Showing posts with label Scott Thomas Outlar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scott Thomas Outlar. Show all posts

Author of the Month: Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar
Scott Thomas Outlar originally hails from Lilburn, Georgia. He now resides and writes in Frederick, Maryland. His work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press as well as the 2019-2023 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. Selections of his poetry have been translated and published in 15 languages. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17Numa.com.


Weeble Wobble

We tasted the black
      of seemingly spent orbs

   an amalgamation of spheres
             wielding cherub swords
       in triangulated focus

   & the syrupy center
             lodged at the depth of abyss
      proved an archaic truth
            that there is life left yet
   hiding somewhere 
               behind those peepers

We were numbed
        by the haste
    with which they clouded us
        in a smoky haze

We were summoned to
        a dazed chamber of grace
  & inundated with explanations
            about the theory of madness

We were fashioned
      by the hymns
  of a discordant choir
            with tongues laced
     in languages of metallic
                       mandala chaos

We were given unto
    the fits of a fiery passion
  
   poised at the precipice
      to receive fulfilled prophecies
   of great change heralding
            annihilation
       or integration into a slipstream
                   altering perception
                          at the roots

We were organized as atoms
        by cellular osmosis
                at the soup’s boiling point
          where genes swarm
                   in kinetic creative frenzy

                               a bit of a tizzy
                           when spells start spinning

We were promised a turn
          on the merry-go-spiral

a crimson carousel 
a chariot of bedazzled gold

           churning wheels within wheels
   
   & blood unto dust
   & marrow back to dirt
   
   & all the finer accoutrements 
                  provided along a ferry
                         headed straight 
       into the heart of the sun

We were shown the
                 melted plasma
       of entropy’s empty dissolution
  & licked three times
                 before crunching hard
           into the owl’s forlorn wisdom
***


A Scarf Upon Each Spike

Mouthing the design
with a silver tongue
agape and sighing into the breeze

a breath resourced in reason

Trusting the process
of Tao entering dragon
chasing down the grand finale

one scale at a time

Winter’s spell all-becoming
last proud gasp at intermezzo
now the sting isn’t quite as sharp

as the worm and season turn

Seven patterns etched in fabric
woven in fur around warm collar
turned up like Elvis, Numa, and West

but only two wore it well
***

 
Instant Gratification

Lately, it feels
like an open pulse
from source portal
is dancing with plasma
across electric wires

Magnetic sphere triangulated
rolling waves of the spiral’s transmission

Grasp with two open palms
the lines of time etched strongly
able minded for the transformation

The eternal Tao spinning in silence
whooshing now with the winter’s wind

That’s not just tinnitus 
humming inside the frenzy

Baby, we’re in the golden age
a symphony of the stars in love
***

 
Pulse Electric

dust of seven ages
squeezed like fresh daisies
with centrifugal gears
itching as scratched platitudes
in sore eyes
sordid sight, first rhyme I
digest tonight

and fade one degree deeper
into a feeling of comfort
two shades off the beaten path
of numb tingling and wizened orbit

a leaf, fluttering, freefall
enter the wishing well of dandelion portal

now ripped through the great divide
neuron cabinet whips out archaic relics and recipes

stir up divergent opinions in the pot
while vultures and ghouls point shadowy fingers

if you learn to grow through disillusion
the jeweled net of contentment stretches out wider
during novel periods of arcane virtue

as all the perching peacocks of inverted righteousness
slip from precarious angles of moral hypocrisy

crumbling into the heap of virtuous stones
they’ve been tossing over the spit-stained ledge

tear ducts barren
cut with shattered glass
sands of cultural hours
turned over, spilling tide
on tip of tongue
dots trace blood
taste of change and copper sizzle
***

Poetry: Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar

Unravelling Pineal Wool



Shadows prelude the vision – 

      harbinger cardinals
          of the compass spun flighty

red herrings and pirate flags
    arrive stealthily 
          to seal the chamber
      & cancel crises
              in their cradle

