Two Poems Up at Formidable Woman Sanctuary

colored glints, reminiscent of stars, against a black backdrop.

I’m pleased to share that I have contributed two poems, “Urn” and “Nocturne,” to d ellis phelps’s random beauty ii series at formidable woman sanctuary. Please scroll down to the end of page iii to read my little ditties and take some time to explore some of my co-contributors’ soul-fortifying testaments along the way! Upon accepting my poems for publication, d thanked me for being supportive of fws projects (as a contributor to several series so far), but please know that I believe in the uplifting energy of communal creativity that d curates at fws, and it’s my honor to participate.

Poem Live in Taos Journal of Poetry

Astrophotography: Andromeda Galaxy.

Andromeda Galaxy by Matthew Harper

I’m pleased and honored to share that my poem, “The Final Frontier,” is featured among the radiantly vital (digital) leaves of the just-released Taos Journal of Poetry #15. I’m grateful to editor/publisher/poetess extraordinaire Catherine Strisik for welcoming this piece into TJOP’s splendorous folds. “The Final Frontier” also appears in my newest chapbook, We Have Seen the Corn, released in June 2025 by the lovely independent press and “publishers of fine poetry,” Kelsay Books.

Photo by Matthew Harper

What They’re Sayin’…

Photo: Printed Proof of cover illustration for poetry collection, We Have Seen the Corn.

Preliminary words of praise for my forthcoming poetry collection, We Have Seen the Corn!

I’m so grateful to d., Candice, and Mary for gracing my book’s back cover with such wise, insightful, enthusiastic words of praise for these poems! We Have Seen the Corn will be available for order via the Kelsay Books website and Amazon soon… 

From her invented “In-titled” form, to frolicking word play and elegant word choice, Ms. Harper demonstrates an uncommon command of every line and syllable in this evocative collection. Here, the poet is fully present, and the work is stunning. We Have Seen the Corn is deeply personal work: the poet reckoning with “the notion of a self / inhabited too briefly.” She asks, “why and why and why,” bringing us again and again to the “brown brink” of grief. Deftly, the poet titrates between the beauty and “unspeakable devastation” of nature: “Indigo Bunting,” cicadas mating, and “the womb’s hush” counterbalance grief and loss. Here amid the “sweet sultry folds” of an abiding love, there is exquisite tenderness, as the poet reveals herself, unabashed, shedding every husk.

~ d. ellis phelps, EIC: formidable woman sanctuary, author, of failure & faith.

Stephanie L. Harper’s We Have Seen the Corn envelops the reader in a potent diorama of its poet’s world. Harper’s grief in discovering her beloved husband’s illness, though palpable, serves not to suffocate but rather, in a highly conscious, poetically masterful manner, to elucidate the indescribable subject of unbearable pain. At this work’s crux, Harper asks, “Can I grieve?” and her unvarnished feelings unfurl before us, in response. We Have Seen the Corn is a ravishing compilation of high craft without pretention. Harper’s poetic voice possesses a poignant pulse and unforgettable reach into our inner psyche.

~ Candice Louisa Daquin, Senior Editor Indie Blu(e) Publishing and Raw Earth Ink, author, Tainted by the Same Counterfeit.

In her new poetry collection, We Have Seen the Corn, Stephanie L. Harper captures the natural world’s beauty as she uniquely sees it. The poet invites us to share in her wonderment at goats, plants, birds, and people, whose presence in her life “[burnishes] the sparse bright / sprinkle of grass (…) over into the / universe of shimmer.” Harper galvanizes our imaginations for an epic journey through her poetic world: When the Slumbering Entomophile chronicles for us a steamy cicada tryst in a lilac tree, we want to be voyeurs in this dream, too. And when we encounter Harper’s “golden orb spider,” whose “unseen murmuring, / spinning silence / (…) glistens / in the dawn’s sun-tinged tears,” we want to be there, listening. 

~ Mary Sexson, author, Her Addiction, An Empty Place at the Table.

In-titled Poem Live in The Dodge Magazine

Close-up of a partly-submerged northern green frog's face and eyes, with water droplets suspended around him.

I’m so pleased to share that my In-titled Poem, “By the Moonlit Water Where the Dombiki Sing,” is now featured in the lovely eco-literary journal, The Dodge. I’m grateful to editors Edward Sambrano III and Jamie A. M. for selecting my work for publication, and for their kindness and enthusiasm, in general, throughout the publication process.

