Amethyst Review

After Moving to Arizona

In the west now, 
high in stone mountains,
among ponderosa pines,
their long needles glisten
when sunlight touches them,
tops sway in the wind,
down from the Canyon.

The crows begin at 5:00, 
in nasal voices,
to share their jokes,
their liminal dreams.

The light here,
is it brighter, cleaner?
The long slant at dusk?

Van Gogh beseeched Gauguin 
to come to the south of France
for the light. This light?

When Nakai plays his flute,
it comes as coyote night chirps from Wukoki.
from yellow mesas and red canyons.

This morning I am still,
a fresh book on my lap, 
the breeze across my bare feet,
I watch the weightless birds 
float on light. 

John Ziegler is a poet and painter, a gardener, a traveler, originally from Pennsylvania, recently migrated to a mountain village in Northern Arizona.

‘Attend to what love requires of you which may not be great busyness’

(Quaker Faith & Practice: Advices & Queries No 28).

A reflection by Susan Brice (June 2023)

When you are child, life is filled with potential. You can daydream through the hours imagining your world, creating castles in the air; you can knock them down and build others. You can be anything, the possibilities are endless and you know that time is infinite. A kindly aunt or a silly uncle might ask ‘And what do you want to be when you grow up?’ The reply doesn’t matter because at this stage you really can be anything from an astronaut to a ballerina, an engine driver to a hairdresser. 

For all but a fortunate few, aspirations take a tumble when ‘grown-up’ arrives. You have to put away all of those childish dreams, you are obliged to look reality in the face. Work is what you are now that you are an adult, it is the thing that will keep you afloat in life. You will be busy, sometimes life will be hum-drum, sometimes exciting, exacting, annoying but you will be busy. You will be of use to others and to yourself. But there is something else which comes alongside the wage packet and the busyness: it is identity. 

The childhood question changes: ‘What are you, what do you do?’ To which you may respond in many different ways depending on your chosen path but being able to give an answer enables the questioner to place you, simply because you are ‘Something’. 

Kipling writes of ‘the unforgiving minute’ in his poem ‘If’. As I grew up I learned that to be and to do are much the same thing, a salutary admonishment for idlers ‘You’re neither use nor ornament’ was drilled into me. I could never be busy doing nothing. Filling minutes, being of value to someone or something in a tangible way was proof that I was worth the air I breathed.  So in one way or another, I have spent my life being busy. But now, there is a change.

I have been officially ‘old’ for quite a while now, I have a state pension and a bus pass to prove this. Retirement meant a random attack of busyness, unplanned, unfocussed. Because I have had plenty of minutes to give away, I have been profligate with them, over-filling them with things that prove to me that I am needed and that because I am needed I am valued. This has been my privilege, to have time to spend for and with others. For some years now I have taken an active role in the management of a child centre. This has taken up a great deal of my time and has become what I am – ‘What are you, what do you do?’ ‘I work at the child centre… as a volunteer that is.’ I am a Volunteer, I am useful. Then, last October, I fell downstairs and broke my foot. I had no option but to stop and wait for it to heal.

The time of waiting, with the excuse of a broken foot, gave me much pause for thought. In the midst of my great busyness with the centre, I was certain that I could never give up, I was essential to its running. The truth dawned pretty quickly as the younger volunteers rallied round. Without me they were free to progress plans I might have blocked, they were free to talk about their ideas without deferring to me. They were free of me and, although they didn’t say so, it was clear to me that I was no longer needed. Further more, the centre grew in ways I could not foresee. As I waited and reflected on all of this, I knew that my time at the Centre was over and I planned my departure accordingly.

A few weeks ago, I went in for my final day. It was an ordinary day, no fireworks, but it was the end of being on the front line. I said my goodbyes and came home. It felt right. But now that I am home I wonder who I am now? I have been looking for clues, what shall I say now when asked ‘What are you, what do you do?’The space is a gift, it scares me. The space is a gift, dare I enter it? Perhaps it will be safer to look for the next thing to do so that I can be Something? 

When I look back over my life, it feels to me that the Creator has led me to the places I have needed to be. Sometimes this has made no sense, sometimes the reasons have been clear, this time I’m not sure. I have recenlty finished reading I Julian by Claire Gilbert. It is the fictional autobiography of the life of Mother Julian of Norwich. Gilbert’s novel is convincing, founded in facts about the life of an anchorite. Julian was called to a life of contemplation, a stark, startling calling – walled up in a cell for the rest of her life. She was called at one and the same time to wait on the Creator and to be busy in her prayer life. Julian was anchored to one place. I see the parallel with my own life, I have never remained long in one place but now, I believe that I am anchored here, almost certainly, for the rest of my life. Julian believed she was called for a specific purpose, if as I believe I am now anchored too, what is my purpose? What am I called to be now?

I don’t have an answer but the idea that Love may not require of me great busyness is beginning to feel like liberation. Already, I am beginning to appreciate unfilled minutes, I take long rambling walks with my dog. I can breathe the empty air and not wonder what there is to hurry back for, I don’t have to worry about what I ought to be doing. Julian discerned that ‘The light is love, which God in his wisdom measures out to us in the best way for us.’ I am beginning to understand that we are called to wait then, my dog and I: to listen and to learn what we are and what Love requires of us.