Twilight of the dawn – 

       the fun & games
                portion of light’s program/process
   has encountered a twist
                                    of fate
             around the schisms 
                      of its subtly hewn center

      strings pulled
            on war props
        by pompous priests
                  & trigger happy
                          thieves of reason

Swallowed by the silence – 

        it’s a lost art/
     fractured line of communication

             two-sided daggers
                       twisted in five directions

      & blood loosened
                   upon the sands
            would fill only half a thimble
                          compared to the ocean
                 of splintered hearts
                              & grieving homes
              flooded by tears
 
                        struggling to stay afloat
                    in the waves of disbelief
***
 
Of Sheathes and Gloves

and all these crows
and ravens still
clatter/clammer 
at my mettle/mantle

Since the bench
is iced with snow
I’ll stand instead
with pen under gazebo

another classic album to digest

but there is the heart of
a Maryland grackle
that conquers all

I am of the worms
and with the angels

Lions and lizards
surround us
in the safety of
our sanctuary

Sentinels
guard our six

and everything 
everywhere
is a miracle

or at least 
biding time
and holding the line
in anticipation of the next

I dive into
the medicinal garden
and surrender my consciousness
at caduceus’ doorstep
to rest and dwell
in a warm soft glow

numbed enlightenment
in doses
just high enough
not to completely
dissimilate

and ask for more comfort
and beg for more grace

and whistle while
the prayers flow gently

Truth be told
I must have grown old
but forgotten to notice

Out in the cold
scribbling poems
from a spirt
that yearns for innocence

Clinging to the fibers
of decency
left twirling
in this late hour
of our winter wargames

But lord have mercy
it’s all just numbers
in the sick schemes
of hyenas
who bit off more
than their
whimpering bark
could cash
in the crash 
backed only
by funny
money
 

My Favorite Works: Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar

Thank you to Sunil Sharma for inviting me to choose five of my favorite previously published poems for this new column. It’s always an honor to collaborate with Setu Mag. While mentally leafing through my work during a visit to the park this summer, I was hoping to weave together a selection that could at least somewhat encapsulate the past nine years of my writing. It was an interesting challenge and proved to be quite fun traveling down memory lane.

“Grace and Beauty” is the most recent composition, inspired by the love of my life, Talia, and her deep adoration for the ocean. “An Ode to Fear” is an homage to the great Hunter S. Thompson. “3,2,1…” originally appeared in my debut chapbook, Songs of a Dissident, back in 2015 – it served at the time as a cathartic release from an earlier age, perception, and chaotic state of consciousness (mine, mostly). “Casting Cards” is a grain-of-salt attempt to answer the question: who are you? Finally, “Slate” flows from the seemingly natural logic behind the maxim: cleanliness is next to Godliness. Thank you for reading.

 

Grace and Beauty

Your adventurous spirit

is a poem in motion

 

like a pelican dancing

with its shadow on the waves

before skipping atop the water

 

proving the truth that Jesus

wasn’t the only

force of nature

to play around

with miracles and magic.

 

Centered, calm, and balanced

in the groundless experience

of “just being,”

your oceanic presence

radiates outward

with peace of mind,

strength of body,

and kindness of heart.

 

Each ripple returning

from shoreline to source

is imbued with the essence

of goodwill you share

and spread across the earth.

***

 

An Ode to Fear

 

I am Ahab,

 

and I will slay you (righteously) in the bathtub

if you try to force me

to fall asleep with acid still stuck in my throat (and draining);

 

it was on my tongue;

now many hues are in my head, humming.

 

I am the orange juice in your blood

when we sing these hymns to the sun

and trip on solar rays (mourning the morning rise);

 

you are liquid light;

you are a trite clich├й salvation quantum leap (of loathing).

 

I am Nixon,

 

and I will smear fresh ketchup and chemicals

on this wall(ed off pit of chaos[& despair]);

 

I am your vomit erupting from the sea;

you are the knifing zigzag

forehead kiss of death.

 

I am

 

what I am

that I am:

 

a patch of spinach green with envy;

a doomed prophecy that’s probably wrong;

a final signal sent across the crashing waves;

a flag on the shoreline, dusted off, risen high.

