Imagist by Paul Brookes

Worms Of

light bury through wooden clouds.
Insubstantial trees disappear, or are reshaped
by sunlight and gust. They bucket down leaves,
make the earth sodden with them. Rain making,
thunder making anvil shaped trees make rainbows.
You can see the grain in the clouds.

Depending upon how and where 
gust and light saw through wooden clouds, 
defines their grain, curly,straight or flat 
in relation to their growth rings.

I splish and splash paving slabs
sending concrete waves and ripples
to either side. Dive into the pavement,
backstroke through crazy paving.

Have You

seen the face of flowers?
A furrowed brow of lavender.
The skin folds of a rosebloom.
Gustblown fascinator of a Daisy.

A lily with its yellow tongue out.
A field full of closed mouth Tulips.
Climb a mantelpiece of mountains.
Pass the ornaments added to
by every visitor. Step carefully round
the opened envelopes of scree.

An affectionate crown of thorns
The gentle stigmata of a caress.
The spiked maiden of your hug.
Thumbscrews of our hand holding.

Look out of the windows of the moon
Let in a fresh air of stars. Street furniture
of an ancient wood. A sofa of raised roots.
Trees become lampstands ready
for the moonlight bulbs to be switched on
in their crowns, meanwhile sunlight bulbs move
from crown to crown. A shared lighting display.

What wallpaper did you choose for your face
before you went out? Large red open flowers
with a brown background? Anaglypta?
The red brick wall, or geometric lines?
Watch out for those with cat faces
who may use your face as a scratching post.

Skirting board round the hem of a room.
Are we under the dress of this lounge?
Or are we outside admiring the folds
of paint or wallpaper the room has chosen
from her wardrobe? Colour matching
the carpet and three piece suite
under or outside the skirt.

Walk carefully over the floorboards
of cirrus and nimbus. Especially,
at night when you don't want
them to creak and wake up
the house. Watch yourself
on the cumulonimbus,
one false move could see a downpour.
Your socks polish these clouds.
They sparkle, after mop and bucket work. 

Bone Colours

This morning sky is a blue bone,
winter tree branches untouched
by gust. Sky breathes easy
amongst the silhouettes.

Sometimes there are holes in the sky
and you can hear a bone flute
Naked branches become Aeolian harps,
plucked by gust, sky's breath.

The White bone walks
across itself using its body
as music. Hear the voice
of itself. The voice goes ahead

The body follows the sound
from bright light to bright light
from cirrus to nimbus
from gust to gale

The white bones is talking.
It walks across the sky.
A sunlight and moonlight path.
At night it is a black bone.

As if the sky is ash. A cremation
of the blue and white into grey.
Night is the burial time.
Day is the resurrection time.

The sky is a white bone
made of clouds.
Thunder is percussion
of lightning against bone.

A Knifeblock

Winter's knife block
is the key to unlock
sharp and keen edges
slice tracery and pages

of thin skin let flow
blood juice, let know
a thin line between
the bone and the dream.

Every Bone is

a word
We grow into, one
that may learn to stand,
Uncertainly before the first step.

Others may crash their words
against us, to show
how their strong
meaning and confidence,

might replace
our word with another.
Our words hold our frame up,
a scaffold to others.

Every word is a bone
coming out of your mouth,
wishbones, charmbones,
angerbones, lustbones.

Smallbones stick in your throat,
largebones make your mouth 
bulge as they muscle out
between your incisors,

bang against your molars,
restrict your tongue, breath
blocked, wordbones hard 
to utter through spit and mucus.

My Mop Bucket(Apologies to William Blake)

I create moods with mop and bucket.
My chiascuro is very expressive.
My brush is very free. I learn
from the Old Masters.

My floors are landscapes.
Spillages become portraits.
Accidents are worked in
In my head there is colour

on my mop that describes
dashes and dots. I'm a mophead
full of bright colours I dip into
and out of my bucket. No two

floors are the same.
I'm a buckethead.
Washing away the muck,
remaking it I imagine outside.

Different temperatures,
gusts, light. Bring them all 
into my bucket.

To see the world in a mop
And Heaven in a bucket.
Infinity in a dustpan,
And Eternity in a brush.

A One Eye

The sky is a skull.
One eye is the moon.
One eye is the sun,
The sky only uses one eye.
 
The one eye of the moon
waxes and wanes, sometimes
a crescent eye, sometimes full,
the blood eye, harvest eye,
 
wolf eye, hare eye, storm eye,
chaste eye, Blue eye, seed eye,
corn eye, snow eye, mead eye.
Ocean eye works the tides.
 
Draw down the eye lit
by light borrowed 
from the other
eye of the skull.


Bio: Shop Assistant. Writer and performer. Books include  Please Take Change,  A World Where, As Folk Over Yonder. Latest: Wonderland in Alice...
Twitter @PaulDragonwolf
https://t.co/FM3fFo6T8z  for the Wombwell Rainbow Blog. 


A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Scott Cumming

with Scott Cumming:

Q1: When did you start writing and first influences?

Scott: My first writings would have been in my teen years with what I called lyrics, but since I’ve never been able to play an instrument it might be more accurate to call them poems with choruses.

I was influenced by the music I listened to through the years starting with Oasis and the Manic Street Preachers before getting more lovelorn and aping the likes of Weezer, Ed Harcourt and Ash.

Q2: Who are your biggest influences today?

Scott: Shawn Berman is the other as he has taught me to embrace my light, silly side in my writing through his work and his site, The Daily Drunk. I’ve had a lot of stuff published there throughout this year and I’ve had an immense amount of fun doing it.

Q3: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your writing? Have any travels away from home influence your work?

