Q1: When did you start writing and who influenced you the most?
Sylvie: . I had two obsessions, from the moment I came out of the egg it seems, and they were writing and music. When I was little I sang and tapdanced onstage and offstage I played a recorder, I started writing stories pretty much as soon as I started school. I can’t think of one particular person or book that influenced me as a writer because I read so much, all sorts of stuff, starting with fairy tales. My inner-goth preferred Grimm to Hans Christian Anderson. I can be more specific about the first music I heard that really meant something to me: Bessie Smith singing St Louis Blues, my dad’s favourite record. And then while I was still a little kid there came the Beatles. Between Bessie Smith and John Lennon, it’s all I needed.
Q2: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer?
Sylvie: Again nothing specific. I can’t remember thinking “I want to be a writer”, because I had never met anyone who was a writer by profession, and because I was always writing, all sorts of stuff, for no reason other than that I liked to write. There was a time in my teens when I wanted to be a singer-songwriter because I loved singing and I had a guitar and I guess I looked the part. Most of the songs I wrote were minor-key dirges – about lost love before I’d had any love to lose – and none of the songs were worth remembering without embarrassment. Anyway, stage-fright put paid to that idea. So I became a music journalist. My influences as a music journalist? Hard to say. Probably a mishmash of the largely-male (they were mostly men back then) rock writers in Sounds, N.M.E, and Melody Maker, the three UK music magazines I’d devour every week. When I moved to L.A in 1977 I became Sounds’ correspondent. Left to my own devices out there I suppose I started to find a style and approach of my own. I hope so. Also, I got over my stage fright and became a singer-songwriter, but that was several decades later.
Q3: Who has helped you most with writing and career?
Sylvie: In the beginning it was Sounds magazine in the UK, for making me their correspondent in 1977 and giving me all sorts of brilliant assignments, like going on the road with Black Sabbath, or The Clash, and a weekly column. This led to assignments from other magazines in the US and Europe, which meant I was writing nonstop, and picking things up as I went.
Q4: Where did you grow up and how did that influence you? Have any travels influenced your work?
Sylvie: I was born and raised in inner-city London and I entered my teens when London was the best place in the world to be for someone who loved music. I lived in France for a while, which certainly influenced my writing the Serge Gainsbourg biography: A Fistful of Gitanes.
But work-wise, the USA is where things really took off for me as a writer and also later as a musician.
Q5: What do you consider your most meaningful work creatively to you?
Two things tie for first place: I’m Your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen – the biography that I wrote with Cohen’s co-operation – was my first big best-seller, with almost 30 translations at last count. The other is my debut album of original songs Sylvie (Light In The Attic Records). When the turquoise vinyl turned up in the post, I admit I cried when I saw it.
Q6: What are your favorite activities to relax?
Sylvie: Playing old LPs on an equally old portable record player. Playing my ukulele, or piano, or my new love, a tenor guitar. Or walking for miles and miles going nowhere in particular, thinking thoughts, maybe stopping for a latte or a beer. Or going to the movies. I still love movies, and it’s just not the same on TV. It’s like watching a concert on Zoom.
Q7: What is a favorite line/ stanza/lyric from your writing?
Sylvie: I’ll leave that for someone else to decide.
Q8: What kind of music inspires you the most? What is a song or songs that always come back to you as an inspiration?
Sylvie: I love to rock out – for years I was the correspondent for Kerrang! – but ever since my dad and St Louis Blues I’ve always been drawn to slow, melancholy music. I can go on endless jags of listening to everything by Leonard Cohen, Nick Drake, Scott Walker, or Joni Mitchell’s Blue. The songs that keep bringing me back again and again are those in which you can hear the humanness of the singer and the honesty of the delivery. For that reason I love listening to music like old Blues or early Beatles, anything where the little mistakes are left in. I truly dislike auto tune and those polished productions that iron out all the human-ness.
Q9: Do you have any recent or upcoming books, music, events, etc that you would like to promote?
Sylvie: I recently got back from playing at the Calgary Folk Festival in Canada, and now I have a few things coming up in San Francisco. I’ll be doing a speaking event at Litquake with fellow veteran rock critics including Ben Fong-Torres and Greil Marcus on October 21st ’22. Also a music event at the Lost Church on November 6th ’22 as part of the S.F Leonard Cohen festival. There’s info on my website. You can find my first two albums on my Bandcamp page. I’ve also added some new music and outtakes. I’m hoping to record a new album next year.
