Scott Thomas Outlar lives and writes in the suburbs outside of Atlanta, Georgia. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He guest-edited the Hope Anthology of Poetry from CultureCult Press as well as the 2019, 2020, and 2021 Western Voices editions of Setu Mag. He has been a weekly contributor at Dissident Voice for the past seven years. More than 2,000 of his poems have been published in literary venues around the world. Selections of his poetry have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Azerbaijani, Bengali, Dutch, French, Hindi, Italian, Kurdish, Malayalam, Persian, Serbian, and Spanish. His podcast, Songs of Selah, airs weekly on 17Numa Radio and features interviews with poets, artists, musicians, and health advocates. His seventh book, Evermore, was written along with coauthor Mihaela Melnic and released in 2021. More about Outlar’s work can be found at 17Numa.com.
When Form Takes Shape There are beams in your eyes There are pyramids in your head built by hands you can’t see There is an ego slain and buried in the desert There is a point of no return along the same path forgiveness treads There is an owl in your eyes There are jewels in your heart hidden deep for safe keeping There is a flame rising from a cup that can’t be filled There is a moment of revelation where old skin sheds to breathe anew There is music in your eyes
(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Mysti S. Milwee©) When Form Takes Shape WᎮn FᎣrm ᏔkᎡᏍ ᏍᎭpᎡ TᎮrᎡ ᎠrᎡ bᎡᎠmᏍ Ꭲn ᏲᎤr ᎡᏰᏍ TᎮrᎡ ᎠrᎡ pyrᎠᎻdᏍ Ꭲn ᏲᎤr ᎮᎠd bᎤᎢlt by ᎭndᏍ ᏲᎤ cᎠn’t ᏎᎡ TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ Ꭰn ᎡᎪ ᏍᎳᎢn Ꭰnd bᎤrᎢᎡd Ꭲn tᎮ ᏕᏎrt TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ Ꭰ pᎣᎢnt Ꭳf Ꮓ rᎡtᎤrn ᎠᎶng tᎮ ᏌᎺ pᎠth fᎣrᎩᎥᎡᏁᏍᏍ trᎡᎠdᏍ TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ Ꭰn Ꭳwl Ꭲn ᏲᎤr ᎡᏰᏍ TᎮrᎡ ᎠrᎡ jᎡᏪlᏍ Ꭲn ᏲᎤr ᎮᎠrt ᎯdᏕn ᏕᎡp fᎣr ᏌfᎡ kᎡᎡpᎢng TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ Ꭰ fᎳᎺ rᎢᏏng frᎣm Ꭰ cᎤp tᎭt cᎠn’t bᎡ fᎢlᎴd TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ Ꭰ ᎼᎺnt Ꭳf rᎡᎥᎡᎳᏘᎣn wᎮrᎡ Ꭳld ᏍkᎢn ᏍᎮdᏍ tᎣ brᎡᎠtᎮ ᎠᏁw TᎮrᎡ ᎢᏍ ᎽᏏc Ꭲn ᏲᎤr ᎡᏰᏍ
Transcending Definitions Art is not an institution… it is an inner fire born out of those whose eyes pierce deeply into hidden burning beauty. Art is not a class taught by Academia… it is a holy vibration pulsing through the veins of those who sense the truth of this world’s perfect purity. Art is not a transaction… it is a soulful expression that has no choice but to be released as a reflection of the Source. Art is not a sales pitch… it is an intense emotion coupled with a vision of crystalline transcendence that ruptures open new dimensions. Art is not yet ready for the grave… it is a raging protest against the mortal flesh that sings the sweetest melody about overcoming life’s suffering.
(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Mysti S. Milwee©) Transcending Definitions TrᎠnᏍcᎡnᏗng ᏕfᎢᏂᏘᎣnᏍ Ꭰrt ᎢᏍ Ꮓt Ꭰn ᎢnᏍᏘtᎤᏘᎣn… Ꭲt ᎢᏍ Ꭰn ᎢnᏁr fᎢrᎡ bᎣrn ᎣᎤt Ꭳf tᎰᏎ wᎰᏎ ᎡᏰᏍ pᎢᎡrcᎡ ᏕᎡply ᎢntᎣ ᎯdᏕn bᎤrᏂng bᎡᎠᎤty. Ꭰrt ᎢᏍ Ꮓt Ꭰ cᎳᏍᏍ ᏔᎤght by ᎠcᎠᏕᎻᎠ… Ꭲt ᎢᏍ Ꭰ Ꮀly ᎥᎢbrᎠᏘᎣn pᎤlᏏng thrᎣᎤgh tᎮ ᎥᎡᎢnᏍ Ꭳf tᎰᏎ wᎰ ᏎnᏎ tᎮ trᎤth Ꭳf tᎯᏍ Ꮼrld’Ꮝ pᎡrfᎡct pᎤrᎢty. Ꭰrt ᎢᏍ Ꮓt Ꭰ trᎠnᏌcᏘᎣn… Ꭲt ᎢᏍ Ꭰ ᏐᎤlfᎤl ᎡxprᎡᏍᏏᎣn tᎭt ᎭᏍ Ꮓ cᎰᎢcᎡ bᎤt tᎣ bᎡ rᎡᎴᎠᏎd ᎠᏍ Ꭰ rᎡfᎴcᏘᎣn Ꭳf tᎮ ᏐᎤrcᎡ. Ꭰrt ᎢᏍ Ꮓt Ꭰ ᏌᎴᏍ pᎢtch… Ꭲt ᎢᏍ Ꭰn ᎢnᏖnᏎ ᎡᎼᏘᎣn cᎣᎤpᎴd Ꮻth Ꭰ ᎥᎢᏏᎣn Ꭳf cryᏍᏔlᎵᏁ trᎠnᏍcᎡnᏕncᎡ tᎭt rᎤptᎤrᎡᏍ ᎣpᎡn Ꮑw ᏗᎺnᏏᎣnᏍ. Ꭰrt ᎢᏍ Ꮓt Ᏸt rᎡᎠdy fᎣr tᎮ grᎠᎥᎡ… Ꭲt ᎢᏍ Ꭰ rᎠᎩng prᎣᏖᏍt ᎠᎦᎢnᏍt tᎮ ᎼrᏔl fᎴᏍh tᎭt ᏏngᏍ tᎮ ᏍᏪᎡᏖᏍt ᎺᎶdy ᎠbᎣᎤt ᎣᎥᎡrcᎣᎻng ᎵfᎡ’Ꮝ ᏑffᎡrᎢng.
