A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Peach Delphine

Q1: When did you start writing and first influences?

Peach: Sophomore year of high school, Marvell, Milton, Keats.

John Keats - Wikipedia

Q2: Who is your biggest influence today?

Peach: Paul Celan, Brigit Pegeen Kelly

Q3: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your writing/art?

Peach: Florida, a subtle and secretive landscape heavily exploited with a harsh history.

Q4: Have any travels away from home influenced work/describe?

Peach: Wherever you go the world is beautiful, sometimes that tells you where you belong.

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

Peach: When I was fourteen the local paper started a weekly poetry column, I submitted and was published.

Q6: Favorite activities to relax?

Peach: Cooking, gardening, walking, canoeing

Q7: Any recent or upcoming work you’d like to promote?

Links to some of Peach’s poetry & more

Poem by Peach Delphine: wave is a circular motion

Poems by Peach Delphine: Every Cloud Has Life of Its Own & Speaking of Home, Beyond the Wind, Flat

Poetry by Peach Delphine – Entanglement

2 Poems by Peach Delphine: Coyote Song & 84 (any scar)

Patience of egrets a poem by Peach Delphine







Q8: One of your favorite lines from a poem of yours?

Peach:  - a forest of summoning a sea of renunciation -
"How easily I set aflame to this misbegotten body,
accelerant ever on my tongue, chine of wind,
cutting edge of utterance, "

Q9: Who has helped you most with writing?

Peach: I cooked for many years, you have to learn from everyone, even if it's not what you would do.     Thanks for having me amongst so many brilliant writers, it's been a joy and privilege. Stay well and best wishes.  

Bio: Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast.

2 poems by Stephen J. Golds “Boat Trip in VietNam” “Bus Stop Man”

Boat Trip in Viet Nam

Sitting on that boat in Halong Bay. 

The guide gesturing wildly at the cliffs 

telling us this one 

was shaped like a chicken 

and that one 

an elephant. 

The Orange Vietnamese sun on the water. 

Eating spicy fish prepared in the boats kitchen. 

You told me it was delicious and everything was so very beautiful. 

Perfect you said snapping photographs and kissing my neck. 

Perfect, I thought. Yes, it’s perfect. 

After the meal I smoked a cigarette at the stern, 

Watching the rats that infested the kitchen 

Fucking each other and shitting over everything. 

Bus Stop Man

Still think about him often.

The man in the green raincoat,

garbage bags for suitcases and the

burn scars molding his face.

Sitting all day at the same stop.

Everyday waiting for the same bus

that never came. Telling everyone

waiting there his wife had fucked another man.

Scratching, picking himself bloody.

Eyes passed filmy, glazed. Nothing but flesh on finger.

Still I wonder if that woman knew he loved her enough

to drive himself insane and

whether she even thought

about him or wondered

where he was

at all now?

Stephen J. Golds was born in London, U.K, but has lived in Japan for most of his adult life. He enjoys spending time with his daughters, reading books, traveling, boxing and listening to old Soul LPs. His novels are Say Goodbye When I’m Gone (Red Dog Press) Always the Dead (Close to the Bone) Poems for Ghosts in Empty Tenement Windows and the story and poetry collection Love Like Bleeding Out With an Empty Gun in Your Hand. He is also current Poetry Editor of Close to the Bone @scatterofashes

Photo by Mos Sukjaroenkraisri

Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Ryan Norman

Bio for Ryan Norman

Ryan Norman (he/him) is a queer writer from New York living in the Hudson Valley. Ryan enjoys swimming in mountain lakes and climbing tall things. He is a contributing editor of creative nonfiction with Barren Magazine. His work has appeared in From Whispers to Roars, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Black Bough Poetry, Hobart, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. His micro chapbook I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE A BOND GIRL is forthcoming with The Daily Drunk July 2021 and his chapbook CICADA SONG is forthcoming with Finishing Line Press November 2021. You can find him on Twitter @RyanMGNorman or ryanmgnorman.com

(c) Maggs Vibo

Q1: When did you start writing and first influences? Q2: Who is your biggest influences today?

Ryan: I first started writing when I was in elementary school. My first memory of writing is holding a little booklet I stapled together called, “Looks Can Be Deceiving”. Pretty cynical point of view there, little me. But it really wasn’t that bad. It was just about nice cats and mean cats. I started taking writing more seriously in high school, and that’s when I discovered Plath. She is my forever influence.

Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume II: 1956 – 1963: Plath, Sylvia:  9780571339211: Amazon.com: Books
Q3: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your writing? Q4: Have any travels away from home influenced work/describe?

