Pen names are a beautiful thing. They are cocoons, allowing for the metamorphosis of a writer or poet. A writer either reveals their identity or they find solace in their cocoon. I know many talented poets whose identities are still a secret to me. Anonymity has its perks, and many writers become published this way. Not all paths lead to the same place. For those that want to be known, I have chosen to use my website to promote their work, along with my own.
Eve Poetry Magazine is an organic evolution of my great love to support and help others. I use my social media pages, both @eve_poetry and @evepoetrygroup to create inspiration and mentor others. Becoming a published author depends largely upon marketing. I use my skills in marketing to help bring light to beautiful poetry and writing.
Everyone has a story. People who share their written stories deserve to be seen and heard. This is the heart behind Eve Poetry Magazine.
Kamakshi Verma is from New Delhi, India. She is a student of Bachelor’s of Education. Apart from being an educator in making, she is a theatre enthusiast and performer, a linguaphile who is currently learning Spanish, a social worker who has been volunteering for different NGOs in India and a newly published writer.
Through her writings, she covers a spectrum of topics – Self love and acceptance, Nature and Travel, Romance, and Tragedy, Feminism, Mental Health, etc.
She draws her inspiration from literary legends like Sylvia Path, Margaret Atwood, Shirley Toulson, Robert Frost, John Keats.
As for her future plans, she is hopeful for working on and later publishing her debut book of poetry.
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There is a bullet lodged in me I think my shaking hands held the gun. It must come out or else, No chance for healing. No one around, no aid to call for. I try in vain to stop the torrent – Crimson wet, soaking, drowning me, Waterfalling over the aching wound; A glint of offending metal Buried deep between protesting ribs. No one around. It must come out or else. Shaking hands must punish and save. If I have to dig it out with my fingernails – I will.
Rhiannon Mitchell
Rhiannon Mitchell is an English-born writer living in Ireland with her family. She is currently studying and working in childcare, but writing has always been something she is very passionate about.
She wrote obsessively growing up, short stories and children’s books, but only began writing poetry a few years ago to process her parent’s divorce and her own mental health journey thereafter. For her, writing is a way of finding beauty and clarity in even the most painful experiences.
She finds inspiration in the works of Sylvia Plath and Rupi Kaur, in the beautiful Irish countryside and in her travels. Her dream would be to live in Paris, scribbling away at her poetry and her art in a little cafe in Montmartre in the rain.
You can find more of her work on Instagram at @poetrybyrhiannon
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
I promised my lover, that some day I will write a poem about him (never really knowing why) And after three long years and a handful of second chances I realised that for maybe some, poetry bloom from the deepest form of regret of letting go, of moving on and of falling in love.
Some nights I hiss at my choice of words choking upon the bitter memories that each metaphor holds, I apologise to my mother saying art is not something she should seek from me, while she replies casting her tender smile “Trap your pain, my love, before it starts to consume you.”
My heartbreaks wear faces that feel like home; owning my metaphors, abandoning my memories and I like a shameless lover not ready to accept my ends, I write. In fear, in happiness, in sorrow, in agony; I write.
I write till my lungs run out of air, I write till veins run dry I write till every sunset taste bitter I write till my summers start to wither; For I should trap my pain before it consumes me As a writer always falls a little too hard for faces who are never worth wasting poetry on.
Bidisha P Kashyap
Bidisha P. Kashyap is a young poet from Assam, India. Being a lover of words, her work often shows a hint of love, nature, the beauty of pain and old school romance.
She often writes mostly about chasing butterflies amidst wildflowers, celebrating sunsets, dancing with fireflies and about finding love.
Working with many anthologies and having her works published in newspapers and magazines, she looks forward to write a book of her own.
