unhewn stone
One gate of horn one gate of bone
Touch wood
Come on touch wood
Black ball white ball juggle them both
Look to the one that you drop most
Touch wood
Come on touch wood
Say a prayer cast a spell
One goes to heaven one goes to hell
No way of telling what’s bad from good
Only thing a soul can do and that’s touch wood
Come on touch wood
Black cat howling on a gravestone stump
Watch where you step and how high you jump
Touch wood
Come on touch wood
Midnight crossroads meet your man
John the conqueroo and glory’s hand
Touch wood
Come on touch wood
One thief on your left and one to your right
Only thing to do is hold on tight
And touch wood
Come on touch wood
Bio: R. G. Evans is a poet, fiction writer, and songwriter from Southern New Jersey. He teaches creative writing at Rowan University. Website: www.rgevanswriter.com
Lookout by Clive Gresswelldedicated to Leonard Cohen
the holy war metaphors are in
wages of the pentecostal sin
harbingers of every thin reprieve
soldierless fortunes armies on their knees
recalling from fixtures the broken cry of hymns
the rattle of the mounting mourning violins
& stretchers from across the chimes of winds
the solitary burgeoning of terrestrial times
the tinkling emergence of solitary rhymes
beside the lakes & the burial of mimes
we seek the hope & glory of appeal
the work towards the journey of it all
& where the men stood motionless on the hill
gathering up the writing on the wall.
Bio: 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).
Maggs Vibo (aka Margaret Viboolsittiseri) a visual poet/artist who has had several art & poetry pieces included in Fevers of the Mind online & in print anthologies. Maggs also designed the Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview series logo, and the photo which is the cover art to my book “The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers” is from a photo that Maggs photographed.
Fevers of the Mind 