*Announcements for October including release of Deluxe Edition of Before the Bridges Fell (Fevers of the Mind Press)*

U.S. Links to paperback & kindle. Please check availability in your Country. Sometimes it takes a few weeks to a couple months to show up in paperback in certain countries. I know in India this is the case. The deluxe edition includes all my poems from the Leonard Cohen anthologies & my poem “Malvina” as well.

https://amzn.to/3ftkxNX

Coming in October

*More writing prompts from artwork/photography gathered by Pasithea Chan

*Inspired by Tom Waits poetry will begin

*Inspired by Joni Mitchell poetry will begin

*Inspired by Harlem Renaissance Poetry will begin

*Inspired by Pablo Neruda Poetry will begin

* Inspired by Tom Petty poetry will begin

*I’m going to try and get my book “Cursed Houses” out between mid month and Halloween.

*Working on my wife HilLesha’s book

*Writing new poetry for “The Empath Dies in the End” a themed book collaborated with other writers. When I write something I will send to only the other poet/writer involved. Looking to hopefully put book out in Winter.

*If you still have poetry inspired by any of the following please still send

  • Bob Dylan
  • Leonard Cohen
  • Prince
  • Nick Cave
  • Chris Cornell
  • PJ Harvey
  • Sylvia Plath
  • Anne Sexton
  • Claude Monet (any artwork by him)
  • Andy Warhol & the Factory including The Velvet Underground & Lou Reed
  • Instrumental music from Harold Budd
  • Warren Ellis & the Dirty Three
  • Audrey Hepburn

Plus on our front page you can find our normal everyday topics to send in for poetry showcases, Quick-9 Interviews for writers/poets/musicians, some book reviews although i’m understaffed on this and can’t take all of them. Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Blog

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

Poetry influenced by Sylvia Plath & Anne Sexton from Rp Verlaine

For Sylvia Plath

I wish you had taken
a final impossibly tall
glass of whiskey.

Though I believe
you preferred wine
a slower phantom escape.

For the deeply troubled
before taking a final walk
through an abyss of cut glass.

I wish after that drink
you'd looked at the papers
that would become Ariel.

Piled in a neat stack
while your children slept
and you put head in oven.

Having written a classic
brutal and devastating
candle to a reckoning

between life and death
by one not fully in either
drained of blood and hope.

Yet last week, within days
I saw both a comedian
and a movie use you

as punch lines to cheap
jokes mocking the somber
savage music of your work.

That took all you had
making me so angry
I wanted violence.

But I poured a tall glass
let the whiskey transport
me to a calm cool place.

As I wish that you had
that morning and smiled
with a new thirst for life. 

Transient Bliss

We kiss
to advance the plot
while
surprises remain.

And the red neon
makes everything look
like glass.

Where I can see
I'm far more
fragile.

Self defense
escapes me
when her
lips

beg
pierce me
and yes
ask for more.

Ah transient bliss.

Until the next day
both having had
this fragment we
call enough...

The edge of a star
which eviscerates
us to let go...

Hanging on
to memory
behind
a door
closed forever.

Every Fix

She's always
almost/not quite
on the corner or
between as she slides
in and out of cars that
barely register like
revolving Johns, Joes,
Jims who pay
the fare.

Nameless as any
butterfly in stolen
doomed flights
to bed sheets
absent of warmth
life/promise
in well titled no
look no chance motels.

Until fate
strangles the chase
with death, O.D. or prison.
The lean obituaries  
are grim
for girls of streets
they do not own.

I've watch her
as any sinister doubt
endemic in an overdose
laid bare then lost.
Lost forever as
she leaves  to fall
in deeper  chasms of ruin
as days fall to the warmth
and delusion inside every fix


Distance of The Bees

She says the bees ruin her flowers
I say nothing and drink the air
the sun gives no life to in the shade.

We dance around every empty space
allowed us by former lovers
accounting for denuded dreams we
circle each other with.

Much like the the bees content
with the succulence of
a flower unable to resist

She's an actress when she can
find work worth her time.
A large inheritance takes
care of the rest which she hints
includes me.

At 34 she says she is too old
for all of this, then says
nothing more.

Enters the house and slams
the door after I mention the arbitrary
vortex of spending time apart.
While the bees circle from a distance
I've come to understand.



BIO
: Rp Verlaine lives in New York City. 
He has an MFA in creative writing from City College. 
He taught in New York Public schools for many years. 
His first volume of poetry- Damaged by Dames
& Drinking was published in 2017 and another – Femme Fatales
Movie Starlets & Rockers in 2018. A set of three e-books
titled Lies From The Autobiography vol 1-3 were published from
2018 to 2020. His newest book, Imagined Indecencies, 
was published in February of 2022.



Poetry from Lynn White Inspired by Sylvia Plath & Anne Sexton

(c) Nina Wadhouse
https://www.literaryladiesguide.com/literary-musings/artists-portraits-of-sylvia-plath/
Keeping Mum

At nine years old
she’d never had a chance 
to know her father.
Not to know about his life,
his personality,
or his dreams,
Only that he loved her
and had been frail and ill
all her life.
“She never even asks how her father is”,
said her mother’s friend disapprovingly.
Her mother must have told her that.
“They won’t tell me, so there’s no point
in asking”, she thought.
No!
I think she said!
They wouldn’t tell her why 
he was in hospital.
They wouldn’t tell her why
he died,
not at nine years old,
not until years later
when they were all dead
and more voices could speak.

Motherly Love

I have spent a lifetime 
trying to break away,
trying to break out, 
trying to find myself.
Always on the edge,
always on the outside,
not quite a part,
of it, not quite 
a beatnik,
or a mod, 
hippy, or 
punk.

