*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/

A Poetry Showcase for Ivor Daniel *Updated 9/23/22* with Plath haiku

In High Summer

when flies walk upon my forearm hairs
proprietorial as landlords
and the land is ripe with roadkill

extreme weather scenarios
play out in real time

climate diplomats gather
but the plenary is beached -
delegates cloyed
as wasps in coulis

we sit around
the water table
with an ashen thirst

everybody wants to make a move
but no one does

like watching the bleaching of coral

the only thing agreed on
is that all this is unprecedented

unprecedented rainfall here
unprecedented temperatures there
unprecedented use of the word unprecedented     everywhere

in high summer
the deluge
the canicule
the conflagration

ants grow fat
grow wings
buzz my ears

we pick at
the brittle wishbone
of consensus

wait for crows 
locusts
to draw down the dusk
with a dry calling  

We Are Green

One winter’s day
through condensation windows
I mistook a withered gunnera leaf
for a heron’s wing.
Imagined the bird 
coiled, primal,
waiting at the water.

Months later, 
in the veiled sphere
under a summer gunnera plant,
I imagined myself 
small,
deep in zoological realms
below explosions
of virid strong-stemmed leaves 
as wide as the sky,
blush flower spikes
pushing up and through.

Today
in seasons of indeterminate grey 
when squirrels
do not know
which page
of the nut calendar
we are on,
it is the verdure
I return to.

I daydream of a kinder world.

Daylight and rainfall
elect a parliament of plants.
An upper house of trees.

We are green,
enfranchised.

XY (No Means No)

X.
Doctor Foster
went to Gloucester
in a shower of rain.

Fred and Rose
they quit town
but left a nasty stain.

That’s Fred West -
more than a sex pest.
Did unspeakable things
in his dirty vest.

Y.
Cycling past
the rape seed fields
brings it all back.
The yellow so vivid,
you lying on your back.

The yellow, the horror,
you want to be home,
but find yourself
involuntary, prone.

He seemed ok at first,
he said he’d drop you back.
The stony ground remains
no aphrodisiac.

You shut your eyes
your demon’s back,
slow, stupid in the sack.

And No Means No
involuntary
lying on your back.


Choose Your Own Mother
(for Rhianydd Daniel)

I have heard it said 
the yet unborn  
can choose their parents. 
 
A strange idea, this. 
Although we live in times 
when nothing is 
beyond belief. 
 
If it is true..    
If it is true, 
I ask myself 
the reason  
I chose you. 
 
Indecisive as I am, 
and daresay was 
before my birth, 
there is a scenario 
in which I am at peace. 
 
Wherein, unborn, 
I somehow hear 
your singing voice. 
 
And from that time 
I have no choice. 

sand in your blood

I remember when 
you scraped your leg on coral..
a rose rust bloomed raw 

under your skin..the
sea was a blister the moon
was a bruise.. all night

your fever rose and 
fell..lava tides licked feral 
flames..sand in your blood   

Ad Astra Zee

I am waiting for my blood
to clot. Broad beans
block green veins, 
velvet furred.
I am ripe
for it.

One day my feet 
will be corms,
shoehorned
in stony ground.
My soles are up
for it.

Hey Astra Zee!
I want my
second dose
already. 
             
I am weary 
of this solid flesh
my veins
so unimpeded.

Bring on the levelling dark. 

I am ready, pale horse
for your clip-clop.
For blood clots. 

Bolt, beauteous breathlessness! 
Bolt, cramping throbbing pain 

stampeded!

the paranoia shop

sells mini cctv 
for the home or handbag
sells cctv any size you need

hard-sells hard knuckle dusters
and knives all shapes and sizes
beyond imagination
for your perfect tribulation

they say carrying a knife
puts you more at risk of a stabbing
but the stab-proof vests are on offer today

see the cute hand guns 
to fit your hand    just so 

the paranoia shop
nestled between Gaultier  and Kenzo

I love to window shop there

It makes me feel so safe 

worm haiku

exit wounds out of 
apples, soldiers, the worm out 
of one the bullet

Perfect Bed

I dream I am at Bembom Brothers
Dreamland funfair park
with Tracey Emin.
Hard by Margate sands.

I know I shouldn’t drink that Vodka
on the Helter Skelter.
Apart from that,
a Day as Perfect as the Lou Reed song.

We Kiss with Fish and Chips Lips,
Join Hips. A Turner Sunset
Going Down.

I guess it is the Golden Hour.
Blair’s Babes 
and even some of his men MP’s
are busy Changing a whole heap of things
for the Better.

Back in your room 
we remember that
we even Changed the Bed this morning.

