3 Poems from Vyarka Kozareva

photography of sand inside the house
photo by Jean Wimmerlin (unsplash)


In a tapestried matchbox
I keep an old story 
About two colliding hummingbirds.
The feathers left behind
Say nothing tangible about the vanity
In the always-and-everywhere dimension.
Throb after thrill
And throe after throb.
My sentiment- intoxicated bloodstream
Imagines itself significant
To obfuscate the cynicism.


Can you discern 
The avid caterpillar in the orange heart 
Of the moon?
Its bile can scald arterial paths between poles
Leaving the juice to transpire
While the flesh’s still fresh
And the sickness transpiercing 
In its discordance.
I’m afraid
The wolves under my tongue will wail 
Stable in their indelicacy
To devour themselves.
Somewhere else, in lost saddlebags, 
Time, broody,
Is pining for stoicism. 
Please, from your tower of ossicles,
Show me the right orbit
For which to define 
The line of apsides.


Every night I visit different places,
Observe behavioral oddity,
Sleep in different crania,
Obsess foreigners
Who eat grapes 
But don’t share any with me.
Some of them laugh uncontrollably
Neglecting the risk of choking.
The new day insists on dexterity
To remove fermented beans
From the husky throats
And feed the vultures.
The sense of direction detects that
Once syruped,
The air’s already acquired a ropy aftertaste.

Bio: Vyarka Kozareva lives in Bulgaria. Her work has appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Ariel Chart, Poetry Pacific, Basset Hound Press, Bosphorus Review of Books, Mad Swirl, Ann Arbor Review, and is forthcoming in Abstract: Contemporary Expressions, Juste Milieu Lit, Sampsonia Way Magazine, and Triggerfish.

“Poetry” Breakers by Fiona Perry


Before they are born
breakers swell and loom
in rolls of blown glass
I would like to step inside,
to be statue-caught
in their crystal corridor
like an ancient body 
preserved in a glacier. 
Then –-
I can cut the white
noise. Reboot. Prepare
for my second coming,
as foaming diamonds
released from saltwater
ectoplasm thrown on
to warm, restorative
sand. Equipped for terra
firma dwelling. 

This poem by Fiona Perry was previously published in her first collection, Alchemy (Turas Press, 2021) 

Bio: Fiona was born in Northern Ireland but has lived in England, Australia, and New Zealand. Her first poetry collection won the Silver Medal in the International Poetry Book Awards. Her short fiction won first prize in the Bath Flash Fiction Award 2020 and was shortlisted for the Australian Morrison Mentoring Prize in 2014 and 2015.  Her poem, "Fusion", was longlisted for the Fish Publishing Prize. She won second prize in the Over The Edge Fiction Slam 2021.  Her poetry has been published internationally in publications such as Lighthouse, Skylight47, The Blue Nib, and The Galway Review. She contributed poetry to the Label Lit project for National Poetry Day (Ireland) 2019. 

Announcements: 2 Poetry Readings in Evansville for Fevers of the Mind with David L O’Nan & friends

Hello everyone, after a near 3 year reading aloud hiatus I have set up 2 poetry & music appreciation reading events. Poetry, music, essay style pieces, book discussions, a book signing & more. These readings will be based on the Fevers of the Mind brand. Poetry based on anxieties, social justice and appreciation and inspiration from stories/music/poetry about Leonard Cohen (2nd Anthology coming out in February from Fevers of the Mind “Before I Turn Into Gold” with artwork from Geoffrey Wren) Bob Dylan inspired pieces (hoping for a Dylan Anthology coming out by Summer) readings from my book “Bending Rivers” a poetry and short stories collection, pieces from the Cohen anthologies, and from a manuscript currently being reviewed “Before the Bridges Fell” pieces.