***

 

3, 2, 1…

  

Let it burn

until all that is left

is a black crisp

of dehydrated exoskeleton jerky.

 

What do I care?

 

I did not create this place.

I did not ask to play this game.

I did not stuff the coal shafts.

I did not dig the oil wells.

I did not clamor for the goldmines.

 

I did not manifest destiny

across the desert

with a mind obsessed

on material diversions of the flesh.

 

Let it burn

until the stars in the sky

have nothing left

to shine down upon.

 

Let it burn

until the sun extinguishes

from its own

existential exhaustion.

 

What do I care?

 

I didn’t build the Model-T.

I didn’t pave the asphalt road.

I didn’t plan the concrete jungle.

 

I didn’t send the ships

across the sea

with hopes of New Atlantis

in the distance.

 

Let it burn

until Sherman’s fire

pales like a glow light in comparison.

 

Let it burn

until the Apocalypse

rises up in molten magma

through volcanic outburst tantrums.

 

What do I care?

 

I didn’t write the Holy Verses.

I wasn’t the one

inspired by God

to lace false prophecies

into the hearts and minds of Man.

I didn’t slaughter the natives.

I didn’t enslave other races.

I didn’t stomp on Pagan grounds.

I didn’t erect churches

atop conquered lands.

I didn’t start the wars.

I don’t need to finish the job

that other animals began.

 

Let it burn

until the flag is stripped

of blue and white stars and stripes

and all that remains is red.

 

Let it burn

as a beacon

atop the flaming hill

as a lesson about the fall.

 

What do I care?

 

I didn’t taste the forbidden fruit.

I didn’t kiss the serpent.

I didn’t fuck the liar.

I didn’t drink the venom.

I didn’t suck the poison.

I didn’t breed the cancer.

I didn’t dig the shallow grave.

 

Let it burn

until the bones are ash

and the marrow evaporates

into a chemical combustion revelation.

 

Let it burn.

Let it cry.

Let it whine.

Let it bitch.

Let it moan.

 

What do I care?

 

I didn’t promise it

a single damn thing.

I didn’t ask it to love me.

I didn’t need it to want me.

I didn’t beg it to birth me.

I didn’t buy the ticket.

I didn’t sign up for the ride.

 

Let it burn

until the plastic faces

are melted

on the Sunset Strip

and the haughty egos

catch flame on Boardwalk.

 

Let it burn

from the outside in

so the rotten core

is the last space to smolder into oblivion.

 

What do I care?

 

I didn’t come here to save the world.

I didn’t offer a quick fix resolution.

 

Let it burn.

The Phoenix is waiting in the wings.

***

 

Casting Cards

  

I wouldn’t dare

call myself a poet

or an artist/or a warrior

or a fighter/or a servant/or a stoic

or a fool

 

I’m just a hermit and a vagabond

going within so I can wander

 

but these pines work well as bones

sturdy long enough to carry the hour

 

and all this dirt will eventually receive

the same returns of what once was offered

 

profit every whisper of groaning breath

pilfer specks of sand from six scratched eyes

protect the black of my lungs/

                                      tongue with glazed amber

 

Harvest the autumn

red leaves sign caution

blood in the engine

ghosts crawling through dry veins

 

Spells cast the season

cold snap of reason

heavy pulse turn plasma

gears shifting beneath the plates

***


 

Slate

 

Wipe me clean

without Clorox or bleach

 

just simple honesty

 

Sanitation is next to salvation

in some circles

 

Sacred vowels

squeak

ooh and ah

before sighing

 

Little spaces in the corner

dusted off

brought to surface

made to shine

 

Lord, help me find

the right words

to tithe

 

All I have

left to offer

are my dreams

***


Poetry and other things with Scott Thomas Outlar: A dialogue ---Sangeeta Sharma

Sangeeta Sharma
(In a new ongoing video series of conversations with leading artists and authors, senior editor Sangeeta Sharma discuss things poetic and literary with the renowned poet Scott Thomas Outlar. Excerpts of the video interview here. Ed.)

Q: What are the inner springs of poetry for a prolific writer like you?