On the writing side, I still write regularly for the UK magazine MOJO. My last book was Face It, a collaboration with Debbie Harry. But I’m happy to say that there’s now an updated US edition of my Leonard Cohen biography I’m Your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen.
If anyone would like to purchase a signed copy – of the book or my albums,vinyl or cd – they can contact me directly through my website at the link(s) below.
Bonus: Any funny or strange stories you’d like let us know during your creative journey?
Sylvie: Too many to mention. It’s been 45 years of strange and wonderful occurences, and I hope it never stops.
We could have had all the colors to hold in our hands as the day ended.
What was to be a clear forecast,
The hands of time stop and let me sip it all in.
It was just the beginning of a robbery, a botched sunset.
She cries with little painful eyes,
and I have to hide to adore her from the side.
I’m not able to clear the air, nor wipe away a tear.
I’m not able to speak up and let her know I was there.
I couldn’t disgrace his name, even though he’s to blame,
and you were quilting yourself shut, a kite that wouldn’t sail.
I walk around with the wrong crowd; I watch as they burn out.
I’m thinking that if I stay in the here, I’ll be around for you in the now.
But I’m sorry I can’t stay frozen; I gallop everywhere,
and I just burn too much –
to inhale the ice of your stare.
I couldn’t just fade into the smoke. I couldn’t just laugh at the tasteless jokes.
When the burn for you was real-
around a crowd of fake noise and hidden fear.
Wilting, a fading voiceless, where are the words?
It’s still raining since that day.
The old pictures and old punctures tickles at the brain.
The enchantment is enframed.
Forever paralyzed inside. Where do old voices go?
Unable to conserve the wonders from that first thunderstorm.
The clouds are forever parading across –
and once in a while the light, the pop, the cracks and crumble.
Repair me temporarily with the glue...
Then wait for the digestive gulp fade awhile once again.
The sunsets just can’t get it right, too ruddy, too nauseating, too lively,
or too sick.
All I can remember is the near times, not like the first times.
The times we almost shared...but the eyes were never for me,
at least that’s what the ring said.
Always something to push the buttons for you,
and always a shell for me to cling to.
The memories will always be inside a confused heart.
Sitting there in an old photo wasn’t me,
but there was the goofy, the darling and the preacher of philosophy.
I know you’ve been through the sands, you’ve been through the cold
you’ve been with the devil, and you’ve been with the bells of angelic souls.
You’ve been upset, you’ve been my bridge,
you’ve been my ladder and my fall.
And I will claim myself unsuitable for your wall,
and just hang there from the sky like
like a botched sunset.
10 Years "We Are Hummingbirds in the South Wind"
Take my wings as we fly...
through every one of these electric fences.
Our record skips and we just want to love.
In gorgeous unison we’ve prayed to our savior.
We’ve battled the lingering evils, and danced
through our endless pain and exorcise urges.
Through Winter roses and the bleeding Spring flowers,
the Summer storms and the Autumn leaves rustling
Each with a threatening torch in our blessed hearts.
Our hearts for one another.
When we are silent
we are sifting through the floodwaters of a haunting family past.
Submerging us down to breathe the holiness of a family future.
Even the hummingbirds have to outfly the vultures to avoid the bleeding idiots –
who chant for torture. And we have to learn to laugh and hide in the clouds even when –
the south winds are blowing by so fast.
Materialize our threading seeds and grow purely in this soil for the healthiest of worms
to swim through.
Eliminate our anger and learn to generate new beats in the music that haunts you.
A decade in and we are still learning how hard it is to shed our skin.
With love in our eyes
and holding each other closer we can begin flight and avoid another vulture.
The elimination of the wretched wagons full of dark nights with rose colored glasses.
Sip the power of the magnolia as it blows by our yearning hunger to feel as one.
The Lukewarm Train
There are days you remember the rambles of Chattanooga Misty.
Not quite bright, not quite dumb.
She was a lost girl living in the Kentucky woods.
She, maybe was just born into ignorance,
to perfume all the smoke from her cigarettes before she comes back.
She didn’t know that her ass tore through the seam of her jeans.
She was looking to scoot away from the rabbit holes to the rabbit cage.