Quaker Faith & practice (5th Edition 2010-2013) Advices and Queries No:28. 

Published by The Yearly Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers) in Britain.

Rudyard Kipling, The Complete Verse. Published by Kyle Cathie Ltd 1990

Claire Gilbert, I Julian. Published by Hodder & Stoughton 2023

Mother Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love (1997 impression). 

Published by Hodder & Stoughton

Susan Brice lives in Belper, Derbyshire with her husband and small dog, Sunny. She has meandered through life and has learned to be glad for Light and Joy. She also understands the blessings of Darkness and Sorrow. In 2022, Susan collaborated with two friends to produce an anthology of their poems, Daughters of Thyme (dotipress.com). They are currently working on a second anthology.

Metamorphosis Concerto

We forgot the seasons
vividly revered by Vivaldi,
our grip, firm on the train
of Baroque-esque brocade,
woven tightly by tellurian toil.
Like Babylonian occupiers
scoffing and gnashing teeth,
we forgot the seasons.

Oh help us to remember
le quatro stagioni,
spring's nascent lungs devouring
sounds of embryonic chirping,
streams' serene murmurs
and raw thunder staccatos,
storms of spontaneous growth.

We forgot the seasons'
weeps for clamant change,
our striving swelters away
under summer's blazing rays,
giving life to surrendered
metamorphic fragments.

We forgot the seasons'
unrelenting fortitude,
autumnus, as Atlas, holding up
heaping stocks of ripe
sacral promises, gramercy
reverberating in celestial études.

And under the frock of winter,
adjusting cranial pegs
and tuning cordis harpsichords,
His hope, like tender apricity,
kisses the longing heart.

He outlasts the seasons
that we forgot.

Tonka Dobreva is a writer and Christian life coach. Her work has previously appeared in Ekstasis Magazine. Tonka is currently working on her second chapbook, Undoing. 

The Blessing of an Unfamiliar Place


the orb weaver in her web 
outlined in dew greets me 
as I quietly descend the stairs

the damp grass refreshes my bare feet
as I enter the cathedral 
of the pale twilight

light spreading in the east
should be enough to convince me 
of my place In this unexplored landscape

opening my arms to the rising
sun I cannot yet see 
I greet the breath of life
the spark that animates 
the rhythm of my heart
the sea of emotions
on which I navigate my life
the stones, the bones of the old ones
the energy of the earth rises up 
through my baptized feet
up into the steel blue sky

it is enough to begin another day

Susan Bennett is a poet, activist and ritualist, leading women’s spirit circles in Northern Virginia for two decades. Her poems have been published in Ekphrastic Review, 50 Haikus, Amethyst Review,  Gargoyle Magazine, Rise Up Review, Artemis Journal, Cauldron Anthology and upcoming in the Arachne Press Menopause Anthology.

Wine in a Cup of Stone

An-oþer tyme ryth as sche cam be a powr womanys hows, þe powr woman clepyd hir in-to hir hows & dede hir sytten be hir lytyl fyer, ȝeuying hir wyn to drynke in a cuppe of ston. 
-The Book of Margery Kempe, ch. 39.

1 Margery Kempe Remembers: Lynn, c. 1431

It was a time of taking and giving. 
Alone in Rome, without her husband or her 
money, she lived with the poor: shared sour wine,
begged alms in the streets, lugged firewood back to 
the slum. Once, a woman beckoned her to drink
and rest in a narrow room. She saw in 
that room the world; the Virgin and Child in a
weary servant and her snotty toddler. The cup
was blessed, the place sacred, she says, thinking of
the woman offering a stranger her cup of stone.

2 – a critical interlude – 

Margery saw with her period eye
(see Baxandall, Panofsky) God pulsing
in mundane stuff. But while Campin’s leisured 
Virgins sat satin-wrapped in their parlours,
boxed in with lilies basins firescreens lamps;
Margery made arte povera.
Woman, child, stranger. Wine in a stone cup.  

3: Rome, July 2023

So I walked the Stations of Mrs Kempe;
chased medieval ghosts through Baroqued churches 
in rygth hot wedyr. I logged her places:
where she wept and confessed, where she sought the saints;
the place where God took her by the hand –

and passed unseeing that place where the world
transfigured as she drank a cup of wine. 

Maha Salih teaches and researches medieval English literature at King’s College London and has published several critical studies of The Book of Margery Kempe.

I Wanna Dance Like God Has Moved In Me Before
 
If God is a man-
let him look like McConaughey.
 
Remind me of the safe loving spaces carved
throughout my childhood,
 
Steel my mind against doubt
sown in the name of someone else’s agenda.
 
If God is a woman-
she’s already perfectly cast as Alanis.
 
Sit with me as I summon forgiveness
and the audacity to paint what I need to feel.
 
If God is a force of nature-
let it be a restless wind that rolls through me,
 
Pushes me forward,
battles the backward pull of regret.
 