*With any pieces read please no racism, homophobic, sexist or sexually explicit material”

The 1st reading will be Saturday April 16th at Your Brother’s Bookstore in Downtown Evansville, Indiana 504 Main Street 47708 https://www.yourbrothersbookstore.com/ Readers are subject to change but we are hoping to have Kentucky poet/legend Ron Whitehead coming in for a set, Author of “Kin” Shawna Kay Rodenberg to discuss her wonderful book, Joan Hawkins, Peggy Pirro, Snow Mathews, Rob Z, Jon Koker, Joseph Fulkerson, possibly Joe Kidd & Sheila Burke coming from Michigan and more.


The 2nd reading will be Friday May 20th after 5 p.m. at BlueStocking Social Bookstore on 606 B S. Weinbach Avenue Evansville, IN 47714 A reading with a book signing, Q&A and more. Other readers will be announced over the next few weeks. Dr. Lorna Wood, Midwest Writer’s Guild Members and Tony Brewer are hopeful guests. Themes will be a continuation of what the Fevers of the Mind brand brings and a celebration of the music/writing of Cohen & Dylan. Anxiety, Social Justice pieces & more.


Home | Bluestocking Social

Any interested in reading or coming to event contact David L O’Nan at feversofthemind@gmail.com

A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase for Duane L. Herrmann

Gasping For Air

Dark hole sucks
me in suddenly,
no warning
and I'm lost
falling, falling, falling.
No bottom, no end,
until time passes
while others stand
they know not what.
Private agendas
pursued regardless
of consequences
to the future.
The one in pain
gasps, seeing
destruction looming
restrained from stopping.

Automatic "ON"

There is a switch
I cannot find
inside of me.


It sounds alarms
instantly, before
I know it's happened.
Train thunders by
pulling me along.
Far down the way
steam has decreased
and my brain
can think again.
Others say: “Insane,
unreasonable, bizarre,
not fit...” No.
Just mental wiring.

Jumbled Together

Reading, I come
to jumbled letters
on the page.
A word, I think,
but what?
Makes no sense.
I close my eyes,
stop thinking,
let the letters sort
themselves right.
Open my eyes:
there is now a word
and I continue
Less, this happens
as age becomes
my pain, yet
I remember still

Letters Stand

A mind contesting
with its brain
over what the body
will do – 
or won't.
The daily, hourly,
struggle of one
so graced with dys-
lexia. Letters
on the page don't
stand still, or
stay in order.
Others have no clue.
Child doesn't know
all others aren't the same – 
this, the normal
he only knows.
I know.


When your grip is slipping
off the rope
and there is no length left
for another knot
to hang on to....
What do you do?
What do you hold on to?
What can you do?
What will hold you up?


will set you free!
you didn't know you had.
of unknown power.
beyond belief.
WINGS to fly!

Bio: Duane L. Herrmann, a reluctant carbon-based life-form, was surprised to find himself on a farm in Kansas. He’s still trying to make sense of it but has grown fond of grass waving in the wind, trees and the enchantment of moonlight. He aspires to be a hermit, but would miss his children, grandchildren and a few friends. His work has been published in real places and online, even some of both in languages he can’t read (English is difficult enough!), in over a hundred journals and over fifty anthologies. He is known to carry baby kittens in his mouth, pet snakes, and converse with owls, but is careful not to anger them! All this, despite a traumatic, abusive childhood embellished with dyslexia, ADHD (both unknown then), cyclothymia, an anxiety disorder, and now PTSD. He’s still learning to breathe and do human at the same time.

A Fevers of the Mind Poetry Showcase for Aaron Wiegert

brown train rail near green trees during daytime

Let the Sound Come to You

There was a boy nearing graduation, 
With great acceleration, college on the horizon,
First in his family to

--he was pulled from one side
Of the gravel, down into the ditch
& never made curfew. 

Mom and dad cried and tried to find
Meaning and with an open heart
They gave the body of his car 
To the graduating class. 

The mangled frame sat on the back 
Of a flatbed’s slow tow around the town, 
In the homecoming parade, as boys and girls

Hammered the broken body without the joy
Or excitement of tires or glass 
Or an engine’s rush of gas. 