And so she learned to be a smooth talker, hide that shy, act that brave.
She was not too fond of all those presents... That you’d present to her to win her heart.
She’d rather be glum, take in the latest drug,
and drink until heart cannot beat.
Well that’s a wild one for you,
feeding the bikers their barbecue and their beers.
Sets you up for a Ponzi scheme,
and then disappears into the arms of a deadbeat.
His politics have become something of a joke.
His hair that was precious and begins to croak.
And now she’s wondering why her tan is no longer a cloak to hide her real self.
She thinks you can’t read her,
everyone who sees her becomes a mystic and can see
the flowing ego that won’t let her doves free.
She’d rather spend time as a thrush digging up worms.
Well when she’s going insane, I won’t be anywhere nearby.
I’ll be riding high in musical notes.
I’ll be chattering with the jealousies she hid in her bones.
I’ll be the water, the nature, the trees...
where her nest fell from long ago. When they ask, oh, where is she at?
Maybe, I’ll be truthful or state
She’s been running away for about a thousand days from herself, her mind, and her beauty.
She’s been a little glum, brainwashed, trilling in the mud, and unaware of the twilight sorrow.
Well the crows all ask, for a quick boarding pass to see if she’d like to bring her fruits and berries into
their decoy jungled home.
I’m sure she’ll just pretend to be a new disguise, as always.
Maybe from brown to blonde today.
Maybe I’ll go from celebrations to breaking in the snake.
Maybe I will be the one that’ll finally break.,.
break him and just leave him a nervous rattling drum.
Rippled streams, leave him hanging and never to
call him back when he needed you most.
So who is really the lost one here?
The stones throw will just
shatter those crows.
Because he just sits there year after year refusing the find new homes.
When he’s going insane, just sitting in pity and haggard,
stuck in his eternal humdrum woes.
She’ll be stepping aboard, from East to West,
seeing the world in an everchanging brain.
She’ll go from palm trees to maple leaves
and drink the margaritas and drink in a summer rain.
She’ll be the one, living on steppingstones and hitching into the soundwaves of a lukewarm train.
The Feast (inspired by Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen)
I can hear nature immersing with the breeze
I awake from the wonderful dream of you and I together
and the real seeming real again.
3 doe standing together sipping the dew off the flowers
while you hear the howling fade, and the fires turning the trees to ash.
The wildlife swept up like yesterday’s trash.
Like the avalanches are coming to crush our Islands to the wash.
I just want to escape myself and rewind a dream.
Beginning to walk away from the blackness, a sunlight sits achingly in a field.
I bend down to take a drink to the waters,
and I breathe in the cuts of the primrose
while I’m just a sinner, feeling homeless and the water tasting of grease.
It’s not that I can forgive, it’s not that I haven’t, it’s not what I can do to try and ease you back in –
if I even were able to.
You are just somewhere silent and the screams of memory is still in motion in
I just want to escape myself and rewind a dream.
When flawless and hands were nervous and sweaty.
And we could look in each other’s eyes and cry for joy and not the death of a tranquil peace.
Listening to the thunder, the cattle scurry to the barns
and the rains begin pounding on my bruised arms
The Spring has a kick, and the mudpuddles are thicker
and the flooding causes even the strongest to flee.
And I will just live this day like a prayer.
And live this day like a soldier calling for another-
after being shot down in streams of ammunition.
Getting familiar with my blood, and understanding all my scars.
I just want to escape myself and rewind a dream.
I just want to see myself the day you first saw me.
Before I was not damaged, and the benzos hadn’t reshaped my mind
to be a feast to the doctors and be worshiped in by fiends.
They wanted me in their claws and
pull me into their mirrors.
While posing for some invisible cameras and hoping to be seen.
And you strayed from affection.
And you had to keep yourself from the edges yourself.
There are trains calling...and windowpanes shaking.
A sacrifice I take and the sunlight, infertile and dire
wants to go in for the night and just dream itself cold.
To escape myself hoping to rewind a dream.
From a Motel Somewhere
We were shaken in our radiance,
A shattering immortality
corrupted the ripe and sat lonesome against the splintered mahogany door.
I found a letter on the ground addressed to the hierarchy.
The prisoners are at the shore laughing in a fan boat,
they have smiles like gargoyles
While the dead dance at the ritz and do some sort of cellophane jig.