You can also find more of her works on her IG page @bidishaa_a
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
I like to go to Sunday School because there’s nothing good on television then and my parents don’t get up until noon so I’ve got to do something to kill time and it’s like regular school but there aren’t any tests, none that really count unless dying and going to Heaven to be judged does, Miss Hooker teaches me Sunday School and she says that when the time comes then I’d better be ready to show God that I should be permitted to stay with Him instead of being sent to burn in Hell eternally and as for Miss Hooker her choice is Heaven and though she didn’t say so it follows as the night unto the day that if I ever want to see her again, after we’re both good and dead I mean, I’d better do the things that will get me into Heaven, too, including praying and reading my Bible and not doubting ever that Jesus is the Son of God and most important of all is that I must get saved and Miss Hooker means that I need to have an experience, something’s got to happen to clinch my berth in Heaven once I’m dead, maybe like what happened to Saul on donkey-back to where -ever he was headed when God knocked him to the ground and I think blinded him so that he might see, that’s Bible-talk, and asked, did God, Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me, it’s a rhetorical question is what it is, I guess, and he changed his name, did Saul, to Paul and that’s what Miss Hooker says I need but the last time I fell off anything it was the mailbox post at the foot of our driveway and when Father came back with the new plastic mailbox to replace the old bent steel one he found me flat on my back and staring at the sky with my eyes closed, that was a miracle except that I was unconscious, but he roused me and I rose again and on his knees he asked me, he got as close as I’ve seen him to crying, he asked me if I was all right and I said Yes sir and then he embraced me, it was a fancy hug, and said For a moment there, boy, I took you for no longer of this world, that’s fancy for dead so I said No sir, I’m good now but I didn’t get saved, just a hike in allowance and two desserts after supper. After class and Sunday School I went to find Miss Hooker to say hello again and a few seconds later say good -bye. Gale, she said, I’ll be praying for you every night until we meet again next Sunday so I said, Yes ma’am, that’s very kind of you but don’t go specializing on me and she said something about sheep, a hundred of ’em and one that wandered off, it’s in the Bible somewhere and is it I? Yes ma’am, I said. Little Boy Blue.
Gale Acuff
Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Reed, Poet Lore, Chiron Review, Cardiff Review, Poem, AdirondackReview, Florida Review, Slant, Nebo, Arkansas Review, South Dakota Review, Roanoke Review, and many other journals in eleven countries. He has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel, The Weight of the World, and The Story of My Lives.
Gale has taught university English courses in the US, China, and Palestine.
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without your eyes as small suns affixed to the point of the farthest see-able. I can no longer tell where I’m going. I have wasted everything but words and for that I am sorry
even the word love has become water we couldn’t hold in our hands. In morning it slipped through my braided fingers, by day it evaporated to mist, by night, it froze to something we cannot bear to touch
the light in the bathroom has been out for weeks and it’s too high for me to touch even when I jump. Do you remember being broken and jostled in the backseat of cars and cardboard boxes?
this is to say, I miss the soft feeling of being lost in crosswalks of cities I love, being charmed the charm of your accent holding me tightly in its arms when we walked late that night
our voice tied in forget-me-(k)nots, braided together like your hair bound to wind like this light you thought had been dead for years, how beautiful you were
moonlight sharpening like a song for the city in your mouth
this is her, I say holding the photograph of the body that disappeared and yet I am afraid of the dark without seeing your hands opening my hands into light
I can’t think of anything else, when I try to there is not another way I can tell you that, even if I tell our story in reverse, it still ends with nothing.
Christ Keivom
Christ Keivom is a freelance writer who’s currently pursuing his English honors undergraduate degree.
You can find in him on Instagram at @passmethecigarettes
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
Ripples formed beneath her sole, propagating through calm water, slowly dying as it ventured further- from its creator. She was cautious not to break the water’s skin, cold depths of the lake seemed inescapable. She clenched her summer dress staring at the fickle moonbeams, called upon the watcher, pleading strength to walk on water.
Running Man by Pranav Krishna
A man was running on the winding road, the autumn leaves beneath his steps sang stories of others and their own, filling the air he thought was his. The cold whisked away his sweat, dove into his chest, taking away his sorrows in little clouds, misting the autumn leaves. Trees naked, like a new born with no visible memories of their past lives looked at the creature moving before, mystified; leaving its memories on their own. The sun was trying to peek through the stubborn grey blanket his moody wife hid behind, to see the lives he fathered. A man was running on the winding road, his legs groaning, his breath warmer, oblivious of the marvel, the drama like a goldfish, in a bowl.
Pranav Krishna
Pranav Krishna, born on August 28, 1999 in Kerala, India, is a writer of many uncommon themes. He focuses on the smallness of everyday life as a means to better grasp the human experience and to connect with its diversity.