I was early to realise that
what she wanted me to be
was what she had wanted 
for herself, about her, not me.
I wanted to escape such love.
I thought I could escape.
I thought I had escaped.
And I did, surely I did
escape
some 
of it.

But not all.
Not enough.
So even now I feel tethered.
After all this time of leaving
her behind, 
I remain 
unsure
of my 
own.


First published in Yellow Chair Review, June 2016

My Sister Maud

I had a sister once.
Her name was Maud.
I never knew her,
never even knew of her.
No one said.
Not our father, 
or his son,
not my mother, 
no one.
No one spoke.
All were mute for Maud.

She never grew old,
never even grew up.
And her little life 
became engulfed in silence.
My father cried 
when she died,
I know it now
more than eighty years later
I know it.
When there’s no one living 
who knew her.
When there is no one left
to tell me her favourite games,
her hopes, her dreams. 
All are gone.

I know it now.
I even have a photograph
so that I can see her,
picture her as she was.
And I won’t forget her,
won’t forget that
I had a sister once.
Her name was Maud.


First published in Blue Heron Review, Summer 2018

Bio: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Consequence Magazine, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

Poetry Showcase from Elizabeth Cusack (some inspired by Plath & Sexton)

Killing Floor

What if I were invisible, she asks
where would the liquids go?

She’s serious now
She’s given up on life
and this is her last request
an answer to what is death
and what use is anything without a drink
a dry martini and a pack of Marlboro Reds.

She has priorities
when it comes to life after death
Is there darkness and laughter
If not, I’m not going there
I’ll hang around with you lot 
thank you very much
and I’ll see you on the killing floor.

How do I mute key phrases
key poets and prophets 
who are a stab to my heart.
I am as unnecessary 
as a disposable razor blade
and I am sharp enough to die.

My first highs—
Marlboros before they were Light
drinks from the basement
Guy de Maupassant— when they used to read.
I was put down there
with the spiders
in Omaha
I was disposable after all
an after-effect of the war he went through
so he beat me when I was inconvenient
and he loved me when he was through.

Assassin 
inspired by Ariel by Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath knew —
Endings have beginnings
Like snakes in drainpipes
Or Lynette Fromme on a very bad day
It’s dust to dust and hell to hell
The devil comes and rings his bell
We all have that train to ride —
Spoil the illusion and we’re gone
Blow it up, but we’ll  go on
We’re endless as the sea
And nothing contains everything.

Ruthless

That night was ruthless 
And I went insane 
But it was a good thing.

I spoke to the prophet 
Who explained it all.

He shot the bullet 
Because he was searching for life.

He was a mystic looking for a star.

I am dispensable now.

Howling

My slippery days are over
But the fire still lives on
There’s a soft moon rising
Any day now.

There’s a wolf I loved
And I let the beast destroy me
It doesn’t matter now
No one believed me anyhow.

But I kept on crying wolf
Pretending that I mattered
I’m a voice howling in the dark
One day they’ll find my heart.

Plath and Sexton

Your eyes are extraordinary
And your mouth is red
Like roses at midnight
Your nose is of no consequence
But your hair is perfect
And I’m ready for you
To crack me again
You are the phantom 
That spins me around
Who picks me up
From the floor of despair
I’m a passenger here
So close my eyes
My window is viewless 
Anyway, I like your disguise
I’ll do as I’m told
I have a pill to take
But I’ll take that drink now
Then I’ll die when you say.

Faith Has Been Broken

Faith has been broken,
It was silly to try, and really, why?
Throw the bomb and blow us apart,
It frightens the fish, we’re pathetic anyhow,
Feasting on powder falling from your tongue,
Circling around with our mouths open,
Begging like top or bottom feeders,
Like husbands and wives,
We’re entertainment in an aquarium of lies,
Like a cat with no paw, we’re fantastic,
No need to drop us a line,
We’ll eat what we’re fed, and we’ll play along,
And we’ll die when we’re told,
We’ll believe you, somehow,
That this is an ocean or a natural pond,
But really it’s your game, and we’ll live till we’re done.
Strange dreams may hold us,
Lead us around by the tongue,
Making sweet sounds,
Drawing us down, clasping and dancing,
Claws in our crowns, you’re lethal with smiling,
With incisors we don’t see until it’s too late,
And we’re flopping around,
Why don’t we get it? A tiger has stripes,
A Siamese has twins, coon cats aren’t black,
What does anything mean, because a cat is a cat,
And we’re fish in a bowl, every one,
Red, English, Spanish or French,
We have gills and we’re gullible,
We’ve a tail that moves around,
But we’re just swimming in order to drown. 

August 2022 Poetry Showcase from Elizabeth Cusack 

July 2022 Poetry Showcase by Elizabeth Cusack 

Dylan Poetry Showcase from Elizabeth Cusack
 









Poetry inspired by Anne Sexton by Peter Hague

Midnight Squall
In Memory of Anne Sexton

Here at death’s doorway – 
gothic and brooding.
Depression is king – 
I can’t be happy with anything. 
Anyone.
Any burst of Sun.
I have checked my sextant
and I am rowing home. 
I have done my hitch! 
I have crossed my canvas – 
stitch by stitch. 

(c)Peter Hague 2020

"Bio: Peter Hague has written and studied poetry for most of his life and now has a number of books available including ‘Gain of Function’ and ’Summer With The Gods’. His main occupation was Creative Director in the field of advertising and design. He has a dedicated web site at https://peterhague.com and a digital art site at http://e-brink.co.uk He posts frequently on the web
@PeterHague"