In this captivating collection, Stacy Stephens invites readers into the liminal space between dusk and dawn, where imagination roams free and the mundane world dissolves into something more profound.
"Nocturne" explores the quiet magic of moonlit hours when most of the world sleeps but poets, dreamers, and wanderers find themselves most alive. From "The Witching Hour" to "Watching Night Fall Across the City," Stephens crafts luminous poems that illuminate the beauty and mystery of night.
With lyrical precision and evocative imagery, these poems traverse city streets bathed in neon, abandoned highways under star-filled skies, and intimate spaces where candles flicker and coffee brews at 3 a.m. Stephens creates a nocturnal landscape both familiar and otherworldly, populated by moon nymphs, celestial bodies, and solitary figures seeking connection in the darkness.
Like Emily Dickinson "out with lanterns, looking for myself," Stephens uses the night as both mirror and window—reflecting inner truths while opening vistas to realms unseen by daylight. "Nocturne" celebrates those who find their truest selves when the moon rises and conventional boundaries fade into shadow.
Below you can read a small collection of poetry found within the book. If you enjoy this excerpt, consider PURCHASING MY BOOK!
Her Whims
In absentia, a maddened enchantress,
evocative as midnight dusk,
struck fearless by the wane of moon,
vision in sin, I have hitchhiked
my trip across an alcove of
city skylights, black-cat among
penthouse roof, claw against the light,
slick-bellied thing, aloof, and
scatter-brained in mind.
A girl like that is not the feminine type,
her whims are much like mine.
I have constructed from branch,
an oasis among sassafras and cotton-flower,
green grotto in the hollow
of hill between two elms.
I trade butterfly-honey for heart-manna,
fill my makeshift shelves of elixirs,
herb-salad and intricate blown-glass trinkets;
chanting, realigning the planets like pockets of time.
An otherworldly girl like that is hard to define,
her whims are much like mine.
I have journeyed in taxis black and yellow,
city lights blurring past strange towns,
all naked eyes and a sigh 'goodbye'
to faces who remain nameless,
constructing myself in the course of
side-routes and traffic-stops.
Champion where black leather still pinches skin,
and my back snaps where the metal bends.
A girl like that is as brave as
the sharp end of a paring knife,
her whims are much like mine.
Sleeping…
...you always
invite me
into strange rooms.
I hang maps
on hooks
across colorful walls
in hues I can't
quite remember;
push tacks
into names of towns
I've never known.
'Look' I say,
'we are mere
thumb-prints apart...'
I turn, you are gone.
Counting the Hours
Night unfolds me,
Fist by fist,
Two empty hands.
Winter-Sky Cypher
This past winter
was a barren land-
full of frozen stalk.
And I wore the cold
of love's stare like
a see-through sweater,
and so by the light
of a fire set against
night air, we scoured
the heart-words of
each other like scavengers;
Each dusk-hour swallowing
the bright swell of the moon
like a brown-cream latte,
so we measured time by
brush strokes and hot drinks.
His fingers, brown and slim,
captivating to touch and whim,
dipped their shades of world
into my eyes and I saw new things.
I watched with heart-wings
as the snow both fell
and melted across the
window-filled sky each night,
and myself always dreading the
drought of a lone spring season.
His meal was a meager salvation
in the time-spectrum made
of space and rhyme.
And the end made of me
a gloaming Sapphire among
silver light, left hungry and wanton.
His voice was a compass
dipping one Octave too far south,
a sound that would not carry.
And still, at this desk bent into
a block of metal and cedar,
I cannot forget how his head
dipped into the vessel of
my then-empty chest;
how his mind was the sky
and I long, still, to swallow stars.
Words and I
You first slithered yourself
Around my waist,
All 6am belly button
And shower-creamed skin
Made of words
Like Sexton and Sappho.
We'd sleep late, bed-full
Of poet-speak and brown bean,
Then meet one another
Come evening, all hush-lipped
Lullaby and wine
At back-tables of fancy
Dining halls where bowls
Of Eve’s fresh fruit sat:
My willing accomplice,
The black ink of my
Only-sometimes-starry night,
The tip to my ten brown
Curious, vagabond toes
Freshly sunned, notebook in tow,
You’d step me across dim-lit
Thresholds into worlds
Saturated of taste and color,
Fresh-tongued and tingling hands
Always willing me to wander.
Walking Home Past Dark
(inspired by e.e. cummings)
In the street of the sky,
Night walks scattering poems
Across the city,
Mapped of concrete and footstep.
Every corner-stop hosts
The weary eyes of another stranger.
I am half asleep,
Lulled by the wave of my walk
And the warm spice of chai tea.
I can’t help but love late evening,
How the clouds pull their cape
Across the pale face of the moon,
Dusting the sharply-lit
Café-stops and window-shops
Into hazy film-noir shadows.
I smile into the shape-shift
Of each stop-light, and
allow myself the seduction of
street-lamp and star-haze.