From a Pistic Frame – a poem by Sanjeev Sethi

From a Pistic Frame

There was no one to scumble
effusions of emotional strafe.
Connectives through sentential
etchings altered my state. Soon
I sensed: lation of thought is
mightier than its impeller. How-
ever meaningful a postulation
it’s outcome of an active mind
anatomizing a minuscule. We
are ill-equipped to sense the
supernal rota. Allegiance to
prie-dieu leads to light.

Sanjeev Sethi is the author of three books of poetry. His poems are in venues around the world:   A Restricted View From Under The Hedge, Pantry Ink, Bonnie’s Crew, Morphrog 16, Mad Swirl, The Penwood Review, Faith Hope & Fiction, Communion Arts Journal, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 

Used Bookstore – a poem by Christian Mack

Used Bookstore

I am met by a labyrinthian assortment of shelves,
………….the smell of ink on yellowed paper, ideas placed

under the auspices of reality, but by no means
………….claimed by it. I feel that, as I trace my finger

across the spines, dust building under
………….my nail, that Plato must have been wrong.

Had he stood here, amongst Wordsworth,
………….Hardy, Woolf, Fitzgerald, Joyce, and Steinbeck,

he might have had a sense of the divine within
………….the temporal, a merger somewhere between these

stacks. Here the realm of ideas meets substance,
………….here there are no forms. In this collection, taciturn, reticent

and, yet, loquacious and expansive, lies paradox.
………….As they sit between shelves so, also, do books

straddle heaven and earth, a firm,
………….iron-wrought, paper bridge between spheres.

Christian Mack is currently an undergraduate English and History major at Trevecca Nazarene University and is on the editorial board of Nashville-based literary journal, The Cumberland River Review. His work is forthcoming in Front Porch Review.

To Fly – a poem by Shawn Aveningo Sanders

To Fly

I sit at my computer
day after day
the blue light
a slow flicker
before tired eyes

From the corner
of my eye I spy
the flicker of Anna’s throat
a flash of ruby thrum-hum
seeking new nectar

Playful nuthatch
hanging upside down
on the feeder’s metal mesh
gorges himself
on sunflower seeds

The house-husband finch
at home on his perch
shows me his bright
red crown, waits for me
to praise his beauty

At the end of the day
a sharp pain shoots
behind my shoulder blade
I’m ready
to release my wings and fly

 

Shawn Aveningo Sanders started out as show-me girl from Missouri and after a bit of globetrotting finally landed in Portland, Oregon. She is a widely published poet who can’t stand the taste of coconut, eats pistachios daily and loves shoes—especially red ones! (redshoepoet.com) Shawn’s work has appeared in over 130 literary journals and anthologies. She’s a Pushcart nominee (2015), Best of the Net nominee (2017), co-founder of The Poetry Box, managing editor for The Poeming Pigeon, and winner of the first poetry slam in Placerville, California (2012). Shawn is a proud mother of three and shares the creative life with her husband in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon.

‘How the mystical beckons us’ – a reflection by Chuck Thompson

Every day I try to sit for a spell, to begin to create. Sometimes I’m successful, sometimes I’m not. I never know the difference. I try to transcend the ordinary in a way that sings, that comes alive, that speaks to me in ways I can’t always describe. In that sense, writing for me is as mystical an experience as prayer. Perhaps you feel the same.

I’d like to think I’m being led by the Spirit to work on myself, to discover more about what lies within. Unlike therapy or counseling, I’m not looking for a “cure” or a diagnosis. Or publication. For me it like early morning exercise on a good day — a way to feel better about myself, and the world.

It’s mystical, of course. As I sit to create I am almost completely unaware of what I’m about to say, and that perhaps is the biggest blessing I receive in creating poetry and in encountering the sacred. My soul is led on mindful paths that I would never have imagined when I first sat down – the lid of a peanut butter jar; a blue jay rising and falling from a porch railing to the deck; an exchange between two lovers in a Christopher Isherwood novel.