“By the Moonlit Water Where the Dombiki Sing” also appears in my chapbook, We Have Seen the Corn, forthcoming summer 2025 with Kelsay Books, which I’m shamelessly taking advantage of this opportunity to plug, once, again :). 

Digital illustration of the sun setting behind a cornfield, shafts of light bleeding through the stalks, fading to a distant thunderhead and starry night sky beyond.
Conspiring Skyward by Cameren Harper

New Chapbook Announcement!

Digital illustration of the sun setting behind a cornfield, shafts of light bleeding through the stalks, fading to a distant thunderhead and starry night sky beyond.

Conspiring Skyward by Cameren Harper

I’m super pleased and proud to announce that I have a poetry chapbook collection forthcoming with Kelsay Books: We Have Seen the Corn will be entering production in May 2025, and will be available for purchase soon thereafter (Don’t worry, I will keep you updated!). By the way, the gorgeous graphic above is the illustration my immensely talented and generous daughter, Cameren Harper, created expressly for use as the cover of We Have Seen the Corn, for which I’m inexpressibly grateful!

This little collection has been a long time in the making and most of the individual poems have been previously published (including the title poem, below*), but what I’m most thrilled about is this opportunity to amass and share with you all these words of grief, growth, joy, and celebration into one beautiful entity dedicated to my husband, inspiration, love of my life, brilliant poet, and most extraordinary (and freaking adorable!) of human beings, the one and only, inimitable Robert Okaji (idk, you may’ve heard of him…).

I’ve been sitting on this news for quite a while, but I’ve decided that there couldn’t be a better time to make such an announcement than during our revered National Poetry Month, so the cat is officially clawing her way out of the bag!

Thank you so much for sharing this poetic moment with me! And stay tuned for more info as it comes available!

*We Have Seen the Corn

with twelve-hundred miles
of fields in our wake

I am aching
to slip among those stalks & touch

their silk-topped ears all conspiring
skyward now

to beguile the birds’ cries from the brim
of that thundercloud

burgeoning
over the Nebraska plain

let’s pull off the interstate     so we can
stretch our legs for a bit

Indiana will wait

split those crows’ itinerant
congregation     there     & park

right alongside the unending green
I want to enter

its late-sun-streams sifting the sky motes
crimson-gold     & stirring

the cicadas’ whirrs & earwigs’ scuttles in the loam
to a viscous chorus

& with my hand clasped in yours     press
another lush measure

into our song’s sweet & sultry folds

~STEPHANIE L. HARPER

Though it is Written

Munch's Scream journal

THOUGH IT IS WRITTEN

that grace comes only by way
of a primordial breath,
you know it to be no less
manifest for its taking of alternate routes,
as surely it finds you by the grasping-
of-a-Bic no. 2-mechanical-pencil way;

by the miraculous-
proximity-of-your-notebook-
with-Munch’s-iconic-Scream-
embossed-in-gold-on-the-cover-
to-your-waiting-for-this-morning’s-
nine-grained-slice-to-toast way;

as well as the letting-
your-hand-drag-a-wake-
of-coffee-stains-across the pages-
because-you-opt-today-
to-imbibe-your-reflux-inducing-libation-
over-not-doing-so’s-throbbing-promise-
of-a-4:00-pm-migraine way;

not to mention the way
you habitually open
the blinds to another barely-lit dawn
that grants you a glimpse of a northern flicker
scrabbling for purchase on the finch feeder
in a flapping blaze of belly, feathers
& beaked seeds flung in ceremonious
presumption of some nearby female’s interest;

or the way you finally take a breath—

which you need to take
before your face re-stones itself
in the memory of those children
who were murdered
in yesterday’s mass shooting
in a Texas elementary school*,

for how else can you still hope?—

which delivers you to the way
your twelve-year-old red heeler
recruits what measure of her brown-eyed vigilance
she can still muster to shepherd
this whole bed-headed-faux-cheetah-printed-
heartsick-kitchen-calamity of you
past the counter-top-mounds of clutter,
through a shadowed valley’s ice age
& back to the light
of a green pasture beside still water

in the beginning

when the Word was God

& the light in you was the way.

STEPHANIE L. HARPER
*Updated from the 2017 version: “yesterday’s mass shooting / in a Texas church”
“Though it is Written” first appeared in The Winnow Magazine in November 2019.