A: The innermost spring is the autonomous soul which is connected to the collective source energy of creation (that being consciousness itself).

The connective bond shared with my love, Talia. Our collaborative efforts with Ahi- Suma-Yuta.

Other inspirations include nature, synchronicity, psychology, philosophy, religion, astrology, sociology, culture, relationships, romance, the occult, magic, spiritual esotericism, and the healing arts.

Lately, love, waterfalls, trees, fungus, and the many exploding hues of gorgeous spring blooms have offered the greatest bounty of imaginative forces, sparking something special from the muses.

There is also an addictive, obsessive quality to my personality that acts as an inward turbine of motivation and dedication to the cause.

The nine-year anniversary of my initial publication is coming up soon. To my happy surprise, this past month of April has turned out to be the most prolific period of that journey so far. I somehow wound up having 70 poems and two essays published in 30 different literary venues spanning across nine countries during National Poetry Month.

Q: Poetry as a form of dissidence. Is it working in a mass market? Dissident voices were earlier the norm. Now, very few people will risk that label. Your comments, please?

A: The masses are generally not interested in matters pertaining to spiritual self- actualization, attaining mastery over the senses, geopolitical maneuverings of the grand chessboard, and the Machiavellian machinations of conspirators operating behind the scenes. Although, even as the puppet masters come forth out of the shadows and must face the bright lights, a certain segment of society will still not care a lick to learn what’s going on around them (much less within their own psyches). This idea is toyed with in the following poem.

Long Division

Most people, you’ll find,
can hardly (if at all) handle the unprocessed messes still causing
terror and trauma
from their own childhood yet you expect
the masses to deal with
millions of years of ancestral DNA swirling around the synapses
of their subconscious?

Come on!
I came here only to dance. 

Most people are content to swim with the currents as much as possible. There is only a certain percentage of folks who wield the hearts and wills of salmon to swim upstream. Courage is a virtue sorely lacking in this inverted age headlined by victimhood. It’s less taxing on a person’s time and energy to simply keep their head down and go along to get along. They would rather trade freedom and sovereignty for convenience and gilded cages.

Pointing out problems and asking individuals to get involved with the solutions doesn’t sit well with a populace that is easily distracted and has a short attention span (along with a spoiled temper and entitlement issues).

But I like to do it anyway because my soul is bent toward a provocative essence, and it’s fun to ruffle feathers.

Also, I’ve never catered my writing toward popular culture or the mainstream memes of the majority. I’ve always written, primarily, to entertain myself, and, secondly, to resonate with others who share similar opinions. If I’m able to inspire someone with my words, I feel a sense of spiritual fulfilment.

On a positive note, I find that more people than ever are awakening to the truth about the corrupted institutions of this decadent modern era. The learning curve is steep and sharp. The issues are so obvious they have become impossible to ignore if one wishes to live a life that isn’t untenable. The frog has been boiling incrementally in the pot for a long time, but, finally, the heat is being noticed in a way that causes instincts of survival to kick in. Hoppity-hop. Thank the heavens.

Q:
You call yourself a dissident poet. What are the major themes of these songs, the Songs of Selah?

A: Variations on the themes of liberty, freedom, truth, sovereignty, justice, and common sense.

Speaking calmly and stating ideas plainly. Walking steady in good humor. Satire is an important key. The Beast System is monstrous, yes, but most of all it is foolish. Thus, those who deal with the deceptive wares of wickedness are fair game to be mocked, ridiculed, and called to task at every turn.

Some things in life are settled gently with a laugh, but others are far more troubled, still, and these arise from a nest of vipers.

The underlying and overhanging message is to cast off from the corporate/state merged control system/power structure and decalcify the rigid ideological tendencies of authoritarian tyrants and hypocrites.

A poem that originally appeared at Dissident Voice (where I’ve been a weekly contributor for the past nine years) serves as an example:

 
Shifting the Cycle

Someone said:
Resistance to tyranny is obedience to God.

Someone said:
Have faith in the Lord but get out of the way of rolling rocks.

Someone said:
These people must be stoned out of their gourds
if they think that we
are going to sell our souls to the system of the beast.