The linen soft and cool next to our Optimistic skin.

(This poem has previously appeared online in iamb-wave seven)

Going back

I went back, and it looked the same. 
I was not expecting that. 
Expected the usual rash of 
New Builds, creeping up the hill.

I went back, thinking
it would all look smaller, like
when I came back from America
aged 19, and it seemed like the train 
home had shrunk 
in a B movie.

I went back
looking for what?
The muddy lane where
we skidded our scooters?
The neighbour’s garden gnome
one of us pushed in his pond?
The Fish Caves, where we played
explorers? Journey to the Centre of the Earth,
or at least 
some way in
to that disused tin mine.

I went back, not to look for
my Dad, just some of the places
he used to take us. 
Halfway between morbid 
and curious.

I went back to the old conker trees 
and the scraped knees. To the
broken fence on Bishop’s Wood Road,
where it said No Trespassing
but my Dad said we’d be alright.

I went back to the old quarry
with the pond we thought was a lake.
I’m channeling a half-
remembered sense of comfort,
danger. Somewhere between 
Teddy Bears and Teddy Boys.

I went back to stacking
boxes of seaside rock
at Woolworths.

 Each stick had writing all the way through,
persistent as memory.

From up on the hill
you can see it all. 
The only thing different
is wind turbines out at sea,
turning like time.

I remember a school master who left.
All of a sudden. The smell
of that old classroom
at the end of the dark
corridor. Scuffed floor wax. 


Thanks Sylvia  for the Sylvia Plath/Anne Sexton Challenge

You married Ted, slapped
cobweb faced British poetry, 
long overdue


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. He has poems forthcoming in
After..., Re-Side, Alien Buddha, The Orchard Lea Anthology (Cancer) and The Crump’s Barn
Anthology (Halloween). .
@IvorDaniel





2 wonderful poems by Jennifer Patino inspired by Plath and Sexton

“Anne, I understand”

1.

It's one of those things. We all go through them.
Our little sufferings. We all have our own
little sufferings.

How many children did you bring? Up-swing.
How was your upbringing? Womanhood
is synonymous with duty.

Oh, I absolutely      wanted you here. You complete
the room. Wear green. Blue. No black. No doom
or gloom. And where's your other better half? Your groom?


2.

They asked me these questions in a different time. They
asked me them on a different day. You changed it all for us.
You showed the suppressed female another way.

You made us see right through them. Their transparency.
You wouldn't let them hide. You ripped rubber gloves off.
Dug right in. Your voice etched onto vinyl records is now therapy.

Thank you. For the attitude. Thank you. For acknowledgment
of every shade of moon and mood. Thank you for peach lipstick,
and jealousy, and pyrotechnic poems, and accusing eyes.

3.

I imagine it was hard at the end. Harder still, in the moments
you were sure it was the end and it wasn't. You kept pounding along
on a typewriter, on a wooden door, dry skin cracking in winter, bloody knuckled.

I can imagine a smoke filled room with you. You are the smoke. You
blend into the wallpaper because our host says it's vintage. You make
jokes and I'm your ventriloquist's dummy speaking in your voice.

I have no choice. You felt that too. You over-explained yourself. The worst
and best and gross and beautiful parts of yourself. Your books line the shelf
in the hospital, where I'm surprised you're not banned. “Anne, I understand.”

Sylvia's Medicine

this medicine // laced with dreams of dying //
elderberry mash // melts quickly on a raspberry
tongue //           sylvia left a message //
she is // the entire town’s favorite reminder //
she is // often stuck in my throat when I ponder
goodness //      swallow medicine // like
pumpkin seeds // teeth breaking on the outer
shell //           sylvia says I need to get out more //
but this medicine // makes greens appear blue //
turns them electric // makes red appear where none
should be //       “sylvia’s bleeding”   // she doesn’t notice
the jagged shell // embedded // in her pomegranate foot
this medicine // wakes me up fifteen minutes before //
the alarm clock curses // makes the sun catcher prisms
dancing on the creamed walls look magnified // magnificent
sylvia never cries // she let me // put this medicine //
on all her beach wounds //        I’m different //
I cry as she hands me // this bag // of this medicine //
she’s different            //         she lets me 

Poetry: This Place is a Sorry Excuse For a Hell by Jennifer Patino 

Poetry: Angel Light by Jennifer Patino 

Poetry: It Starts by Jennifer Patino 

New Poem “Gutter Girls” by Jennifer Patino 

Audrey Hepburn Challenge: Some Things A Lady Just Wears Well by Jennifer Patino 

 Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Jennifer Patino