Amethyst Review

The Beacons Everywhere

We exist in places
where near-death lives, always right outside
the walls, the mulling metal vessel,
where fear is far less than feeling the flicker
several light-years out
sending signals our way, signals our way, 
signals our way.
 
There's ghosts in all
the components and radio waves and rays of light varying in size; 
spilled ink performing gyroscopic manouvres,
fairies and will-o-wisps
and spirits of the deceased
providing comfort for the lone pilot,
and Jesus spending his last days 
lighting the starship's corridor lamps
for one more planet,
one more star, one more star closer
to the unpopped bubble of heaven.

Garrett Carroll is a poet and writer whose work has previously been in Star*Line and Utopia Science Fiction Magazine.

Snowfall



With an attentive touch snow falls slowly
on my hair, my face. I pretend to be
St. Francis feeding a bird
as the drops of snow anoint us.
I wonder what else could sustain
this moment of bliss. I think
of what Murakami wrote about a circle
with no circumference, a circle
with many centers and feel I found it
in the innermost center of my being
as I stand in this stilled moment.
Of course there is no circumference.
The elixir I breathe in defies barriers.

Janet Krauss, who has two books of poetry published, Borrowed Scenery, Yuganta Press, and Through the Trees of Autumn, Spartina Press, has recently retired from teaching English at Fairfield University. Her mission is to help and guide Bridgeport’s  young children through her teaching creative writing, leading book clubs and reading to and engaging a kindergarten class. As a poet, she co-directs the poetry program of the Black Rock Art Guild.

Secret Gardens

I feel that something is missing from most conversations I hear about spirituality today. How many times does one hear the increasingly trite recommendations to ‘live in the moment’, to ‘mindfully embrace the present’? It’s a strange thing to notice that even our most well-meaning, serious-minded ‘spiritual influencers’ seem to ignore or simply forget a fundamental truth. I find the omission to be glaring, most days. For what seems to be missing from so much of the popular wisdom about mindful living is the notion that we also live in the Past.

‘The human conscience is dependent upon time for its existence’, wrote the great filmmaker Tarkovsky. ‘Time… is a spiritual category.’^[1] Tarkovsky, just like Proust, felt that human awareness was rooted in the Past, that our identities are bound up with our personal and collective heritage. It is surprising to me how little heed our contemporary commentators pay to this elemental truth. What little interest they show for meditating and building upon the living connection we feel to our own histories. Yet our body and mind, our biology and psychological make-up, all of these are the Past, they are the products of a very, very long history. 

This neglect or even downright denial and negation of the Past is, of course, one of the stranger characteristics of our fiercely materialistic, capitalist culture. One which deprives us of the most elemental spiritual comforts. The creative act, be it writing or painting or crafting, allows us to gently and urgently reconnect with this truth. To begin a personal or even a collective conversation about the vital importance our histories play in the shaping of our lives. The creative act borrows its vitality, its intuitive spark from the same creative energy that flows through the natural world, past and present. In that crucial sense, it grounds us, it leads us ‘home.’

‘You can’t go home again,’ so goes the famous saying. Yet our ‘home’ is also the Past, and it lives within us. It breathes, it has a soul. It is our life’s work to cast a glance back into the depths of our elders and our ancestors’ richly woven stories and of our own authentic selves… I feel that in my own life, the creative urge to write and draw and paint invites me over and over again to discover a kind of ‘soul secret.’ Indeed, it is in the course of writing my book that I came across a particular philosophy that seemed to calm a basic restlessness of the soul. A restlessness I had always felt but never managed to properly name. I might sum it up by saying that it is rooted in the idea that it is Time itself which is the raw material of Zen art.

Once I began to absorb the full meaning behind this beautiful, age-old aesthetic, I also began to reflect much more deeply on the absence of a true ‘sense of the Past’ in our modern-day, and in particular in our Western cultures. Surely, this constitutes one of our greatest spiritual losses. Because when our deep, organic connection to the Past is rarely mentioned or even thought about, it’s as if our sense of belonging itself were broken, irrelevant. And as the French philosopher Simone Weil observed, a sense of belonging, of rootedness ‘is perhaps the most important and least recognized need of the human soul.’^[2]

I believe that cultivating a sense of the Past and of our ancestors’ stories through the act of creating is like finding a door onto a secret garden. It is discovering that our souls have all been ‘pre-loved’, that we didn’t come from nothing. It is carving a way forward, discerning a healing process, a more authentically mindful path. It is choosing to lean into the ‘wind’ and ‘flow’, into the river of Time. It is finding a ‘home.’ Writing the Past, as it were, is one of the most important, deeply healing spiritual gifts we can give ourselves.