Where am I going to be led today? Free to sing in the shape of a sonnet. In the rules of grammar. In the play of assonance.

Here’s my center: I’m doing something that I love to do. Just like prayer, like mediation, like worship. With all the consolations and desolations, I feel called to move forward.

And isn’t that how the mystical beckons us? A chance to savor our intuition of the divine, in this quiet moment? A cup of coffee, a blank notepad, a favorite pen, a laptop… all elements which look so solitary, but actually open us all to the mystery of life that surrounds each one of us.

And isn’t that enough, as we, preparing for our unknown last breath, can feel once again the joy of a moment well lived?

 

Chuck Thompson has an MA in English from the University of Massachusetts, and his published work includes Busy and Blessed: 10 Simple Steps for Parents Seeking Peace (Christian Insight Press, 2014). He’s also a secondary school chaplain and spiritual director in Chicago, Illinois.

*

This is another in a series of short reflections on writing and spirituality. Please consider submitting one of your own – the editor would be pleased to read it with a view to publication in Amethyst Review.

 

Four Hundred Roses – a poem by Peggy Turnbull

Four Hundred Roses

 

From books I learned the Great Mother still
lives, disguised, yet as much with us as carbon.
I’m curious. Franciscan Sisters dispatch
an invitation wrapped in newspaper, to honor
Her in the form of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Inside the chapel modernist and vertical wood
seems institutional. I perch behind women
garbed in black and white discipline
serenely contemplating Her portrait.
Her heavy blue veil electrified by aurora.

Four hundred roses in plastic buckets
sing forward to the altar. First encounter
with the rosary. Repetitious praying alternate
English and Spanish and kneeling in a short pew,
wood pressing my knee sharply. The rose scent
alters vision, becomes haze. English speaking
tongue, thickly wrong-shaped for Spanish speed.

But speaks. Among a chorus. Brown face.
Layers shed. Until beneath hums. The majestic
SHE. Pulsing. And my cells too. With HER.
Creation spark. And refuge. Not safety.
And yes, horrors befall us. And yes, sanctuary
hoped, sought. No breath continued a guarantee.
But peace in trial. Tranquility in extreme moment.
And answered yes. The night mangled leafless.

Peggy Turnbull studied anthropology in college and has a master’s in library and information science.  She has written all her life, mostly in diaries, but after returning to her birthplace in Wisconsin, she began to write poems.  Read them in Ariel Chart, Writers Resist, and Verse-Virtual or visit https://peggyturnbull.blogspot.com/  .

Mato Tipila – a poem by Ruby McCann

Mato Tipila  

(“Bear Lodge” in Lakota)

last night trickling intricate filaments
of light-centred clusters
orbited Taurus’s shoulder
in a fluid milky-ultraviolet smouldering

like scattering starlight
seven neon-mercurial sisters
dance with four-hundred
luminous boys holding seven ears
of green corn from seven tilled fields
embodying seven tribes

tumbling sequential celestial bodies
unravel a pointing finger of fate
impossible to ignore
at the umbilicus of the universe

at the dwelling of thirteen serpents
seven bears hunt
the ethereal sisters
playing in a sunlit glade

seeking refuge under sacred rock
seven sisters sit on praying knees
veined clawed cracks spreading
from seven scratching bears
vigorously carving vertical
erupting rock formations
Coyote’s daughters take flight
ascend the sky tree
their lustrous light firing
up the white river aligning with Orion’s belt
where the Pleiades tribal spirits
dance on the leg of the Bull

 

Ruby McCann is a creative practitioner who holds degrees from Trinity Washington and University of Glasgow.  She has published work in publications, You Don’t Look British, Anti-Heroin Chic, Gaelstrom-1 Magazine, Invisible Cities, Poetry Scotland, Journeys, Word Rhythms, and many others.  She lives in Glasgow, Scotland next to the River Clyde.  Nature and walking inspires her writing.

To a god I don’t believe in – a poem by Anjali Bhavan

To a god I don’t believe in

I look for prayers
in the crack of a peepal leaf,
in your trembling sur.