Candy was tossed to the children,
The football game was lost or won, 
But the blind eyes of spraypainted metal still

Lets the sound come to you. 

More Than a Carnivore Could Bear    (as told by my grandma about her husband's childhood)

He had a dog, part-wolf, 
Whose hunger was epic,
As his family had little to eat. 

It had been weeks
Since they had meat, 
More than a carnivore could bear.

So they collected wages
To calm their craving.  

Upon the block, his family watched
The Butcher stuff hot dogs, 
And decided on one each. 

Mother carried the paper package 
In her coat, and unwrapped 
It in the kitchen. 

Imagine Part-Wolf’s suspicion 
At the scent of fresh meat. 
Mother took the plate away.

Her trip to the hot plate
Was smooth, so much that
She slid and the meat flew 

Up and into the eye 
Of Part-Wolf’s teeth,
Snap and swallow, before

A scrum or tug-of-war. So went
The meat drought, 
Along with the Depression,

Until it didn’t matter
What dog they ate. 

Climb the Heights

We were just

Standing, watching either end
Of the Valley
Of a barren marriage. 

And in the Valley, walls so tall
Only a whisper of dreams
Could climb the heights

To pass where escape lies
As a basin, 
Lush with sap sweet
Water, if only enough to skim, 

In this impossible proportion 
To the dry, flat clime
Where time pulses like the night sweats
Of a neon saint with a circus in tow

Medics and Missing House Numbers

The passage of choice is a memory mirrored, 
Not a hallway necessity like a locked firehose cabinet. 
I regret not having a pass but had to see 
The red lights on the ceiling that are still squealing. 

Smash glass? No, sir. It’s no funhouse really, 
Just an extinguisher taking advantage 
Of the frame’s weak woodgrain. I don’t know
What you found, I can’t attest to that anymore 
Than the worm tracks on autopsied back fat. 

The distance between alone and together?
The greater the better, bigger pills with more color. 
How can you swallow a photograph taken 
At the moment of decision? There’s no map
To get back, even to itself– useless. 

Yes, there was a camera but don’t mind the process,
Exposure and acid and… Relief in the form of a Note:
There’s no need for numbers in real life. There,
Did you hear that? The sirens have been lost for hours,
Spaced out, in motion like an excellent illusion, even

If it’s too good to be true, just know there’s no framework
For feeling, true for daily dosage, one by one
I’ve watched the house numbers fall as the ambulance 
Drones around in concentric circles and I can still see you. 

The Corpse Flower

The Botanical Center is a replica of the terrestrial, 
Feeling lunar, artificial, a big bubble off the freeway.

The attraction was the bloom of the Corpse Flower, 
A giant, imported and set far enough away 
To be bothered by only a live feed camera. 

We paid admission and waited days, 
Married all the while. 

Standing on a footbridge in a controlled
Climate, I felt like an astronaut
On a movie set. 

While away, we checked in on the live stream, 
Awaiting the hamburger-scented bloom. 

Can a camera capture other senses?
We watched in case her jaws would fall open
Like the maw of a busted melon. 

With uncertainty, time grew slow and meaning swelled. 
Attention to the plant became a sheen

To preserve the moisture of memory, 
Like the head of a room-centered bust. 
And the live stream crept as though our watching

Would beckon a gardener, to unmask this plant
And reveal the great flower’s teeth. It wasn’t to be. 

Pictures were taken to preserve the day
And populate dating profiles, there was great momentum
For leaving, then there was the gift shop

But I only wanted to put my face to the bloom,
And Inhale the scent of our abortion’s birth. 

Bio: Aaron Wiegert has published two poetry chapbooks 'Evil Queen' and 'The Last Railroad Spike' both from Budget Press. Aaron's works have appeared in literary journals and anthologies throughout the U.S. as well as Australia, Canada, England, Scotland, Austria, and Nigeria. 

%d bloggers like this: