This poem has such vivid colors, it reads like a painting - sighing in the evening. - Sabne Raznik, N/S Editor
Though the vacant field was peopled with the pallor of naked trees/ and those piercing yellow shards warmed me toward newer poetry of Summer’s charm/ the effect of the day was as amber darkening clay, the colour of pitch blood. An interment of our decision to ask, the past is an empty sky worn southward and cool ravens eyes seem to watch me today insistently – Though the singing air could coax me (when I am willing) beyond an uncertain death / Of breath and gazes, our flagrant light lifts those darker shadows, sending them reeling against orange flame of edged horizons, where nothing must subsist.
-T. Byron Kelly
From The River of Swans
"The poem is a snapshot of our lives, on the verge of eternity and the fear that we all contend with. Jim Morrison said "Now is blessed, the rest remembered" and Byron's poem is a testament of waking into a world that is in between conscious reality and the eternal, a life on the threshold of Heaven but fraught with the dangers of the temporal." T. Byron K., N/S Editor
Sometimes when I look in the rearview
mirror on a curve and hold
a little too long looking behind,
an eyelash of eternity, I don't
know if I'm quite on the road
or if I'm going ahead or reverse.
In the rearview long enough for a feeling
of giddiness that makes me squeeze
the steering wheel and say, as if I
just escaped a terrible threat,
"I'm here. Right now. Eyes
straight ahead on the road. "
"Exploring the idea of the dissolution of the ego is a tricky undertaking, even in poetry, but this piece dives into the subject with clear simplicity. I love Amy's use of the flower metaphor here - all the individual, unique petals unified in a common fate." - Sarah Rossey, N/S designer
we are one and many
it was never an either/or
acceptance of the one
and the other)
allows the many
to live in harmony.
to the idea
that i am what i am
and you are what you are
and we are all brought together
like the center
of a glorious flower
Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia
Editor's Choice 3/26/19
"This poem comes alive when you read it aloud. The language is rich with paradox, imagery, metaphor, and sensory language. Though each line inspires a different daydream, as a whole the piece creates a vivid impression of a place that somehow feels both foreign and familiar." - Jessica Weible, North/South Editor
I was born in
the hometown of wind,
where it is windy constantly.
Throughout dark nights/ and bright days;
where meteor streaks across even
with a strong blowing,
breaks into glistening lakes
on the colorful ground around.
Migratory birds are confused easily:
Winter and summer are very short
While warmth is long,
Seasons cycle unusually;
Homesick seawater goes upstream frequently,
assisted by the wind
to embrace the snow mountain
and fall in a serene sleep ahead.
There grains grow so quickly,
golden sunlight in the field
satisfies/ all tongues and granaries.
The rest of the time people read poems,
boil the wine* and laugh joyfully,
ride the wind to roam distantly.
There women’s hair dances around
like blossoming fireworks/ or flowers;
There blooms are longer than elsewhere,
no disconsolate lovers.
Tears waft far away soon
after they stream
and are a rainfall to moisten desires.
Wind shuttles everywhere,
seeds, longings, dreams
and perfume of lives,
as dandelions root anywhere,
grow in an instant
into what they once expected.
Eternal souls wander with the wind
among the timeless future, reality and past
like shadows following the moonlight––
neither part in life,
nor separation by death,
for/ it is the hometown of wind.
*Boiling the wine is a custom in ancient China and even in some places of current China, which intends to warm the wine. After boiling the wine, some fruits such as greengages and preserved plums are added into the hot wine. People wait to drink the wine until the tart flavour of the fruits disappears.
Min Katherine Liu