Amethyst Review

At the Poet's Last Reading

	In memory of Mark Strand

In his poems, the drama is elemental:
There was no pain. It had gone.
There were no secrets. There was nothing to say.
The shade scattered its ashes.
The body was yours, but you were not there.
The air shivered against its skin.
The dark leaned into its eyes.
But you were not there.

Those poems light as air
that used to want to fly away 
are now trapped between the covers
of a book three inches thick
and hundreds of pages.

Thoughtfully taking in 
its heft and size, 
the poet balanced the volume
in his open palm, allowing
himself the comment,
“Not bad for a life’s work.”

I was waiting for him to sign
the copy he was holding.
He didn’t notice me at all.
He was looking at the young man
ahead of me about to leave, 
as if he were willing 
some youthful part of himself
to plant its seed in him
and go forward into 
that new life. 

I remember
the moment so clearly,
as if I could actually observe
the flight of one soul
into another, and the youth,
radiating his own glow,
unsuspecting. 

The poet 
was lean as a razor,
his once-handsome features 
craggy as a rock face.
I thought “ill,” but not
“dying.” Yet in two months
he was dead. 

Anne Whitehouse is the author of six poetry collections.  Meteor Shower (2016) is her second collection from Dos Madres Press, following The Refrain in 2012. She is the author of a novel, Fall Love, as well as short stories, essays, features, and reviews. She was born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama, and lives in New York City. You can listen to her lecture, “Longfellow, Poe, and the Little Longfellow War” here.

Hope


The night is soft with sleepy leaves
and the ghost of a gauzy curtain. 

There is satin in the way you float
into dreams, your arms open and open

again. The hissing sound you heard
all day has finally stopped. Everything

put outside with the trash, sitting at
the curb, it is fizzled and over, until

tomorrow when it all returns, 
baby-new, plump as a berry

whole as the same old promise
of another, better day. 

Francine Witte’s poetry and fiction have appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, Wigleaf, Mid-American Review, and Passages North. Her latest books are Dressed All Wrong for This (Blue Light Press,) The Way of the Wind (AdHoc fiction,) and The Theory of Flesh (Kelsay Books.) Her chapbook, The Cake, The Smoke, The Moon (flash fiction) will be published by ELJ in Fall 2021. She is flash fiction editor for Flash Boulevard and The South Florida Poetry Journal. She lives in NYC.

Noticing.

The subtle similarities that strike you not as odd but so familiar they go unnoticed. 

And you are at once grounded and have taken flight, hovering above the dirt floor. Enough for security and fear to wrench your spirit. 

So you pay attention because a slippage of curiosity might cost you a soul’s eternity for what it’s worth. 

What is it worth, a soul? 

The darkness swallows cliffs of olive trees, the tips of their leaves scraping at the breeze. 

The sea laps at softened pebbles – or is it worn shards of glass? – and the echo reaches you, half a mile out. 

You are breathing. 

Breathe in the change, subtly visceral or viscerally subtle; you get to choose now because you hold the wheel, you hold the map, you hold the destiny.

Your destiny. 

And then there is the truth that lies beyond the pale. 

You listen for it, the regret, the pride, the woe, the joy. It’s just memory, which is confusing in its madness. 

Forgive it all. Forgive yourself. Forgive the past. Forgive them. Forgive. 

And we’re back. 

Notice.

Sara Sutler-Cohen is an artist and writer living in the Andalucia region of Spain. She is from the East Bay, CA, and has published memoirs, short stories, poetry, prose, and academic writing over the years. She is the Program Director of Human Services at CSU Global. Find out more at http://www.sarasutlercohen.com

Nephilim


A calyx of home-spun lavender,
a sacred rose wrested
of its thorns;
in their palms they sat
by the willow tree - until
the world ended.

Beneath secrets and bones,
a delicate creature
born or ripped
with spiralling time.
Hair not skin or a tail
of a beast or

a Nephilim
from the faded cascade;
in that other reality
by the floating water stream under;
the sun years away –
twined up with gold.

Louise Mather is a writer from Northern England and founding editor of Acropolis Journal. Her work is published or forthcoming in magazines such as Fly on the Wall Press, Crow & Cross Keys, Nymphs, Streetcake Magazine, Feral and Dust Poetry Magazine. She writes about endometriosis, fatigue and mental health. Twitter @lm2020uk 

Seeing is Believing

 
When you look at the sky
And see absolutely nothing,
God's a bit like that.
 
Gradually you make out
Birds gliding high above,
Seeing the world as it is
Not, how we think it should be,
God’s a bit like that
 
You notice clouds,
That may or may not bring rain,
God’s a bit like that.
 
Then you are made aware of the sun
But can not look directly at it,
Because of its brightness,
God’s a bit like that.
 
And when night comes
It is black, and once again
You can see nothing at all,
Yet you know on another night,
Perhaps the next night
You will see the moon,
And her apostles the stars
Lighting the way,
God’s a bit like that.
 
© Bernard Pearson
 

Bernard Pearson’s work  appears in many publications, including; Aesthetica Magazine, The Edinburgh Review, Crossways, Patchwork, FourxFour, The Gentian.  In 2017 a selection of his poetry In Free Fall was published by Leaf by Leaf  Press. In 2019  he won second prize in The Aurora Prize for Writing for his poem ‘Manor Farm’.