Portals Stars are holes in the sky bleeding through heaven’s veil I would swallow the light I would choke on the hemlock if I thought it might bring you back down to earth I stare at the moon every 28 th day and pray that we survive another cycle I watched you digest their poison I watched you drink deep with faith in their bombs from the soothing lull of that siren song Chew on the edges of night to taste the angle where source floods the shape of flesh Your yawn could birth a universe Your sigh could shake foundations to the core
(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Mysti S. Milwee©) Portals PᎣrᏔlᏍ ᏍᏔrᏍ ᎠrᎡ ᎰᎴᏍ Ꭲn tᎮ Ꮝky bᎴᎡᏗng thrᎣᎤgh ᎮᎠᎥᎡn’Ꮝ ᎥᎡᎢl Ꭲ ᏬᎤld ᏍᏩlᎶw tᎮ Ꮅght Ꭲ ᏬᎤld cᎰkᎡ Ꭳn tᎮ ᎮmᎶck Ꭲf Ꭲ tᎰᎤght Ꭲt Ꮋght brᎢng ᏲᎤ bᎠck Ꮩwn tᎣ ᎡᎠrth Ꭲ ᏍᏔrᎡ Ꭰt tᎮ ᎼᎣn ᎡᎥᎡry 28 th Ꮣy Ꭰnd prᎠy tᎭt Ꮺ ᏑrᎥᎢᎥᎡ ᎠᏃtᎮr cycᎴ Ꭲ ᏩtcᎮd ᏲᎤ ᏗᎨᏍt tᎮᎢr pᎣᎢᏐn Ꭲ ᏩtcᎮd ᏲᎤ drᎢnk ᏕᎡp Ꮻth fᎠᎢth Ꭲn tᎮᎢr bᎣmbᏍ frᎣm tᎮ ᏐᎣtᎯng Ꮇll Ꭳf tᎭt ᏏrᎡn Ꮠng CᎮw Ꭳn tᎮ ᎡdᎨᏍ Ꭳf Ꮒght tᎣ ᏔᏍᏖ tᎮ ᎠngᎴ wᎮrᎡ ᏐᎤrcᎡ fᎶᎣdᏍ tᎮ ᏍᎭpᎡ Ꭳf fᎴᏍh ᏲᎤr Ꮿwn cᎣᎤld bᎢrth Ꭰ ᎤᏂᎥᎡrᏎ ᏲᎤr Ꮟgh cᎣᎤld ᏍᎭkᎡ fᎣᎤnᏓᏘᎣnᏍ tᎣ tᎮ cᎣrᎡ
Masquerade How many viruses sour your verses? secret vowels corrupted vials spent coding firewall breached This is not the God you promised nor the war I begged but all in all Lordamercy it’s still a beautiful age to be alive
(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Mysti S. Milwee©) Masquerade ᎹᏍᏇrᎠᏕ Ꮀw Ꮉny ᎥᎢrᎤᏎᏍ ᏐᎤr ᏲᎤr ᎥᎡrᏎᏍ? ᏎcrᎡt ᎥᎣᏪlᏍ cᎣrrᎤpᏖd ᎥᎢᎠlᏍ ᏍpᎡnt cᎣᏗng fᎢrᎡᏩll brᎡᎠcᎮd TᎯᏍ ᎢᏍ Ꮓt tᎮ Ꭺd ᏲᎤ prᎣᎻᏎd Ꮓr tᎮ Ꮹr Ꭲ bᎡgᎨd bᎤt Ꭰll Ꭲn Ꭰll ᎶrᏓᎺrcy Ꭲt’Ꮝ ᏍᏘll Ꭰ bᎡᎠᎤᏘfᎤl ᎠᎨ tᎣ bᎡ ᎠᎵᎥᎡ
Rearview It was when I finally realized that there was nothing left to lose that I truly began to live in a state of forgiveness of course it always sounds so much simpler upon reflection and that is why I try my best to keep these mirrors clean
(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Mysti S. Milwee©) Rearview RᎡᎠrᎥᎢᎡw Ꭲt ᏩᏍ wᎮn Ꭲ fᎢᎾlly rᎡᎠᎵzᎡd tᎭt tᎮrᎡ ᏩᏍ ᏃtᎯng Ꮄft tᎣ ᎶᏎ tᎭt Ꭲ trᎤly bᎡᎦn tᎣ ᎵᎥᎡ Ꭲn Ꭰ ᏍᏔᏖ Ꭳf fᎣrᎩᎥᎡᏁᏍᏍ Ꭳf cᎣᎤrᏎ Ꭲt ᎠlᏩyᏍ ᏐᎤndᏍ Ꮠ Ꮍch ᏏmpᎴr ᎤpᎣn rᎡfᎴcᏘᎣn Ꭰnd tᎭt ᎢᏍ why Ꭲ try my bᎡᏍt tᎣ kᎡᎡp tᎮᏎ ᎻrrᎣrᏍ cᎴᎠn