Scott: I grew up in the Bridge of Don in Aberdeen, which has the distinction of being the largest suburb in Europe. We lived on the outer edges of it and there was room to explore the surrounding countryside.

Subconsciously it is there in my writing as when I think of places the image will often come from a place I remember from when I was young. The place truly was a collision of rural and urban spaces.

Q4: What do you consider the most meaningful work you’ve done creatively so far?

Scott:

LCD are Sitting Next to Us at the After-Party (dailydrunkmag.com)

This poem is about a great night I had with a friend who has recently passed. I’ve written a few others that will appear in my forthcoming chapbook. 

Poetry has helped me to process my feelings about his death and made me confident enough to reach out to people I hadn’t spoken to in some time and clear the air about things either real or imagined.

Q5: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer?

Scott: There really isn’t. 

I was never someone who had the confidence before and always thought I wasn’t good enough to write or create. You see all sorts of people with their PhDs and MFAs and I’m just a guy who didn’t realise the value of education until too late.

Now I have the confidence, if not the belief, that I can write whatever I want and even if it only finds an audience of one, it’s the doing it that matters.

Q6: Favorite activities to relax?

Scott: Recently I’ve been playing the Nintendo Switch we got for our seven year old’s birthday a lot to destress.

As well as that I obviously love to read and have been keeping up to date with the latest stuff from B F Jones, James Lilley and Andrew Davie among others.

In the past few months, I’ve taken to filming myself reading poems that have particularly impressed me and posting them on Twitter.

Q7: Any recent or forthcoming projects you’d like to promote?

Scott: My chapbook, “A Chapbook About Nothing”, will be released on the last day of 2021. It is so called because of its complete lack of theme and the duelling, possibly jarring nature of my crime/dark poems against my light, pop culture fare.

Q8: What is a favorite line/stanza from a poem/writing of yours or others?

Scott:

“I remember when we had nothing, but

allergy medicine spiked into each of our legs
licking the drip of epinephrene blood from your thigh”

This line is from a poem I had published at The Five-Two (The Five-Two: Scott Cumming (poemsoncrime.blogspot.com)), which is among the favourite things I’ve written thus far and perhaps the darkest thing I’ve written.

Q9: Who has helped you most with writing?

Scott: Stephen J. Golds, B F Jones, Max Thrax, James Lilley are probably the main ones. They’ve each taught me something that has become integral to how I continue to write. It can sometimes be a lonely furrow and I’ve been able to rely on them to pull me through at times.

Links:

New Poem by Scott Cumming : Magical Realism vs Middle Earth

2 poems by Scott Cumming : “The Layer Between Us” & “Ear Worn”

Poetry by Scott Cumming : the Daily Battle & To Be Written Upon Waking

Twitter: @tummidge

https://punknoirmagazine.com/2021/04/22/3-poems-by-scott-cumming/

https://punknoirmagazine.com/2021/06/30/something-broken-by-scott-cumming/

https://dailydrunkmag.com/2021/03/30/two-poems-by-scott-cumming/

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2021/02/21/poetry-by-scott-cumming-the-daily-battle-to-be-written-upon-waking/

Bio: Scott Cumming never considered himself to be a writer until recently, but turns out he has some stuff to say. He has been published at The Daily Drunk, Punk Noir Magazine, Bristol Noir, Fevers of the Mind, Versification, Close to the Bone and Shotgun Honey. Catch up with all his misdemeanors on Twitter @tummidge

3 Poems by Paul Brookes in Fevers of the Mind: Her Fiftieth, Her Fur Elise, A Black Bead

HER FIFTIETH

You would have been

fifty this mayday, sis

five in the car, you drive.

nail in the tyre, too much

wine last night you celebrate

a workmate’s birthday

drive down the motorway

to pick up your son from school

a bottle of wine a night

amasses fat in your face

a business built from zilch

debts you hide from view

grieving for a mother

dead three years

bumps in the road

nails in your tire

car leaps over reservation

somersaults onto bank

and back again

the other four crawl out

sit on the bank

watch firemen cut you out

your excess weight

squashed against steering column

the only one to die

only thirty five

finally, with mum

I celebrate your fiftieth

my dear, dear love.

Her Fur Elise

I awake to Beethoven as Mam taps the upright

Piano downstairs in the through lounge

where morning light highlights dark brown dining table

And varnished coffee table both polished

with Pledge until you see yourself. Later

chemo will make her petite fingers fat,

Fur Elise break into fragments as disease progresses

and piano sold as her hands come to rest.

A Black Bead

I was given in Fifties by an Indian guru

in Madras with advice “Keep this

and you’ll be alright.” Correctly guessed

I had two girlfriends.

Eighty one now with asbestosis

a cough that hacks​

at his body more each time we meet.

-You’re so thin dad?

-He said I’d be dead at eighty two.

-Where is it?

-I can’t find it.

-I’d best start preparing now.

-It’s a joke,

he says and spits

into his half full spitbag.

I find the blue paper

he wrote the prophecy on

dated 1962

the year I was conceived,

and take a photo of it with my mobile.

I give it to him

in the hope he’ll notice

it says he’ll die at 84.

He died at 83.

BIO: Paul Brookes is a shop asst. His chapbooks include The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). The Headpoke and Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), A World Where and She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Press, 2017, 2018) The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017), Port Of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018),Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net, 2018)

Forthcoming Stubborn Sod, (Alien Buddha Press, 2019), As Folk Over Yonder ( Afterworld Books, 2019). He edits The Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

greyscale photo of grand piano

The Unresolveables (An Heroic Crown Sonnet Sequence) by Paul Brookes at (sonnets 1-15)

Anthology Post: Finding a Wonderland in Alice by Paul Brookes (poetry)

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