Author Archives: Sarah

Lighting the Absence

My belief: a cheap gold ring
passed on to me in childhood
when I couldn’t properly care for it.

The solitary stone was cloudy
as if smudged with dish soap residue.
Dented band, two broken prongs—

I surrendered it to the dirt one spring
when I planted seeds, actually did
a useful thing.

Later I saw a single electric candle
glowing in a country church window
and craved the secure weight I once felt
on my finger. The clapboard building
was deserted that Saturday afternoon,

rendering the gleam superfluous until dark,
superfluous even then on a back road
with no houses nearby.

Some nights I gaze at the sky
through a telescope lens and am stricken
by the emptiness that appears to breathe,
that threatens to devour galaxies.

I think of the void in my own chest,
a lack so profound it bears weight,
and I wish with the fervent hope of a girl
in prayer that the lone candle I glimpsed
all those years ago still burns.

M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes poetry while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in San Pedro River Review, SOFTBLOW, Calamus Journal, and numerous other print and online journals. She can be reached at writermstone.wordpress.com.

Winter Solstice at Glastonbury

If a great bell survives the molten bedlam
of its begetting; if in the slow-cooled darkness,
it crystallises to one clear voice; if it emerges
from its sand-encrusted shell with vocal folds
uncracked then I suppose it’s natural that we
should recognise its pure enduring authority,
its right to mark our endings and beginnings,
like the one calling now from a nest of stones,
somewhere among the spires, its measured
metal song shivering the thin bones of the streets.

The bell does not know, or care that this is the null-
point of the year, the bottom dead-centre
of the wheel where everything waits for its turn,
where the light clings on to a memory of itself
like hesitant glass, forever on the edge of breaking.
This is the time that puts us to the question
and even if we do not hear it, we must choose:
to blindly trust in the brute momentum of it all,
or to make a different act of faith, a sacrifice.
Either way, our rituals are much the same:
we rise; we step into the day to gather kindling.

Rob Evans is an aerospace engineer who lives near London but who works all over the world. When not flying or working, he spends his time writing poetry and sometimes reading it to hushed and not-so-hushed audiences. He is a one-time UK All-Comers Poetry Slam Champion but has since clawed his way back to some kind of respectability.

Welcome to Amethyst Review, a new publication for readers and writers who are interested in creative exploration of spirituality and the sacred. Readers and writers of all religions and none are most welcome.

Amethyst Review invites you to submit up to five poems (of any length) and/or prose pieces of up to 2000 words, fiction or nonfiction. Simultaneous submissions are ok as long as you notify us if a submitted piece is accepted elsewhere. No previously published work at this time please.

We ask that your work engages in some way with spirituality or the sacred. This is not  a place for proselytizing, but for thoughtful and respectful inquiry. Work submitted should be of a high literary quality, and show awareness of the context of contemporary poetry, fiction, and creative non fiction. No reviews at this time please, though this may change. Alas, there is no payment for contributors (or editors) at this time.

Please email all submissions to: Sarah dot Poet at gmail dot com with the subject head Amethyst Submission. Work should be pasted into the body of the email or attached as an MSWord doc. Include a short author bio (c. 50 words), with relevant site links if you wish.

Depending on the volume and quality of work received, the Review may publish new work weekly or more frequently. We aim to respond to all submissions within one week. As we are just getting started, first publications are planned for January 2018 onwards. Please follow Amethyst Review for regular updates.

We look forward to reading your work!