Ryan: I grew up in a medium-sized city in New York. We lived near the woods and spent a lot of time in them. A lot of my work involves some aspect of nature and usually are set in the Summer; I think that growing up playing in the woods really affected my interests and things I notice, hence writing about nature often. Home has played a large role in my writing, but traveling hasn’t sparked any thoughts in me. I’ve written two poems that I can remember off-hand and they’re both in my chapbook Cicada Song

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

Ryan: I can’t think of anything in particular. My first published poem happened in 11th grade and since then I’ve been a poet. I did have a high school English teacher tell me I should go to school for writing, but instead I studied Psychology and Occupational Therapy. It was good advice though. I probably should have listened.

Q6: Favorite activities to relax?

Ryan: It may not come as a surprise, but I like to hike and sit next to the river when I need to relax or clear my head. And of course there are always video games. Will I ever complete Zelda: Breath of the Wild? Probably not. But I will find a tree to climb.

Q7: Any recent or upcoming work you’d like to promote?

Ryan: I do have two poetry chapbooks coming out this year. I’ve already mentioned Cicada Song, which is coming out mid-November. Pre-orders for that begin July 28th from Finishing Line Press. For those interested, Cicada Song is about navigating the often dark and threatening landscape of today by examining the role of mental health and relationships. And I have a digital chapbook called I always wanted to be a Bond Girl that comes out July 30th with The Daily Drunk. This one is more about taking what you want despite the consequences, and if the title doesn’t give it away, this is a pop collection centered around James Bond-ness.

Q8: What is one of your favorite lines from one of your poems, or favorite lines from others? Q9: Who has helped you most with writing?

Ryan: My favorite line actually comes from an essay I wrote called Parking Lot Neon published in Hobart Pulp and the line is, “I like the anonymity of speaking into the holes at the drive-thru. Watching my words pop up in fragments on the screen.” And I think it would be really fun to say I started that piece in a workshop, but I workshopped it in my Notes app. But I did take a workshop that really helped my writing. It was held in an un-air conditioned carriage house in Brooklyn, and it was one place. I would say that has impacted my writing the most so, thank you Leslie Jamison.

5 short poems by Rose Knapp : Immortality,George Floyd, Prayer, Jaguar Dreaming,Empress of the Night


Is it possible to truly live for ever?
Are not even the greats eventually forgotten,
Relegated to a footnote of history?

George Floyd

I CAN’T BREATHE! Asphyxiation, apathy
Nine excruciating minutes of torment
A year of protesting and fighting for truth

And then at long last a sigh of relief in Minneapolis
And around the world. Not justice, but accountability


Is prayer an effective way to approach
The multifaceted evils of this allegedly fallen world?

Is prayer, like astrology, psychologically Effective?
Or is it a hangover from a more
Superstitious age? Remnants of belief

Jaguar Dreaming

Jagged jade Jaguar jumps out of 
The surrealist unconscious jungle
That gives meaning to the mind

Empress of the Night

Queer queen of the night, sparkling reds 
And stark shades of black blaze onwards
Flashing flesh to fickle phantoms of the night

Author Bio:

Rose Knapp (she/they) is a poet and electronic producer. She has publications in Lotus-Eater, Bombay Gin, BlazeVOX, Hotel Amerika, Fence Books, Obsidian, Gargoyle, and others. She has poetry collections published with Hesterglock Press and Dostoyevsky Wannabe. She lives in Minneapolis. Find her at roseknapp.net and on Twitter @Rose_Siyaniye  

A non-fiction story by Stephen Allen (stoicpoetry) : “Samuels Grace”

Samuels Grace

In dusks, sombre drizzle he hobbles along; in the soft grey light of a dawn that shadows feed upon.
He takes small unsteady steps. Usually, he is invisible; at best he is barely noticed by those around him.
Samuel’s worn overcoat has been his mantle through many years of lack, necessity, and need.
I have seen him often over the years; always wondering about the story he carries within him. Sometimes I have talked to him and given him small amounts of money when I had some cash I could spare.

Samuel was an old man, surely an old soul, and by all measures he was surely homeless, but he was always gracious, with a smile, and a “thank you,” when anyone took the time to acknowledge him, even if only to say
Few people ever took the time to stop for a moment; to say, “Hello,” or even to acknowledge his existence.
Maybe he was a reminder to them; of how cruel this world can be; maybe he was a reminder that but for the grace of God it could be they huddled against the elements in all sorts of weather.
More than likely it was none of those things that stopped them noticing Samuel. It could have been that no one cared at all about a man they thought didn’t matter.