The gothic greedy mouse goes begging for cash from King Rat.
And I was watching as the bastard child failed to secure the gold.
They just talked to each other like a mumbled muppet behind the walls of these wishbones.
Time stopped and the children did play.
The wells they wished in was for a forever.
In tiny bits of water they made God into a tadpole...
to give them hope and wait all afternoon.
Watch for the light shoot down like a ladder from the sky.
Then we have all the muscled monsters in the mazes.
Remember them for strength.
..and their constant need to look just alike and flex for the fantasy in her golden skin.
They will not be remembered for their failures, their miseducation,
or their sweat.
They still show tears in dramatic flaws when the mockingbirds did come out to squawk.
Let’s look for the glutton sleeping by the tobacco fields,
as he is covered in tics and mites.
He’s moving through this prairie like a skunk,
just to become a possum city punk.
Carcasses and bones falling off the wagons, driving too fast near the cliffs.
Sunsets seem a little fancy for now,
and the stars are too bright to tremble for this apocalypse.
Another mystery in a town full of affairs.
All the sexiest and dreamers decide that in denial
they can mix in with the lacey foliage.
Mowing down the vacant lot.
In a distance full of sparrows and woodpeckers shake at the cage.
From a motel somewhere, the truckers coming in for a night of chemical sleep.
If Masterpieces Were Bloodshed
Could I blink out stars,
with bloodshed blowing from my thoracic aorta.
Like a lightning strike to the wind,
painting a perfect picture to define sin.
Slender wings, fat reptiles
Cold blood mixed in art
A witness will rise,
to slam our faces into this disguise.
Time has slipped and slept
with the stinging breaths.
The witch has left magic for death.
A tiger lily, a mourner binges tears –
across the ropes
The pulling against the cuts, the scabs itch against the scars
Eternally I have decorated you with my haunt.
Leave everyone curious, all shall see
the visible is in my invisible me
Wish for one last high, we can ride
The flights will rip apart this sky like
a thin silk, a yarn -
my frail skin
will come down like banners and lay.
Just lying there, cold
So cold, like stones stitched together –
like a masterpiece
Shivering, losing feeling
in fingers, in toes
my cheeks, my lungs
my bones, my heart
My weather beaten mind -
Literal Picassos, hobo Van Gogh
Dry heaving Monet in a radiation snow.
Art has, art had
our lives, our love,
our waves, all water dried
Emerge from withdrawals
Or silence, I dare your darkness
to ripple in a little sunlight.
Just hanging on, disappear
Fail the imagination, Fail
Then what is left is pale
watercolors in a shaking hand.
Orbs and nowhere to go.
White Sheet Metal Heat
I guess you’ll just invite yourself in,
Mr. superiority with black eyed, bloodshot, half-crippled
driving severed metal motorcycles with a loaded gun.
A corpse walker with white sheets in America.
Driving till the blood burns to a volcanic metal heat.
You travel with the Sturgis circus
Don’t come near my family, “wise man”
Flask in your hand,
Crystal Meth bubbling in your head.
Buzzing up bumblebees in your fuzzy dreams,
swing at the hornet’s nest
and watch the clouds bleed.
There is no glow for you.
Long grass blades with burnt tips is your energy fuel.
With your solid white sheet, you think you’re a form of king.
Smothering in like funnels obliterating nails
and shreds of the trailer park
vacuum up in the flames.
The pedophile Uncle and his 100 page letters
can’t invent you a new identity.
They can’t make your potatoes grow.
And they can’t
stalk your women for you full time.
There’s a burning ball of gas heading your way
to explode you from rotten to root.
Come on over, Mr. Loaded gun.
See the scars ripping through my skin.
Can you identify me as a fossil that has been eaten-
from flesh to ghost already?
Bones stripped and my teeth ready to chew.
I’ve buried rapist like you with the worms .
Crusting off in this white sheet metal heat.
Bravado comes, bravado runs
Bravado comes, bravado runs
Keep the running, bravado when blades chase
Keep the running, ego and greed. It is getting hotter and hotter.
Hide in your hills of dirt,
ready to strike when the guard is down
I’ve got the battle plan in my head,
I’ve got the battle field in the mazes of vessels and neurons
I’ve got the mind and all you have is led and steel,
swerving mirrors showing a shady fuck!