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Feverish passion travelled from the top of her head, to the tip of her fingers, and down her paintbrush. The canvas reminded her of the life existing within and the life waiting to complete her own.
In these moments, she played god. But in every Eden, there is a devil in disguise slithering on its belly, hissing Paradise goodbye.
The snake’s face was of Adonis with curly chestnut hair, evergreen eyes, and faded freckles splattered across his face like stars bursting on purpose.
She could have wished upon them if she wanted. His features, the set of such fair cruelties, sent God’s hand into spasms and cramps. Time spent and toiled on this creature showed.
In the middle of his throat, the poisonous fruit hanged, snatching her eyes. She watched him; each gaze burned with intent.
As her tongue itched for his forbidden sweetness, her rib shook underneath her throbbing breasts. She knew it once belonged to him. She knew this meant they were bound.
Her hand, unable to recreate taste, called upon her tongue for assistance. The colours of scorching desire, of budding passion, and of warm blood boiled by the other’s fiery bosom tinted their flesh in likeness.
Their lips painted scarlet strokes; and out of each other, they created art.
No words were exchanged, for only kissing spoke.
The Heart Detects what the Eye Cannot by Jan Lunette
She was like a forest tucked behind every beautiful wonder of the world —
a discovery only my heart could find.
Jan Lunette
I am Jan, a 21-year-old aspiring author/poet from London. I am a Filipino immigrant who fell in love with novels and poetry, so much so that led me to take up English Literature in university. I started writing when I was 14.
Poetry began as a way for me to kill time (productively), but for the last seven years, it has slowly evolved to be the only way I wish to live my life.
Just like a bird’s cry, I like to think my words on paper serve as evidence of my existence. I scream from the top of my lungs: I write because I am alive and I am alive because I write.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
He had ripped the plastic lid Off too quickly It singed the left side of his index finger The steam belted out of the container The vegetables lay there like scattered limbs Frothing in the heat as if to yell Help! Help us!
His finger stung and throbbed He clenched his eyelids He ran cold water over the burn For a moment, the rush of relief flooded him
He looked out the window At the morning dark It would be light again soon He turned off the tap And the searing pain returned
His phone started to beep With the sounds of emails arriving Each beep sounding like a polite bullet He clenched his eyelids one more time And shoved the vegetables into his mouth Another day
J. B. Cahill
I’m a gay writer in Queensland. I live in Brisbane. I push work with words for a living but creative writing has always been a side hustle, primarily memoir and short stories. I excel at Facebook updates. I have recently rediscovered my lost love for writing poetry. I haven’t written prose since my 20s (which is more than a little while ago). My favourite poets are Mary Oliver, Tony Hoagland and Kenneth Slessor.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
It’s like walking through a dusty museum, the marble floor holding its ground beneath, the gaps making an oeuvre of echoes only an arbitrary foot could summon.
The diamond sharp seconds of lucidity.
Thoughts: the marginalia that cleave…
The palate sharpened as language secedes.
Anchoritic Leisure by Aaron Lelito
Shake hands, talk of this and that, look up squinting, drift a bit, consider the factors of the loss of concentration, absolve them,
corner the market of feasible sleep,
allow unprecedented obsessions,
counter casual matters.
Pay enough attention to cause trouble. No one will pay for evasion, hide the fine-print, or implicate the larger motives of halo-making.
To have perfect focus on something is reason enough.
Close the door and don’t answer the phone.
Aaron Lelito
Aaron Lelito is a visual artist and writer from Buffalo, NY. In his written work, he is primarily drawn to explorations in consciousness that take the form of short stories, micro-fictions, and poems; at times, he pairs his words with digital photography to create a visual piece.
Although natural imagery and environmental themes have become a primary subject matter of his visual work, the source of his interest in any topic invariably stems from a questioning of the world around us and the creative process that is born out of the impulse to express one’s unique vision.
His work has appeared in publications that include High Shelf Press, The Scriblerus, About Place Journal, 45th Parallel, and Alluvian. In addition, he is editor-in-chief of the online publication Wild Roof Journal, which contains an eclectic mixture of visual and literary arts.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
