Kristen Scott (USA)
Kristen Scott is a six-time nominee of the Pushcart Prize in poetry for six works from her 2014 collection OPIATE. She is an award-winning essayist for her work on Federico Garcia Lorca and his books the Divan del Tamarit, Poet of the Deep Song, and essay, “The Duende.”
She has published in several anthologies, newspapers, and ezines, including three front covers from Nacional Newspaper in Albania, the San Diego Poetry Annuals, Nomos Review, Perigee, Alesbuyia, and published two poetry collections from Garden Oak Press; LIAISONS (2012) and OPIATE (2014).
Scott is currently the Editor-In-Chief, founder, and web designer of KNOT Magazine and lives in Turkey with her family.
lovers long ago, some past on, one getting ready to pass on,
travel my dreams like an interstate across other times.
One beckons me to the afterlife, tugs at my emotions
like a fish and toggle iron.
I rest my head upon his shoulder.
We cry together knowing that I cannot go.
My soulmate is dying. I speak with him daily, speak about him
in the past tense, preparing myself for the animal scream.
I dream my beloved marries an African priestess; he doesn’t invite me,
all the while we are living together.
dreams are mirrors?
The Quran says that sleep is a type of death and awakening is a resurrection.
These days, I don’t know the difference.
Nirvana (for Zafer)
They chased the sun in December’s early fall,
moved in and out of two-thousand- year- old
cobbled-stone and marbled streets, burnished
gold as fields of October’s ripe maze.
Even through the bazaar of chattering crowds,
street-side loiters, marina yachts, and seaside
merry, they heard only one another.
The faintest breath of fish, spider, and honeybee.
And so they drove. Her, with cream hands tucked
inside the warmth of his jeans. He, hands to Harley
bars, careful to not let wind chill the snow of her skin.
They dipped in and out of shadow, light, pavement,
and pines, bending into moment, somewhere between
easy and nirvana,
setting into one another with disappearing sun.
Yet, rising with moon’s imperial crest
Lovers and Pines
Changing winds move through pines, growing in rock-strewn
cliffs near the Aegean Sea. Everything changes here, but these pines
are old friends, encircling lifetimes.
We embrace hands, not wanting to admit that we are getting older.
What couples will sit here, sharing coffee, winks, and lover’s gests
after we are gone?
Will they remember how deeply we loved beneath happy canopies
of branches? These verdant grandfathers and grandmothers who keep
secrets of the world.
They have kept us along with seasons. Cycles of warmth and chill,
little bees with queens and drones who sting those coming near.
But we do not frighten. They relax, sing us surahs,
then buzz like barefoot toddlers leaping in summer clover
We want the world to know that we were here,
below bark and bough, smiling, planning our future among
Turkish coffee grounds, teas and cappuccinos.
You, chuckle when I place my foot between your thighs,
my red toes smooth wrinkles in your jeans, wandering further,
The bees go crazy!
pines hide in setting sun, just for a while, letting us have our fun,
maybe uttered by those before –
couples planning under parasols of shade
with sweet nesting sun,
a voyeur breathing between unfastened pants and pines.