art ~ spirit ~ transformation
e*lix*ir

e*lix*ir   #11
Twin Birthdays 2020
Poetry
 

TABLE OF CONTENTS


Editorial

Looking with the Eyes of Faith

e*lix*ir Poetry Collective

James Andrews
Harriet Fishman
Sandra Lynn Hutchison
A.E. Lefton
Imelda Maguire
YoungIn Doe

Translations

Remembered Music by Rumi, translated by Shahin Mowzoon

The Writing Life

The e*lix*ir Poetry Collective Writes the Creation by James Andrews

Essays

Love in a Time of Distances by Sandra Lynn Hutchison

Personal Reflections on Bahá’í Texts

A Finely-Tempered Sword by Melika Rezvani
Knowing God through His Creation by Nava Eslami

Art

Fabric Art by Helen Butler

Comic

Ruhi & Riaz by Solmaz Haghighat

Voices of Iran

An Army of Two Hundred Men by Ighan Aghdasi Yekta
The Goddess by Saba Sobhanian

Looking Back on Books

Rooms Are Never Finished by Agha Shahid Ali


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Bev Rennie

A.E. LEFTON

Hallowed

Before I leave, let me linger
in these mountains,
worn down as ground teeth.
Let me knit myself to these forests,
green lakes swollen with ice melt —
earth’s fevered sweat and tears.

On Walnut Street Bridge, mist
rises as ghost-wolves
haunt the Tennessee hills.
And a heron flies low over the river,
brushing his blurred image
with outspread wings.

Two men were lynched on this bridge,
and the spirit in my skin is bloodied
by rage, then purified by grief.
Down the river, thousands more
were thrown from their homes,
leaving the land uprooted
and my own roots
exposed.

Their swinging bodies sing to us —
voices shimmering in air —
a hallowedness imperiled
until we listen,
and heal.

Under the leaves’ anointing hands,
I lift my face to catch rain
on my forehead, stretch out my arms
to meet the green fingers of the world.
It’s been more than forty days
without human touch.

Instead, I caress moonfaced clematis
and white pansies. Rub my hands
into soft stars that release milky scent
in the tangled branches
under the greenway. Press my palms
into willow oaks, the satin hide
of crepe myrtles, the white birch
which shed their bark again and again.

Before I leave, I want the folk songs
that echo the Appalachians
to tell me the secret of their undying.
I want wild blackberries to stain
my teeth and the skill of wise women
who know that fire, water, earth, and air
arise from spirit, and return there.

Leaning against the fence that divides
this world from the next,
blue winds hollow me out,
and old gravestones grow moss
and say nothing.



Andréana E. Lefton

Bio:   Andréana (A.E.) Lefton is a poet, freelance writer, traveler, and educator, currently based in Chattanooga, TN. She has lived in the Middle East, Europe, UK, and USA, and works to create spaces for healing, art, and “the inner work of justice.” She is also an instructor with Turn the Page, a creative writing program for people in jails and in recovery. Her essays and poetry have been published by On Being, Sojourners, Sufi Journal, the Journal of Bahá’í Studies, the United Nations Society of Writers, and more: www.aelefton.org.