Living

Lucinda enters the dimly lit church and kneels in a pew. Her parish is open twenty-four hours for Adoration on Thursdays. It’s her favorite time of the week, a private time for private prayer. After reciting her rosary, she slips out of the pew and stops in front of the statue of St. Jude to light one of the votive candles before she leaves. Looking up at the huge statue of her Patron Saint, she remembers how he protected her as a child, helped her escape the stranger who tried to pull her into his car one day after school. She survived, thanks to the saint. How he helped her escape her abusive college boyfriend. And she survived. How he helped her endure fifteen years of marriage to an alcoholic. And she survived. “Thank you for protecting me, St. Jude,” she whispers to the statue. “But I’m tired. Tired of surviving. Tired of taking care of needy people. Tired of doing for others and never for myself. I want more. I want to live. Surviving isn’t living. Teach me how to live well.” As she lights one of the votive candles for this prayer, her cell phone beeps in her purse. It’s a text from her sister, Paula. A distress message. The only kind she receives from her sister. It seems Paula’s babysitter quit, and she needs Lucinda to come over right now and babysit for her. It’s no wonder Paula can’t keep a babysitter. Her children are little monsters. Even so, Lucinda always comes when summoned. Paula is her only sister. What can she do? Beneath the serene face of the saint, Lucinda’s gaze rests on the flickering votives. All those candles. All those prayers. Always answered. After a while Lucinda makes the sign of the cross. Then she turns off her cell phone. She opens the big glass door of the church and steps out into the delicious heat of a summer afternoon.  

Laura Stamps is the author of several poetry and fiction books: The Year of the Cat, In the Garden, Cat Daze, Tuning Out, and more. Winner of the Muses Prize. Recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. Mom of 5 cats. Twitter: @LauraStamps16. Website:www.laurastampspoetry.blogspot.com   

First Word


We waited – 
through coos 
and babbles, 
pebbles the tides 
tossed from his lips,

waited 
for a sound
we could proudly 
proclaim
as papa, 

for something 
akin to boo
as blueberries 
purpled 
his chin.

Finally, as sun 
startled 
his drowsy eyes,
he said ite. 
With outstretched arms 

he chased beacons 
bouncing across the ceiling,
wobbled 
into the shared space 
of language,

and first, 
there was light

Joanne Durham is a retired educator living on the North Carolina coast, with the ocean as her backyard. She was a finalist for the 2021 NC Poetry Society’s Laureate Award and the NC State Poetry Contest. Her publications and background can be found at https://www.joannedurham.com/.

Pandemic Bread


—on reading Meta Kušar’s Ljubljana no. 71 



A messenger arrives 
slender and pale
announces herself 
with a string of titles
reclines on the spine 
splits apart at the center
pages swing open
on a double hinge

La voix dans le corps
The Voice in the Body
Glas v telesu 


Three different voices
but one language shared
by three women poets
from a small green land 
of mountains and caverns
rivers underground
dragons and bridges
where writers abound

Their sweet mother tongue
transplanted turned sour
my grandmother said 
as she kneaded her bread
a weight to abandon
to forget and erase
—until I resolved  
to claim it again

Now a book in Slovene
(and English and French)
opens itself 
to the lesson I need
from a faraway poet
who tended her bread 
spun stories in words
not known to me yet


The poet reminds us 
to be patient and wait
for a gradual ripening 
of what matters most
whether bread or poem
soul or song
they grow together
in shared time and place

Fermentation continues
in the cold and dark
when our back is turned
even when we forget
each pocket of air
will rise and expand
gluten grown strong
with each intertwined strand

An overworked dough
is bound to collapse
but flavor will deepen
when hands do not rush
when we pause to wonder
and we trust and wait
the gift will appear
that was ours
from the start

Background note by author: Meta Kušar is a well known Slovenian poet and essayist. Her long multi-part poem Ljubljana (2003) was subsequently included in the trilingual anthology La voix dans le corps/ The Voice in the Body/ Glas v telesu: trois poetesses slovènes; Ljubljana: Slovene Writers Association (2005). 

Blair Kilpatrick is a psychologist and musician in Berkeley, California. She is the author of Accordion Dreams: A Journey into Cajun and Creole Music (U. Press Mississippi, 2009). She was the recipient of the first annual Slovenian Literary Award (2019) and is currently working on a family roots memoir. In her free time, she enjoys baking bread, playing the Cajun accordion with her fiddler husband, and visiting their adult children in Toronto and New York. Her website is www.blairkilpatrick.com

Where You Need To Be
 
Sometime
In whatever ocean
You find yourself
You can feel
The subtle pull
Of direction
Being sent to you
By the moon
Wherever it may be hiding
And if you can let go
It promises to carry you
There you need to be

Gerry Grubbs is an attorney who practices law in Cincinnati OH. He has several books out from Dos Madres Press, the most recent is Chrysanthemum Moon.

Roadworks


The high priests in their hard hats
stand round the ruptured gravel,
numbed by the spell of an old tree
that has wounded the pavement.

Six acolytes in orange glimpse wisdom; 
then, like failed Buddhist novices, 
they busy themselves with lights and signs
and prepare to inter their god.

As the congregation of cars
backs up along this pilgrims’ road,
machines fill the cracks, the shrine
is rolled flat and anointed with tar.

In an hour it is over, the mute deity
overwhelmed by these temporal repairs:
where once worshippers gathered round trees,
the gods lie beneath them, forgotten.

Events once ascribed to fate
and the wrath and revenge of the heavens
are now blamed on human intervention -
the diversion, the accident, the delay -

But the cracks will reappear: it is quite beyond us 
to fashion or comprehend the world
while earth moves and trees root.
Allow extra time for your journey.

Jeff Gallagher is a poet and playwright from Sussex, England. He has had numerous plays for young people published and performed nationwide. His poetry has appeared in The Journal, One Hand Clapping, Makarelle, Spellbinder and Runcible Spoon.