In time, I could not walk past Samuel without stopping to say, “Good Morning,”
Even when I had nothing to offer him.
His eyes would brighten when I stopped where he sat at the exit from Highway 35; just across the street from the bus shelter where the morning business types huddled against the cold, waiting for their ride to what ever office, or other job beckoned them.On occasion, I would think of Samuel as I packed my lunch for the day and make a few extra sandwiches. He never asked for anything but always appreciated the smallest of gifts. Egg salad was his favourite.

Supper: Something most of us take for granted; but walking home from work on a very cold January evening I found myself thinking about how such a normal thing is not something everyone can take for granted.
It was early evening on a Friday; I had just returned from work and as I walked closer to Samuel I considered how he had probably not eaten a hot meal in a while, maybe a long while; I tried to imagine how it must feel to have nowhere to go on a snowy freezing night like this one was shaping up to be.
Samuel smiled as he saw me walking up the snow-covered sidewalk.

Pausing beside Samuel, I leaned down to talk to him; “How are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh you know…just another day in paradise,” he replied; obviously very cold though the smile never left his face.
“Can I get you dinner?” I asked, trying not to sound as though I was offering him charity, or to be insulting.
For a moment he looked uneasy and lowered his eyes, but answered; “I would like that.”
“I can’t pay for it,” he said softly.
“That’s okay,” I replied. “I hate eating alone, and having someone to talk to is more than payment enough.”
“There is a little diner across the street, it is getting late and it should be quiet now.” I offered.
Samuel gathered his few belongings; a small canvas bag, and several plastic bags, then rose stiffly. We walked in silence to the diner only a few hundred yards away.
As I had opened the door Samuel looked relieved; there were only two other people sitting in a booth.
The waitress who greeted us did not look comfortable, but I ignored her frown and asked for a booth for two. She looked as if she were about to say something more but finally smiled and led us to a secluded booth in the back of the diner.
The place was nothing special, just a basic diner with basic food, but Samuel looked through the menu as if he were at a fancy bistro. I told him he could order whatever he liked.
The waitress took our order, all the while scowling, and looking as though she really didn’t want to serve us.
The food arrived, and we ate in silence. Samuel seemed to be enjoying the food, though he ate slowly, enjoying every mouthful.

Samuel finished eating his meal and a thoughtful look deepened the lines on his aged face.
“May I ask you your name young man?”
“Of course,” I replied. “My name is Stephen.”
“Why me?” He began; “Why me, why today, why this place?” You really don’t know me, and I know almost nothing about you…I honestly don’t. “Sure, I know that you go to work, you come home, and you; for some reason, take the time to see me.”
I didn’t have a good answer to give Samuel, all I could offer was, “I am sorry if I have intruded,” as I looked down at the faded checker tablecloth.
“I just felt there was more to your story than people see when they pass by you,”
“Everyone has a story you know, no matter what anyone wants you to see, there is always more.” He said softly.
“I am no different from everyone else.”So we began to talk, while Samuel enjoyed the warmth of the diner.

The fire in Samuel’s eyes speaks of another world, of other lives. Slowly he begins to speak.
“I have built worlds and been held captive as they crumbled; forced to watch, always so helpless…then they were gone.”
“A wife with cancer; a war, and three grown children out there making their way in this world. I tried, honestly I did; there was no way to stop any of it; I could not help.”
“I do not regret my choices; such a life of adventure, love and loss. It is inevitable that we feel loss, the one thing, the one rule is everything dies, and we can never prevent it.”
“If there is one thing I can tell you anything that might help, it would be to clear the burden of your past years.”As we had left the diner, I pressed 50 dollars into his hand and thanked him for talking with me. He merely said, “You’re welcome” and hobbled away.

Several weeks went by without seeing Samuel at his usual spot by the freeway, and one morning I crossed to the bus stop to ask whether anyone had seen him recently.
“No, but I’m glad he has gone; don’t they have places for people like that?” a woman in a business suit scowled. “Goodbye, and good riddance to him I say,” she added.
I continued to watch for him, but he never returned. In the spring, he had still not returned.
I miss Samuel; I miss my friend. 

Bio: Stephen Allen was born and raised in Northern Ireland before relocating to Canada.
I have lived in the US and currently reside in Austria.

I have a novel and a poetry book self published, as well as several short stories. (Amazon KDP)

I also have a blog on WordPress; Through The cracked Window (revisited) 


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