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Quintessence
Never had I seen the sun like one winter's afternoon
late last February. The warmth was drenched into those
hills of the Blue Ridge, into the stalks of yellow and orange,
rolling back finally to the dark mountains,
and the still darker clouds.
We ourselves were engulfed in shadow,
steadily approaching that sunlit stretch of road before us,
that splash of quintessent light.
A gentle warmth touched the back of my neck,
and I turned, to see but a sliver of silvery white light
at the horizon, light which eked out from under
the stormy tumult of blue‑black clouds.
And soon we were immersed in it, bathed in light,
the light of spring, or almost summer. It glinted through
the strands of hair in my eyes, and I squinted to keep looking.
So I closed my eyes and breathed,
and let it seep into my veins,
and warm my forehead
and my cheeks
and my shoulders.
And suddenly it was gone.
We were in darkness,
among the mountains,
and then just shadow.
We meandered through those hills of greenblack forests,
like a mountain brook in early evening,
now and again coming upon a splash of sunwashed hills,
searching for that light,
until the sun went down.
Allison Chase Sutherland
Published in the Katuah Journal, North Carolina
Mountain People
The grey winter sky hovers over the village,
threatening to swoop down with nightfall.
A woman carries burdensome logs to her cabin,
to feed to the struggling flames in the hearth.
She wraps a moth‑eaten quilt,
tightly about her sinewy frame,
to shut out the icy strands of December
squeezing through chinks in the walls.
Her hands are weathered with time like the mountain,
the palms grooved like the tire tracks frozen into the dirt road.
These are hands that once held warm lovers,
brought orphaned raccoons in from a storm,
caring hands that held weeping children,
and comforted them when frightened by distant coyotes,
and scratched their backs until they found the itch,
and opened the tightest jars of jam...
The people of the mountain are quiet,
one with themselves, one with the mountain,
but in the lines on their faces, in their strong hands,
in their calm way,
they tell how they work and live and breathe,
and brim with life,
like the woman rocking her small fire
in that cabin on the hill,
her heart a smoldering ember,
warm despite the howling wind beyond,
whipping through the sturdy firs on the mountainside.
Allison Chase Sutherland
Published in the Katuah Journal, North Carolina
Caracas, Venezuela The Pool
Green mountains loomed,
high in the mist,
I dove,
into the pool,
deep,
and swam underwater,
with long, smooth strokes.
Until I surfaced,
with a breath,
into the sunlight,
hot, strong,
and I emerged
from the blue depths.
Drops of clear water,
glistened on my body,
and fell from my hair,
and were cooled
by a breeze.
Until they disappeared,
and left a cool tingle,
and the breeze,
dried my hair,
strand by strand.
Allison Chase Sutherland
Published in The Forum of Phi Sigma Iota, Nevada
The Caesar Augustus Hotel
The Caesar Augustus Hotel was a movie star
from the forties,
I could hear the click of the projector.
From her balcony one could still gaze
down the craggy cliffs,
to the ever‑gentle breakers of the Mediterranean.
And from that balcony, off to the side,
one could catch a glimpse of the terrace,
where one might think to dance on a starlit evening.
But above, the once‑manicured lawns
had given way to weeds,
crouching at the feet of the proud Roman statues.
And it was as though the must of the curtains and peeling wallpaper
was from those exquisite costumes of the past,
stale from the theatrical closet.
And now the tired winds of time had washed and muted
the once‑magnificent palace,
waiting to fall from the Isle of Capri to the sea.
Allison Chase Sutherland
Published in The Forum of Phi Sigma Iota, Nevada
Toward the Reef
The pierce of the sun was blown into glittering rays over the azure ocean,
as we emerged from the tangled mangrove swamps,
and sped out to the open sea.
The churn of the water of the wake left an ebb running deep
into the tunnels of tendrilled roots, where the manatees hide,
and the egrets glide.
The aquamarine of the choppy surface interspersed with verdant reef,
darker among the cooler blue shallows,
and belied much of what one could splash to see.
As we approached the reef, we could see a calmness beyond
the surf at the reef’s edge, a seashore in mid-ocean,
and we slowed to dock off the reef.
We submerge.
We escape the zephyr,
to desert white barren space,
a moonscape,
big brain rocks with labyrinthine cavities,
and then just grass.
Yellow-finned silver fish silhouette against white shell sand,
pulverised, crushed, returned to the sea floor.
We can almost see the eyes of tiny glinting fish,
moving in luminous synchronicity,
virtually transparent in the underwater sunlight.
Parrot fish, barracuda, angels, and trumpetfish,
watch us with curiosity as we pass by the intricate formations,
of coral sculptures, of tangerine and sand-webbed branches,
sea fingers, and rusting ferns.
Purple sea fans dance emphatically with the current,
punctuating each poignant stroke,
with the current, we are borne toward the reef.
Electric blue-edged flatfish dart among the pathways of the reef,
hideaways we can never know,
over which we can only hover.
The ocean floor is corrugated with the rhythm of the tide,
they, below, unhindered by the current,
we, at the surface, to feel the push of the wind on the ocean,
and hear, when our ears break the surface,
the tide ever crashing against the reef.
Allison Chase Sutherland
Published in The Forum of Phi Sigma Iota, Nevada
~Les Vignes de Provence~
Je m'assois dans un champ
où les fleurs sont jaunes
mais je pense à un autre
dont les fleurs sont blanches.
Les arbres de l'autre
me manquent, mais ici
parmi les vignes vertes
- j'ai la même solitude.
J'entends dans ma tête
des voix du passé,
si loin de moi,
et j'y pense...
Quand là dans les vignes
sous le soleil, j'aperçois
un homme qui travaille,
brunis, aux bras forts.
Et j'écoute les oiseaux
qui gazouillent sur la branche,
et je touche de la main,
cette terre vivante.
Et je comprends que c'est la terre
qu'on ne trouve qu'ici,
je ne trouve pas de roses, mais du lilas,
le parfum d'une autre vie.
~ Allison Chase Sutherland~
~Avignon, France
Published in The Forum of Phi Sigma Iota, Nevada
L'Enfant
Le soleil couchant éclairait la chambre,
peu meublée, un lit, un berceau à cote,
Eclairée de la lumière d'une fenêtre,
La silhouette de la femme,
Les bras du mari autours d'elle dans la nuit,
L'obscurité cachant leurs yeux admirants.
Allison Chase Sutherland
Published in The Forum of Phi Sigma Iota, Nevada
And the rain danced
And the rain danced,
falling unevenly
from the cool, misty greyness above.
The rain danced on the rooftops,
of the houses on the sloping streets,
of the temples, and umbrellas,
and the leaves.
And escaped through the branches,
to fall again,
into the pond
of a garden.
To send a ripple outward with a tiny splash,
diving into a pool of carp,
and coming back up to gasp for air.
From the teahouse,
we watched the rain dance,
entranced by its music,
lost in its song.
As we sipped slowly,
letting the tea seep into our veins,
as we absorbed the cool rain,
through the niches of the teahouse.
Allison Chase Sutherland
Published in Japanophile, Okemos, Michigan
The Ramen Shop, Tokyo
We escaped from the crowded street,
crowded with people,
crowded with words,
crowded with lights.
We could hear the water boiling,
ebulliently,
full of noodles, of ramen,
waiting for us, and steaming.
Utensils clinked and clanked,
and chopped and diced
vegetables and pork and herbs,
which were quickly lost
in the swirling water.
As people shouted orders,
and slurped their soup,
and read the newspaper,
putting them once again
in the world beyond the curtain
of the ramen shop.
Allison Chase Sutherland
Published in Japanophile, Okemos, Michigan
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