Someone said:
Welcome, my son, welcome to the machine.

Someone said:
Big wheels keep on turning.

Someone said:
It is not a tool
that is good or evil, but in how it is used.

Someone said:
I bet one of these wrenches would work wonders
when shoved sideways in that gear.

Q: Please tell us about Scott, the essayist.

A: Where poetry is sometimes abstract and cryptic, my essays tend to be more focused and directed on a particular message.

An avenue that allows elaboration upon the issues and news of the day in longer form. Though it’s still in my heart to help assuage each sentence so it may flow smoothly as a rhythmed dance of syllables and sighs.

I edit mercilessly with eagle eyes when it comes to prose. The message need be clear, and the lines must whistle.

Poems serve as a snapshot in time. Essays are an elaborated ekphrastic response to the larger scenes of life.

 
Q:  Where poetry is sometimes abstract and cryptic, my essays tend to be more focused and directed on a particular message.

A: An avenue that allows elaboration upon the issues and news of the day in longer form. Though it’s still in my heart to help assuage each sentence so it may flow smoothly as a rhythmed dance of syllables and sighs.

I edit mercilessly with eagle eyes when it comes to prose. The message need be clear, and the lines must whistle.

Poems serve as a snapshot in time. Essays are an elaborated ekphrastic response to the larger scenes of life.

Q: Essay as a literary form is not as popular as it once was in the West. What are the advantages of writing in this genre? Its bigger canvas? Or, long-form appeal for the essayist reflecting upon the world and its affairs?

A: I enjoyed reading essays by Hunter S. Thompson, Norman Mailer, Joseph Campbell, Henry Miller, and other great minds.

I take my cues from the aesthetic technique that believes art should be presented through a lens that portrays it as being both brutal and beautiful. Because, in point of fact, it is.

Eternal optimism with a subtle note of sorrow. This is my rap/spin.

It seems that most forms of writing have suffered a decline in readership. People are either glued to a screen or out tilling the fields. I have great respect for farmers.
Zombies are another story.

Perhaps leisure and sloth are valued more than knowledge and wisdom. It’s a terrible condemnation on the current culture if such a theory is even partially on point. Well, so be it; true enough, as they say.

Q: You do Spoken poetry and podcasts. Your experience as a performer there?

A: I’ve enjoyed performing and/or giving readings in London, Toronto (with yourself and Setu Mag), Pennsylvania, Oregon, Alabama, Tennessee, and across the state of Georgia.

I’ve presented speeches and workshops to the Atlanta Writers Club and the Georgia Writers Museum.

Having experienced social anxiety in my younger years, speaking in public forums at this stage of my life helps me maintain a healthy and positive perspective, knowing that I’ve matured out of the angst and fear.
 
I hope to soon immerse myself in the literary scene of Maryland, the state I recently moved to.

I hosted 165 episodes of the Songs of Selah podcast from 2018-2021. It was a pleasure interviewing and having conversations with artists, writers, and health enthusiasts from across the world. It seems likely that I’ll host another show one day when the moment is right. I’ve felt the temptations to return.

The most meaningful aspect of performing poetry is being amongst friends and meeting new people at events.

Q: Social-media presence seems to be a pull for citizens of media culture. Do you think it helps in the promotion of authors in the long run?

A: I think social media can be used healthily as a tool to network and stay connected with friends, or it can be used to mindlessly scroll through the newsfeeds of other people’s lives addicted to dopamine hits of connectivity.

It’s like wielding a hammer. You can either use it properly to put nails in the roof and secure the structure, or you can bang away at your own thumb and suffer sure stings.

If done wisely and in moderation, all mediums can be useful and exciting as part of life’s path.

All modalities serve as spokes on the wheel of the authentic self. Segments and portions of the psyche’s overall fullness.

Potentialities of transcendence. Methodologies of persuasion. Portals/gateways of absolution/quantum

Q: Working across visual, audio, audio-visual and print and digital media, what are your deeper insights into these modes of communication in a changing environment of public discourse?