Drink your medicine for those brain eating “turkey mites” with threats and shouts
and cuss you outs.
Swallowing in your drug infected teeth.
Swallow them down into flakes
into the burning ulcer of your white sheet metal heat.
Your magic wand has left your hand.
As loud voices crack in the room of whips.
I have to escape my mind and walk away.
Into the dark, raining or snowing
Shoes or not?
No physical feeling when the suicides are swirling.
I feel the pain harder 'cause it cuts slower for me.
Rejection sensitivity, empathic.
the ulcers and worries just cause yourself to fade.
I don’t see my reflection anymore on these dark expressways.
Keep on walking with and in my pain.
pray inside for the waves to shave into a stream.
I can swim easier in my vision when the expressway doesn’t fade.
I think of life outside
just as chilly and mean
I wonder if there are people
that still remember the
Robberies and cowards
overcrowding my feels.
Claustrophobia dancing the
minutes of sedated thrills.
The pills can’t dissolve the
brain in a sinking prison.
Feeling the floodwaters wrinkle
my feet, the cuts and the
injections never cease. I am
wondering if I could put to
words the voices that scream
to me in this disease.
I can only imagine the trees
outside in full lambada. I can
imagine the touch of love from
another era, that no one
fashions anymore and the
celebrations now are now
brighter and pops!
I would trade my clothes for
the cigarettes and rest. I would
trade my soul for Jesus
beating in my chest.
My heart is made for steel bars
and switchblade threats for a
little lick of sunshine on a
follicle of my thinning hair.
Sinking prisons, concrete is
more like barbwire foam.
Years of short circuits and
trampling prisoners to their knees.
We are all in this cave, sinking
And we slowly asphyxiate in
Sinking, sinking prisons
It doesn’t matter your crimes
If you were a magnet or the
hidden star in the sky. You
were found and punished and
become a nameless gazelle.
with a jungle full of hungry
lions on your trail.
17 Fallen Angels
It was a good thing they invented the devil –
on a day that Yahweh was sleeping in the masses of rain
With hissing, conversions, hippy guru cult majesties
the angels begin to fall from the sky to the grass,
the lily pads, the valleys, out of the bars, into the cars
of mouths that drink in their own bibles.
Never to be found, left blind, deaf and touch was no longer a crowning.
Geranium lips. Kisses screwed to mouths, glued in filthy and watch him –
crawl in and out of the light. To knives, rope, tape & a weep from breath
that became a bark, a growl, a demonic quiver. Another angel in the dark.
When will the awakened get off their asses with blades and venom?
And fight out the hushes of the selfish,
the killer’s frail mind, the resonant cutting.
Fallen angels in guillotines being dreamed
by the assassins and the machines..
they made love to you in the midnight twirling sky.
Exchanged your evening dressed
for the ripping macabre thread that whips in and out of the darkness of eyes and night.
When the devil gets tired and then he forgets he’s just a puny human.
Chairs overturned and speaking in tongues. Foamy and milk. Shaken in silk.
He just knows he’s in love with your memory
rather than love the hurt of what memories
& the love that could have been.
The reality is that bubble that you choose to not live in
and the bubble he can’t get out.
They greased him in. The fix was the sin. And the hex was
the insurance. Walk through this glass and nails to save an 18th.
Callie's Dad: Obituary
I found myself an ill mess
sweating all over my bed
switching alarm clocks on and off.
I could swear my heart was
pounding nails in my head
I was all engaged in the world of me.
Well I read somewhere that
Callie’s dad died about 3
4 Summers since I knew her.
And we had visions of a
wedding, but July dresses are
much to sticky and itchy.
So I think I remember the man
vaguely, Callie’s Dad.
Met him at a family barbecue.
He seemed drunk and rude. But he shook
my hand and informed me there was still some catfish bites on the grill.
So I remembered your mom,
always answering the door, a
little teary, a little dreary. A
dirty rooster t-shirt and makeup
many hours worn and hair she
I once gave Callie a school ring
and said with this we’ll forever be.
And like a dumb young boy I skipped
home or drove in some out-of-date car
with neurotic loud voices and
shredding guitars. Callie ignored me and kissed
my cheek. And she said
“goodbye” as I was still developing a personality designed for her.
