Category: Poetry

Susan Evans’s poem “Lucy” appeared on Metapsychosis website in Autumn 2020. During the following winter, we exchanged emails in which Susan told me about her creative process, her sources of inspiration, and what her hopes for the coming year.

Going inward / I see my grey sleek wolf’s belly / moving forward on long legs striding / free, clear, unassuming / my natural strength carrying me / into the clear space ahead.

but i often underestimate my husband / for he pointed out that i actually said schizophrigid / i had a kitchen dresser which contained crockery i never used / over- solicitude is display mothering /

What happened, Miss Hooker asked–she meant my shock–so I said, Well, please turn around and take a look at Jesus there and tell me what you see.

The shrunken fighters, cheeks sunken and eyes Gibbous as praying mantis, like a god kept captive By some sick forest cult That provides sacrifice seasonally…

“Lucy the nun with the green socks / saw me hugging the oak tree / that summer I / hibernated in Spartanburg.”

“St Barbara, a poor white gloved icy ingénue, / Has long been a dusty piece of Black Forest wood // That grew out of the ashes of Sibylline books”

they call it soul retrieval | when your essence | core | beingness | the skeletal|hole|body|brain that lives in your gut|liver|kidney|body| self|shatters | breaks its own skull|heart|body in its crumpled raisin|brain as the result of small t | BIG T | sOmE TyPe of tRaUmA

“I’ve found a techno relationship cuts right into the core, the soul, brings out an almost more real version of yourself, makes you see yourself differently, your own potential to be better. It can achieve a level of emotional perfection. That’s also the problem…”

Following him into the darkest places taught me to never be afraid of the dark. / It’s full of unimaginable euphoric surprises…

“I must return love and life to those who offered me death / Gestating with hundreds and thousands of babies in me: / Progeny of my intercourse with the rock.”

Metapsychosis #OnlyPoetry channel presents: A guided reading and discussion of Iraqi poet Badr Shakir Al-Sayyab’s poem, “The Rain Song,” with Jordan-based author Dona Abbadi. Dona guides us through a reading of one of the most belov …

In America I came across a mulatto, who told me, “Yes we can—Make America great again.” And for the first time, the doors of the white house were allowed open for the entrance of a black phallus; America gave birth to black dead…

“Mothers should explain this to their daughters when they are too young…instead of folding church bulletins to make fans…”

the biggest secret: REPTILIANS! United States lizard government / help. Bloodlines). people think they know

blackbirds rise like a word from a hot hovel / satis house and her letter / and her first wedding gown / fires blank and face clocks / my hands / their spell / swelling the mouth of a match / the stone thrown into the sea and circulatio /

Hands of the dead here in my living hands / as I split stony squash with a crack of the blade, / scoop seeds, oil flesh for the fire—hands / of women and men in my hands, generations / repeating these gestures, the old pleasure…

We are always living in a story, always present in a myth. The key is to possess mindfulness towards worldviews and their presence in the awakened self—they are analytical frameworks of the mind that first allow the universe to be experienced in a specific manner and then formulated into pure, specific “understandings” about the nature of that universe.

From the first creation event of Timaeus that heralds a universe (the one and only) into the perceptible in giving a reality, this perfection persists into Plato’s Republic, a world of its own that deals with society and its paradigms in the social creature called humanity and its just longings.

From [this] indivisible awareness, the mystic sage is fully able to tap into the eternal mind of god, something that would smooth out a translation in terms of human consciousness—and that would give the creative impetus to imagine a text like Timaeus.

A selection of poems from John David Ebert’s new collection, These Things We No Longer Are, including Descent of the Angel, Peter, Dead Men, Five Skulls, and The Angel of Death

There was a time once when poets Sitting on cracked marble urns Invoked the muses; Or when the angel whispered Into Matthew’s ear The tale of a man Who came to earth as a god….

“On rooftops and deserted roadways, she would, in times of chemical storms, spread her legs across the sky to take in the pieces….”

Surrender the Life • Terra • Second Skin

Fuselage • Perplexing order • Hesitation • Jurisdiction lies in zoology • Caliber

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