A: Online venues are best at quickly spreading the words. Print has a sentimental allure and tends to be a bit more impactful. Connecting via computer and devices allows for instantaneous communication across the web. But there is no comparison to a live event. Connecting with people in person is top shelf. That’s why they tried to keep us locked down in the gutter during the panic/pandemic.

The subtle energies/aura of the soul are communicated more fully, finely, and focused when in the same space as other people.

Technology is great, but it will never be able to replace the deeper resonance of being incarnate and transferring consciousness across a live wire. Beyond electricity. Source charge. Solar power. Mega watt theory of growth potential.
 
Q: Your views on short and long forms of fiction, please?

A: I think the writers who can bring whole worlds of fiction ripped straight from their imaginations to life are amazing. I was a big fantasy and science fiction reader for many years. Roger Zelazny and Robert Silverberg were among my favorite scribes in that genre.

In recent years, I’ve been focused more on non-fiction, though I find a good novel or short story to be impressive in their own ways.

The ability to impart a message or encapsulate an idea in a poignant way through a short piece is a hard trick to pull off. Likewise, the commitment and discipline it takes to weave a larger tale is also highly commendable. I tip my hat to those who can pull off either feat.

Q: A cliche but worth asking: Does poetry pay for a highly visible poet like Scott?

A: I would say that it provides an abundance of spiritual riches. As for monetary wealth, I’m still chiselling, grinding, and flowing along happily in pursuit of vast treasure.
Poetry pays in its own particular, peculiar way, which is to say it brings about opportunities that transcend money, experiences that exist beyond the realm of fiscal notes and fiat currency.

You cannot serve both god and mammon, Jesus said. But I think if you have a healthy perspective, you can enjoy them each in their own ways and dance all the while regardless of monies.

Q: Finding love is important in life. Your romantic views?

A: Look for a lover, a partner, a best friend, a soulmate, a queen, a goddess, a witch who helps you in the effort toward becoming the best possible version of yourself.

Look for a lover who challenges you to move past base ego and melt into the emotional resonance of heart consciousness.

Patience, forgiveness, and empathy could be considered a holy trinity in any relationship that expects to withstand the tests of time.

Waiting in the Window’s Wings with a Warm Wave


It feels exciting, even engaging, to be alive

but to love is bliss
and to be loved is electric
 
Waiting in the Window’s Wings with a Warm Wave


It feels exciting, even engaging, to be alive

but to love is bliss
and to be loved is electric
 so if a smile is contagious

then our synchronized dance might just cause
a hypnotic pandemic

two-step
tango heal-all tea
portents of potent potions I had more than faith
that you were always near
it was simply a matter of finally enjoying our
fated encounter of grace

Please chisel out with a gentle hand
a space in my heart where yours can rest

Q: What is your writing schedule?

A: It flows in waves but stays fairly consistent for the most part. In some phases, I’ll write like a man possessed. Regardless of the quantity or quality there might exist in different seasons, I make sure to write in some form every day.

I advocate in favor of journaling dream recall as an initial course of action in the morning upon waking. This solidifies the experience of the subconscious and cements it into reality as a memory. Capture lucid inclinations and flighty behavior before the visions from the far side slip back into ethereal realms.

Writing as an early part of the day sets the stage for words to naturally flow throughout the hours ahead. It greases the creative gears, churns the mental butter, and whips the tongue into a frenzy.

For several years, I would walk every day to Mountain Park and sit at a bench in the woods made of pines. That was where I wrote in the morning or afternoon. I produced thousands of poems there.

Decades ago, before I’d ever been published, I would pace, meander, and dance around my house through the day and night, alone, standing up at the edge of a kitchen bar that was positioned nicely so that whichever notebook I was using would rest at the perfect level for me to write in. That was where I learned to develop a style, and then to hone it. I was touched with madness for some of those hours.

A recent day living in Frederick might look like this: wake up super early, send out emails and submissions before the sun rises, drink fruit juice, take a walk to Baker Park and write poems near the waterfalls, return home (it feels nice to say that in a new place), prepare smoothies full of superfoods, edit the day’s poems and do any other writing-related work, and then chill out through the evening. All the while making sure to spend quality time with my love, Talia.