I look for blessings
in thunderstorms slithering down
with mallippu blossoms in palms.

I stare at my atheism
in a darpan filled with you;
your questions dripping on me.

I find your fragrance
when I light the deepam everyday
at my mother’s behest;

I scratch at my doubts
day and night, looking for
your respite in every kovil.

 

[Glossary – peepal (Hindi): oak tree; sur (Hindi): rhythm/notes; mallippu (Tamil): jasmine; darpan (Hindi/Sanskrit): mirror; deepam (Sanskrit/Tamil): lamp (usually lit for worship); kovil (Tamil): temple]

 Anjali Bhavan is a 19-year-old engineering undergrad. Her work has appeared/is forthcoming in Speaking Tree (a weekend supplement of The Times of India), Esthesia Magazine, Coldnoon International Journal, Allegro Poetry Review, Sooth Swarm Journal, The Hindu and Cafe Dissensus Everyday. She currently writes on her blog, for The Wordsmiths and for High on Films.

111 Trees for Every Girl-Child – a poem by Ruby McCann

111 Trees for Every Girl-Child

(An Ode to Kiran)*

a young girl’s life
……………………………….Kiran
transforms death
……………………………….Kiran
through rebirth
……………………………….Kiran

 

her divine manifestation
lingers
lives……in an oasis of neem
sheesham……mango……amla
from seedling

holds dear…..birthing
baby girls……budding like saplings
blossoming reforestation
into womanhood

growing girls……yielding
trees from shooting seeds
nurtured side by side…..girl-trees
flourishing in unity

ensuring their survival
villagers collectively
care conscientiously
cultivate joy in protecting
lulled sleeping lassies
planting Aloe Vera
around tree trunks

creations daughters
bloom from branches
flowering green with leaves

 

*In the village of Piplantri in Rajasthan, India, villagers celebrate new-born girls by planting 111 trees. This marvellous custom was started by former village leader, Shyam Sundar to honour the memory of his daughter, Kiran who passed away when young.

Ruby McCann is a creative practitioner who holds degrees from Trinity Washington and University of Glasgow.  She has published work in publications, You Don’t Look British, Anti-Heroin Chic, Gaelstrom-1 Magazine, Invisible Cities, Poetry Scotland, Journeys, Word Rhythms, and many others.  She lives in Glasgow, Scotland next to the River Clyde.  Nature and walking inspires her writing.

A Ghazal of Love and Purity – a poem by Carolyn Patricia Richardson

A Ghazal of Love and Purity inspired by
حافظ شیرازی

With Great Blessings from the Imam
The Poet Seer feels the Wings of Protection

With a noble Heart & strong Mind
The Poet Seer struggles to apprehend the Truth

With a bowl of Muscat grapes & sweet stringed Lyre
The Poet Seer sings Ghazal to purify his Soul.

With words and music to express his devotion
The Poet Seer charms all who listen

With the kindliness of strangers and Holy men
The Poet Seer is helped along the dark Path

With a low Sun in a high Sky
The Poet Seer walks toward his Knowing

With only a thin Kellim & the Koran for warmth
The Poet Seer sleeps well under the curve of a starry sky

With Love, Truth and Beauty in his Heart
The Poet Seer seeks to achieve his completeness.

Carolyn Patricia Richardson is a poet, painter with work in the Public Catalogue, now re-branded as ArtUK; a maker of filmed poems and a guerrilla poet in the wilds of Dumfries & Galloway. Carolyn was a Director of the Scottish Writers Centre and is working for the 2017 Cumbrian literary festival  “Borderlines”. Carolyn’s  filmpoem “Spring Train” was commended in Cumbria’s FilmFling in 2017 and her recent publication is “Scots’ Rock”, Red Squirrel Press, 2016. www.redsquirrelpress.com Carolyn is lucky enough to spend some of the year abroad writing and painting in the South of France in National Booktown of Montolieu.

www.my-france.me   www.montolieu-livre.fr