---

^[1] Tarkovsky, Andrey. Sculpting in Time: The Great Russian Filmmaker Discusses His Art, tr. Kitty Hunter-Blair, University of Texas Press, Austin, 1987, p.58.

^[2] https://atlasofplaces.com/essays/uprootedness/ (Accessed November 29,2022)

Caroline Kerjean is a Quebec City-based author, artist and designer. She fell in love with art and culture at a young age and, after a life-changing experience restoring two medieval castles in France’s beautiful Alsace region, enrolled in art history at the University of Paris. After returning to Canada, she worked in the museum sector and published a first book. Kerjean now devotes herself full-time to her artistic and literary journey, aiming to pursue a rich and meaningful dialogue between past and present, one which evokes the weaving of a tapestry, an art form the author holds dear.

On Life as Water


It would be nice to have bones 
during a worldwide resurrection
but I’ve lived earth and firmament 
so long I’m thinking fluid
might be a better state, 
a new life not as a container
but uncontained, wild 
and raging at the source
then sluicing through adamantium rock
until a flat plain means I diminish
in the sea, evaporate, then launch again 
to fall, to etch, to wear, to nourish.

There would be places I’d be desired, 
deserts, farms, and watersheds,
places I could clean and weather,
and places repentance I could symbolize.
Perhaps that is what I most desire, 
a way to turn from one way
and live as another, be given 
a second chance to run through the rock
of hardened people, sustain the weak, 
wet the dry, purify, abound 
in the endless cycle of delivering 
from torment, rising to grace,
all those motions that my toughened self 
has often not permitted.

Perhaps that is why, when, 
without a reason, I weep,
joy, grief, sentiment, loss and victory,
birth, death, sex and intimacy
all bind in that slim meniscus of water,
and I know myself deeply, briefly, in a drop.

Jeff Burt lives in California with his wife. He has work in Williwaw Journal, Willows Wept Review, Heartwood, and Rabid Oak.

Aria
 
All of a sudden
a soprano’s song wafts
from my neighbor’s
veranda over
the mournful yelps of seagulls
who swarm the cove for fish guts
pitched from lobster boats.
Tossing back their beaks
they gulp the entrails
of mackerel. A gigantic
stone coated in brine
and seaweed rises
like a woolly mammoth
with the tide’s retreat.
I imagine it’s been there
since the continents
divided or since
our eye muscles
perfected their own evolution.
I sat dead center
recording the professor
who paced the stage
like a caveman in a lab coat,
his eyes seemed
locked on me – the English major
who never took a note.
For 500 million years
the revolution of our eyes
has not changed.
With equal conviction
he confessed – It’s why
I believe in God –
which is when a theatre
of pre-med students
all glanced up
and blinked.

Bill Garvey‘s poetry has been published in Nixes Mate Review, New Verse News, Margie, The Worcester Review, 5AM, Slant, Diner, Concho River Review, New York Quarterly, Cloud Lake Literary, and Rattle in Spring, 2023.

Fish

I'm a child on the pier with my toes in the cold lake water.
I can see only fog about ten feet or so out ahead.
My feet bare on each step, I walked down from the grass to the rocks.
My own voice is muffled and returns to me changed when I speak.

When I speak, it is words from the fog in the hollows of sleep —
Things I do not remember, surprising me as they emerge.
I can’t tell just how empty and large the inside of me is —
It’s enough, though, to swallow the pier and the lake and the fog.

This is where my interior deep was first sounded and pierced.
This is how I was caught. I still carry the hook in my mouth.

J-T Kelly is an innkeeper in Indianapolis. He lives in a brick house with his wife and five children, his two parents, and a dog.

The Connection Between Writing and the Sacred

Writing poems is my conduit to the sacred, the sacred I find in the vicissitudes of the ocean, the vibrancy of the fall foliage, communing with a wild rabbit eye to eye. For me the sacred means spirituality that I find welling up inside my soul whenever I hear a song or prayer that affects me so much that I need to dance. Works by Chopin, Schubert, Vivaldi and certain melodies sung by Bocelli also stir the wonder of spirituality within me that lives in my poems. 

I have faith in the goodness of people, and they often find a place to live in my poems: my parents, brother and friends who are no longer with me. They live inside me through my poetry.  Connection is most important to me, someone nodding in empathy, gestures that become luminous to hold. I encourage young poets to write–we are spiritually connected.

