Live Encounters Poetry & Writing 16th Anniversary Volume Six
November- December 2025
Footnote, poems by Julian Matthews.
Footnote
If I wrote a poem about you
There would an asterisk at the end of every line
Each will shine like a tiny dark star at the edge of the universe
Each will lead you to a footnote explaining the ambiguity
of sadness from your absence
My poem can’t, won’t, will not stand on its own or be self-explanatory
Your questioning eyes will dart up and down the page
from asterisk to footnote:
line-asterisk-footnote,
line-asterisk-footnote,
line-asterisk-footnote
Trying to make sense of it all
Until you reach the last line which wouldn’t need a footnote
Because by then you would understand
That you are gone, no longer here, unalive
And all that remains is this grief
And your unexplainable presence still kicking around
and footnoted in my life forever
Sunday Encounter
This Sunday evening, I briefly encountered Hope and Peace.
I was out for my usual three-mile walk around the park.
“Hope” was in bright yellow font on a t-shirt of a buff young man,
huffing from a workout, on the right side of my path.
“Peace” was in dull white lettering on a faded t-shirt
of an older woman on my left, who looked harried
as if in a rush to get home to prepare dinner.
My journalistic instincts kicked in and I thought of capturing
the moment on my phone.
After all, it is not everyday you are confronted by Hope and Peace.
But it was already too late and too obvious.
So I just looked quizzically at one, then the other,
and they each looked quizzically back at me – for staring.
And since they were parallel to each other,
neither knew what the other’s t-shirt bore.
I do not consider myself a spiritual man,
and have grappled with my faith for decades,
but somehow felt lighter today for the coincidence.
A stressed, aging Peace, and a muscular yet tired Hope
came up the road and the universe winked at me.
And I realized, not a thing in this weary-shouldered world
has changed in centuries.
Stubbornly, denying humanity’s fate,
I walked an extra three-mile round.
The Baker
i sprinkle flour like stardust,
press and mould this ingrained pain
into a pliable dough i can bear
each of us is an untested recipe
waiting to mix it up, improvise,
share our unleavened, salty souls
we fear the burn yet stir and churn,
measure out the weighted repercussions,
butter the beaten batter, stuff the ovened hurt
sometimes the crust hardens, cracks
start to show, the temperature’s too high–
you can’t preheat a woodfire heart
yet, i persist: my webbed words knead
this gossamer interplay, spread sugary
crumbs to draw you into this messy galley
i am not sour, though – just slather me up,
melt the cheese, raise a toast, let’s be open
to whatever sweetness may come next
© Julian Matthews
Julian Matthews is a mixed-race poet from Malaysia. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prizeby Dream Catcher magazine/Stairwell Books, UK, in 2022. He is published in The American Journal of Poetry, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Loch Raven Review, Live Encounters and New Verse News, among 60 other literary journals and anthologies in 17 countries. https://linktr.ee/julianmatthews