There is This

wisteria-vine-wall-wallpaper-1

There is This

Portland, OR: May 27, 2017

            
On a trellis erected between
my west suburb neighborhood
& the nearest MAX station
the wisteria vines burgeon
overhead in a dusky-purple
cascade like a dessert wine
but yesterday     while I was
out walking as the early evening
heat broke     I noticed a sallow carpet
of petals    fallen
in their waning since just
the previous day     was now
ensconcing the concrete     & already
bearing the heavy imprints—illumined
by the sun’s oblique indifference—
of commuters’ footfalls
& the tell-tale     parallel furrows
of hipsters on skateboards

I saw black sugar ants scavenging
the secretions of the barely-dead
& felt a sour twist of grief
over that chapter unfolding underfoot
of the inevitability I understand
to be inherent in all that is
as dictated by the rule of reason
which     in turn     instructs
the Hawkmoth’s impassioned
twilit plummets into a streetlamp’s halo—
the Death’s-Head’s testament to the light
by which darkness must be defined

I’ll admit to being fickle—a variable
ally of predators & prey alike—
as I’m no less liable to marvel
at the grit of a barn cat stalking a fat vole
(& then to cheer at the rodent’s brief death-throes squeak!)
than I am to release a breathless prayer into the wind
for a crab scuttling frantically ocean-ward
in the shadow of a whimbrel

Steely prudence requires
our acceptance of tragic ends for some
as they are said to ensure the greater
endurance of the whole     & all of us know—
having learned since earliest childhood
some version of the proverbial
to every thing there is a season    
& a time to every purpose under heaven—
that the sun’s descent into the Pacific
beckons the moon’s rise to its vigil
that the ardent frog’s first chirps at dusk
will ring into a night of river-song
& that the raccoons’ kits will always
endure December’s snowfalls
cloistered in their hollows

But the lesson yesterday scrawled
on a sick-sweet banner of dying
wisteria     unfurled over a city
I no longer recognize
is a new     black codicil
rained down from the heavens
in which teenage girls are menaced
& the throats of their intercessors are slashed
during rush hour on a train

There is no season
no time           
& no poem      to assuage
such unnatural waning

There is only this
futile transit of hours
to successive hours—

this exodus
of blood from its native heart

STEPHANIE L. HARPER

MAX memorial

It’s been one year and one day since Taliesin Namkai-Meche and Ricky Best were murdered, and Micah Fletcher narrowly escaped with his life, on a MAX train in Portland, Oregon.  Let Memorial Day be a day to revere their heroic stand against the vile inhumanity of racially-motivated hatred; and let us every day be a heart that remembers and strives to be worthy of their precious sacrifice.

“There is This” was first drafted during the May 2017 Tupelo Press 30/30 challenge, as I was grappling with my initial shock and grief upon first learning of this tragedy. It was subsequently published in the Fall 2017 edition of Harbinger Asylum, edited by Z. M. Wise.

My Cat is Bread

wheat-field

because what is a purr
but the promise of nourishment realized
in the rhythmic release of the heat
that’s accumulated in pockets
with the rise & fall of her breath?

& what is a bagel
if not a nose meeting the base of a tail
& little pink berry & black currant toes
neatly tucked to sleepy chin
all curled around a heart
that holds no lack?

because basking on my windowsill
in a pretzel of scruff limbs salt-tang
& afternoon-sifted sun she is keenly sweet
like a wheat field’s essence of summer wind
in the last days before the harvest hearty
with the warmth of a freshly-baked marble rye

because whenever i’m away from home
i long for her knowing she’s there ‘kneading’
enough for the both of us (for let’s be honest
no pillowy provender of fleece to grace my bed
has managed to preserve its store-bought virginity
for much more than an hour)

& because although
I realize the time she yet has with me
will be fleeting she will ever remain
the loaf of my life

STEPHANIE L. HARPER

UPDATE: Our sweet Hannah passed away from cancer at age 14 yrs. 5months on Friday, January 27, 2017. She lived with unapologetic grace, generously gave to us of her healing energy, and died with stoic dignity. RIP, beautiful girl…
The house has been empty and strange without her, but my grief is tempered by my gratitude and awe for the magical connection this quirky, smart, territorial, eight-pound (in her heyday), dog-terrorizing wonder of a creature made with her human family. Such is the spiritually-rich and filling nature of the “Bread of Life.”

hannah-2016

Hannah, age 14 yrs. 3 mos.