Q: Your favorite poets?

A: I’ll focus mainly on modern poets. Some contemporaries I admire are: Alan Britt, Heath Brougher, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Lady Mae Thunderbird, Donna Snyder (who sadly passed away this past year), Mihaela Melnic, Sunil Sharma, Sheikha A., Mela Blust, Dustin Pickering, Sanjeev Sethi. There are countless more pages to be filled with the names of writers whose work I enjoy.

Also, I consider life itself to be poetry in motion. Each action, a lyrical deed. So, anyone I meet who is imbibed with vital lifeforce and is sparked with a primal, creative signal has my applause and stamp of approval.

Q: Memorable quotes?

A: “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” – Jesus (The Gospel of Thomas)

“Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

“Participate joyfully in the sorrows of the world.” – Joseph Campbell “Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God" – Thomas Jefferson
“All energy flows according to the whims of the great Magnet. What a fool I was to defy him.” – Hunter S. Thompson

“Teenage angst has paid off well, now I’m bored and old.” – Kurt Cobain (Nirvana) “Audit the Fed.” – Ron Paul
“A leader is best when people barely know he exists, when his work is done, his aim fulfilled, they will say: we did it ourselves.” – Lao Tzu (Tao Te Ching)

“Everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.” – Voltaire (from Candide)

“You have power over your mind — not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” – Marcus Aurelius (Meditations)

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” – Ephesians 6:12 (The Bible)

“Swing on the spiral of our divinity and still be human.” – Maynard James Keenan (Tool)
***
 
Brief bio: Scott Thomas Outlar is originally from Atlanta, Georgia. He now lives and writes in Frederick, Maryland. His work has been nominated multiple times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His essay "Daydreaming Dystopia" placed second in the 2023 Bellarmine Goes Gonzo Writing Contest. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press as well as the 2019-2023 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. He is the author of seven books, including Songs of a Dissident (2015), Abstract Visions of Light (2018), Of Sand and Sugar (2019), and Evermore (2021 - written with co-author Mihaela Melnic). Selections of his poetry have been translated and published in 15 languages. He has been a weekly contributor at Dissident Voice for the past nine years. More about Outlar's work can be found at 17Numa.com.

Poetry: Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar
An Ode to the Word


Poetry -
I breathe you in,
filling my lungs
with the longings of life
expressed through sharp, crisp meaning
from the deepest recesses
of those who do not fear
pouring out their hearts
so that men such as I
can reach the realization
that all of us
bleed the same from our wounded 
yet exhilarated states of consciousness…
or, even if they do have trepidations,
these poets still brave the act
of penning poignant words
that set their experiences free,
helping me to also escape 
during the process of liberation.

Poetry - 
You have no chains, no binds,
no restrictions
that cannot be overcome,
no limitations, no boundaries
that cannot be bridged,
and I love you for
the courage of raw emotion
that brings tears to my eyes,
a smile to my face,
and high electric fervor
pumping through the neurons
that become excited in my mind.
Poetry - 
Yes! I openly
use the word love
while singing this ode in your honor,
for you have provided unto me
insights and understandings
about the conditions of this life
that otherwise seem
existential and unanswerable.

Poetry - 
You arouse the lust of my loins
in ways that transcend
simple sexual cravings…
indeed, you offer an opening
along the path
toward enlightenment,
transubstantiation, nirvana,
bliss, and holy ascension…
you teach the way
of the Tao, of alignment,
of balance, of harmony,
of rhythm, of accord,
of connectedness
with the pure natural flow.

Poetry - 
You are the gentle waters
of absolution
and apotheosis;
you are the crystallized vision
that brings all scattered pieces
of the schismatic system
into a unified wholeness;
you are the epitome
of Oneness, of The Word,
of Logos incarnate,
of Genesis reverberations,
of the primordial source
from which
all beautiful possibilities
emerge in righteous splendor. 