Now, with cloudy coffee, a
wasp in the room. I am
thinking of our drive-in movie
date, and her daddy threatens
her with the tricks that a full
moon will bring. "All the men
are searching and hunting and
the women are the prey" he says.
He wanted her to always stay.
But she strayed to another.
A blonde combover 27-year-old, Miller Light addict
A town boy with no city, no artistic aspirations.
He could read the hell out of a TV guide.
In her father’s obituary I find
out he left this Earth with 5
different wives. I am sure the bills
will never end. And Callie surely doesn’t remember me
more than a 2-week boyfriend. Her and blonde Dennis
have 6 mouths to feed and I’ve got a closet full of magazines
with cracks in the seams.
It Hasn't Rained in Spanish Harlem for about 100 Days
There is a tarantula running rampant through a Baja desert
with blue moon light.
A crowd of lucifers play the fiddles in Kentucky mud,
they live for the fight.
Wine is spilling from the lips of the rain –
and she knows that we all become drunk
while the grain is burning from barn to barn
the glass shatters from traffic jams.
A watchful crowd of hitchhikers look on stoned.
Lined up on the interstate they just stand while the plague is in full ruin...
and on each hand.
The sweat of lovers has painted the windows and the heat of passion falls off the buildings
and mold the sandy concrete.
A railway with a lawyer walking in a dirty suit.
He’s dressed up and thinks he defines cute.
He’s bland, full of cocaine and he’s a clumsy sloth...
with lipstick puked on by a prostitute.
Pistols going off and the whole city is afire
Everyone’s flesh is damaged,
and everyone’s uncle is conspiring
... about the world being a wholesale of tramps
It has risen enthusiastically while all the coffee has burnt,
and their biscuits are stewing.
They want the fancy, but the streets want to stain them.
The world caresses the old with new
visions of death. Generic black to Generic blue.
Joyous and decorous, the sidewalks seem like a puzzle.
To the bouncing balls and the jump ropes shredding like old bones.
Where are these gunmen coming from?
I smell their scent, but their fumes are camouflaged.
So we can ask ourselves to meet God and the wisdom tree.
We ask the foolish to feed the
We find that fools are nothing more than an ocean without waves.
Look over there everyone is milk white as heartbreak thrives in their chest.
They can’t fathom the drought or the dust that simmers instead of treasures.
A society of soundless, watching people can be so boring.
Letting another nerve weaken.
The wheels fall off and your left running unrestrained with no moon light.
A tarantula follows
..and you divided your blood and your might.
Lethally injected with the fuzz and the haze.
You have failed to realize that the thirst is real,
and it hasn’t rained in Spanish Harlem in
about, a hundred days.
Bio: David L O'Nan is a poet, short story writer, editor living in Southern Indiana. He is the editor for the Poetry & Art Anthologies "Fevers of the Mind Poetry and Art. and has also edited & curated other Anthologies including 2 inspired by Leonard Cohen and 1 for Bob Dylan, as well as the anthology series "Bare Bones Writing" He has self-published works under the Fevers of the Mind Press "The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers" "The Cartoon Diaries" & "New Disease Streets" (2020). A compilation of 4 books "Bending Rivers" a micro poem collection "Lost Reflections" and new book "Before the Bridges Fell" (being revised under Fevers of the Mind Press) & "His Poetic Last Whispers" (2022) David has had work published in Icefloe Press, Dark Marrow, Truly U, 3 Moon Magazine, Elephants Never, Royal Rose Magazine, Spillwords, Anti-Heroin Chic, Cajun Mutt Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Voices From the Fire. Twitter is @davidLONan1 and for the book @feversof Join Facebook Group: Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Arts Group . Facebook Author page DavidLONan1 A Quicksilver Trilling by David L O’Nan : Poetry & Writing style lyrics inspired by DylanNew Poem from David L O’Nan “September is my Blind Girl”The Bible Belt Bachelor Beat, The Prison Speech (2005) Poetry by David L O’NanPoetry from David L O’Nan : The Fevers of the Mind to Inspire Artwork Series (from Before the Bridges Fell)Poetry from David L O’Nan in the Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and WhispersA Review of “Before the Bridges Fell” by David L O’Nan (review by Ivor Daniel)Poetry: They Had Sadness in their Eyes ( Like in Littleton) from David L O’NanCurrent 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 WrenBare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle
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.