The sacred lives in the silence of a poem as it does in the sanctuary of a temple, mosque or church.

Janet Krauss, who has two books of poetry published, Borrowed Scenery, Yuganta Press, and Through the Trees of Autumn, Spartina Press, has recently retired from teaching English at Fairfield University. Her mission is to help and guide Bridgeport’s  young children through her teaching creative writing, leading book clubs and reading to and engaging a kindergarten class. As a poet, she co-directs the poetry program of the Black Rock Art Guild.

All Life Is Movement



The obvious mockingbirds,    the subtle pines
standing, expanding,    earthworms wending through
warm humus,    soft moss pillows blooming,    vines
stalking, winding,    dark swallows dashing to
the treetops,    algae pluming in the pond,
a spinning spider and a ceaseless fly,
stone-still coral,    an unfurling fern frond,
a distant osprey flashing in the sky—
the outer parts or the innermost are al-
ways circulating, working, flitting, fill-
ing, extending,    quick or slow,     large or small,
each in its own way dancing,    never still—
everything living moves and weaves and strives
because love moves, and the Lord of love lives.
 

Steven Searcy lives with his wife and three sons in Atlanta, GA, where he works as an engineer in fiber optic telecommunications. His poetry has been published in Ekstasis Magazine, Reformed Journal, Fathom Magazine, The Clayjar Review, and Foreshadow Magazine. You can find him on Twitter @ithinkiamsteven

Metamorphosis at a Stop Sign in Florida
(After the butterfly dream of  Zhuang Zhou, circa 369 – 286 BCE)

On a sunny day, at a quiet crossroads in Florida, 
I sat behind the wheel of my truck, minding the stop sign. 

I looked both ways.
Nothing was coming, nor going. 
Nothing was there. 
Nothing. Except me. 

And then…

an exquisite butterfly flitted silently across the road, 
like black and gold dancing together, and came to flutter 
above my cobalt blue truck, and finally settled down onto the hood, 
as if the truck were a giant fluorescing flower, and I, somehow, 
in my sudden ethereal state, was the nectar hidden deep inside. 

In that languorous moment, 
as its six delicate feet reckoned
with warm blue metal instead of soft blossom,
the butterfly slowly opened and closed its wings, 
as if pretending to fly, and the butterfly and I,
for the tiniest of instants, both believed 
I was a flower. 

And then… 

the sweet reverie melted and dissolved,
like a dream dilutes in the light of day,
like white smoke fades into blue sky,
as the butterfly skittered away,
streaking the air with graceful loops of color,
and I was left sitting alone in my cobalt blue truck
at a stop sign at an empty crossroads in Florida, 
wondering:

Wondering, am I a flower? 

Or a man, believing he’s a flower? 

Or a flower, believing it’s a man?  

I exit the truck and stand in the intersection,
the intersection of time and space. 
I feel the heat on my back, and turn,
full-faced to the sun, to gather in the warmth. 
Slowly, I open and close my arms to the sky,
as if I had wings, pretending to fly. 

I shut my eyes, tightly, so I can see

clearly.

T. S. Davis is the author of Sun + Moon Rendezvous, a book of poems, and is the former producer of the Seattle Poetry Slam. He’s performed his work around the US, including Manhattan, Chicago, and Seattle. Most recent publications include poems and essays in Rattle and other magazines. Mr. Davis is a retired Registered Nurse who lives in rural Arizona and writes creative nonfiction and Shakespearian sonnets.

Soul Resolutions (For Stanley Kunitz)					

I want to lean back
into immortal life—
misremembered
memories of the human race,
the myths of our abrupt
arrival here on earth –

and discover
what brought us
to this spinning planet,
where, instead
of finding Eden,
we push rocks up hills,

which roll back down
with each failure—
war and crime, poverty, 
pollution—to be worthy
of the treasures
we’ve been given:  
air and water, animals 
and plants, sun
and rain and colors.

I want to reconstruct
the ancient legends,
unveil the essence
of existence, see where
we made mistakes, 
and study when (and how)
we got it right;
	
to ultimately bless
this borrowed dust.
 

Alison Jennings is a Seattle-based poet who’s written poetry since her ninth year, but only began to submit her work after retiring from public school teaching.  Recently, she has had over forty poems published, and won 3rd place or Honorable Mention in several contests.  Please visit her website at https://sites.google.com/view/airandfirepet/home.