Guest-Editorial: Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar
Seven Koi in Pisces


I’d been living 
out of a suitcase
deep and wide
until the apples
from the shared dream
she masterfully weaves 
daily in our hearts
found shape 
with new eyes

Holds me steady
in spaces
unfamiliar 
at first
but becoming
more well-groked
with every spiral
around the city
we spin through
together

…

Freedom will prevail. The bell tower rang out with three manic signs of harmonized sound, promising with a sacred vow that all was taking place right on time. Despite our inclinations to try and control life, it’s undeniably true that intuitively aligning with its inherent creative desires and synching up in perfect tune to its divine connection with the holy flow’s vibration will allow your collective experience of consciousness to feel more rewarding than any individual psychic achievement ever could.

Sacred Frequency of (Happy) Unification

Within two miles of my new home in Frederick, Maryland, I am in walking distance of a creek, waterfalls, two parks, a library, a downtown scene (as yet unwitnessed), a police station, an amphitheater, an outdoor pavilion, an art center, a prayer house, restaurants aplenty, several cemeteries (including Francis Scott Key Memorial), and a more than ample amount of park benches providing comfortable spaces that help the soul mellow out in such a way that’ll be ideally conducive to hammering a few thousand poems into notebooks (though a couple more tables scattered here and there out in public could prove useful). This spot on the globe pulses with an excitedly interesting energy that has me lit up with infinite possibilities and a fiery phoenix fit of inspiration that I have never felt at this specifically honed and disciplined degree. 

At the moment, I'm in the living room, steadily approaching the noon hour on February 21st, 2023, classical music playing on Spotify, patchouli incense burning, looking out full glass windows that display a slice of the city from the third floor of our apartment, sipping on orange, pineapple, ginger juice laced with probiotics, sitting at an antique table from my Dad's side of the family tree that was recently moved here from my birthplace of Georgia, typing on a laptop that was gifted from an angel. Assorted notebooks are spread out beside me along with a sheet of loose white paper I wrote upon earlier this morning at the park as ideas for an essay to properly introduce the Setu Mag Western Voices edition were pouring through my head near the flower garden and under an awesome sun that belched light upon my shoulders. 

I am at peace, and I am in love.

…

Time and space
between each note

melodies that hum
despite winter’s static

I’ve heard a thousand cliches
about how the suffering of this world
is supposed to press you down
through all its days of gravity
and how even the roses
will pluck and peck your eyes out
along with murderous crows
who care only about their treasures

Though that might just be 
the buzzing of fog through life’s filter

the splash of a windfall
creates rapid and furious currencies

There are always mountains in the distance
but be rest assured by fate
that whatever ground you’re standing upon
during any given moment of this dance
has been leveled off and balanced 
in perfect design for your next step

…

And in one age
we might appear
as a sniveling worm
without a single tool
in the shed of life
with which to work

And in another
we might reign
with a crown of stars
during one turn of the precession 
as a season of sorrow
blinks out of fashion

It’s roundabout 9 AM on Saturday, February 25th, 2023…

and I have tasted the sun in such splendor
and I have bathed in your fire of lessons
and I have marveled as the sky sings with snow

All to reach this exact compass point. Forty-two and a half years spent drifting at sea to now land here (whole and healed) on this bench beside the bell tower as the water from the flowing creek glistens with fractal rays of sunlight dancing upon every ripple. Each ring in the trunk of my soul tells a story from the beginning. Of ancient calls to order and archetypes of branded chaos. Of hubris-induced falls, scrapped knees, snarling tears, and the deep recesses of sheer will and determination that demand the spirit perpetually stand back up and continue pushing along the pattern of life. 

Now and always. Grace and Beauty. My one and only.

…

Thank you to Sunil Sharma and Anurag Sharma for allowing me the opportunity to edit this 5th annual edition of Western Voices for Setu Mag. Each year of being associated with this venue that is dedicated to constructing bridges and connecting cultural ideas across continents leaves me feeling more humbled. I am grateful to the 33 skillfully polished poets who have shared their work with us. It has been a pleasure compiling the 2023 anthology. I hope you enjoy reading through the perception of each writers’ lens as much as I have. 

Selah,
Scott Thomas Outlar