When the storm within slows-
let me catch my breath,
 
And maybe-
for the first time
 
Feel the earth
under my feet.
 

Kristie L. Williams started her writing journey to impress boys and found her true voice as a poet during her time at Saint Andrews Presbyterian College in Laurinburg NC where she earned a B.A. in English/Creative Writing. She went on to East Carolina University and received an MAEd in Adult Education. She describes her work as disability adjacent, because although it shapes the context of her work cerebral palsy does not overshadow the arc of her story. She has been previously published by Main Street Rag, Dan River Review, Cairn, Maximum Tilt Solstice Anthology, Madness Muse Press, Hermit Feathers Review Heron Clan 8, Big City Lit, Nostos: Journal of Poetry, Fiction, and Snapdragon: A Journal Of Art And Healing. Her collection Finding Her was published by Finishing Line Press in 2022. kristielwilliams.com

Missing Petals


He says he doesn’t know why he did it 
             and that is the beauty of it. A disfigured flower. 
But it becomes a cramp. Annoying as a hungry dog. 
             So he seeks an answer. But the answer has no voice 
but signs like a butterfly bobs out of reach. 
             Unable to decipher the nods and shakes 
he tries to net the butterfly. But it is elusive 
             as steam is to boiling water. Why becomes a road 
with S turns and a ridiculous number of intersections. 
             Often he trips and falls into weeds 
that prick him, leave seeds clinging to his clothes 
             as if there are a hundred unborn answers. 
He decides it is a secret he does not need to know. 
             Attempts to convince himself a melody 
filled with wrong notes doesn’t matter,
             the dissonance haunting howl echoing. 
He needs a different kind of fuel to continue. 
             One that will burn like dry ice. 

Doug Van Hooser splits his time between suburban Chicago where he uses pseudonyms with baristas, and southern Wisconsin where he enjoys sculling and cycling. His poetry has appeared in numerous publications and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Orison Anthology. He has also published short fiction and had readings of his plays in Chicago. Links to his work can be found at dougvanhooser.com

Moonshining in the Outdoor Clawfoot Tub

Tonight:
Amid the wildly tangled
Fragrances of
Jasmine and honeysuckle,
Hot water fills
The old enameled
Cast iron tub.
Steam rises,
To soften silhouettes.
Young owls screech to be fed
Frogs in the neighbor's pond
Sing.

Tonight
The simplicity of
Soaking in that old tub
While watching Venus and Jupiter
Slow dance
As the moon rises,
Bathing in the moonlight,
Makes everything
Very,
Simply,
Intoxicating.

Terry Donohue is a poet, a short story writer, an artist, curator, a real estate broker, and the mother of a grown son. Terry currently lives and works in Bolinas, CA, an enclave of many artists. Passionate about the arts, Terry enjoys photography, writing, poetry, and origami art in her free time. She comes from a strong creative background, having spent time working in the Chicago theater scene after graduating with honors from SUNY Oneonta and was an Arts Columnist for the Point Reyes Light.  

Spent Blooms
 
In full dark deer graze on the amaryllis.
In daytime the shorn stems join
other evidence of altering.
             Hydrangea heads faded from china blue,
             Daisies gone to seed,
             my shoes peppered with their soft flat burrs.
Gone all the blossoms
             that through spring and summer
             I walked among for their gentle
             and buoyant company.
They swallowed the long days of dew, sun, storm
            swelled, bloomed
            gave all they had.        

We stand at autumn’s farthest edge,
             as on ancient maps where nothing
             beyond was known.
The north wind sweeps away warmth,
            sings of epilogues and endings.

Some will claw their green way up once more
Some are finished, will never taste
            the spacious air again.

Beyond the fading chrysanthemums,
             the shush and roll of the river,
             unstoppable, illuminating,
             show me the secret to acceptance.

Even if there is more to come, time must be well spent.

 

Karen McAferty Morris writes about nature and ordinary people. Her poetry, recognized for its “appeal to the senses, the intellect, and the imagination,” has appeared in Persimmon Tree, Sisyphus, The Louisville Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Black Fox Literary Journal, and Lyric Magazine. Her collections Elemental (2018), Confluence (2020), and Significance (2022) are national prize winners. She is lucky enough to live on Perdido Bay in the Florida panhandle.

Paradox

Flip over and float, 
she said after I confessed 
two-thirds into Deuteronomy
that I wasn’t sure about God
and that my mind was tortured.
She was a Baptist
in a Methodist house,
I was a doubter 
in a room full of faith
and there in front of God 
and five witnesses
with their Bibles open to the part 
where it says you may eat any animal 
that has a split hoof divided in two 
and that chews the cud,
a miracle began.
I closed my eyes.
I flipped over and floated.
But after a few months
of God holding my 
bobbing soul up 
till belief returned, 
he let go, gently pushing 
me to the shore
where I’m as certain today
there is no god
as I am that nothing less 
set me free.

Tina Williams lives in Austin, TX. Her poems have appeared in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, the New Verse News and Concho River Review.