Poetry Winter 2022 fiction all issues
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Cover
Li Zhang
Ana Reisens
Pam asked about Europe
& other poems
Krystle May Statler
To the Slow Burn
& other poems
Kristina Cecka
On Remodeling
& other poems
Belinda Roddie
Bless The Bones Of California
& other poems
Summer Rand
Alexander tells me how he'd like to be buried
& other poems
Alexander Perez
Toward the Rainbow
& other poems
Karo Ska
self-portrait of compassion…
& other poems
David Southward
The Pelican
& other poems
George Longenecker
Stamp Collection
& other poems
Mary Keating
Salty
& other poems
Talya Jankovits
Imagine A World Without Raging Hormones
& other poems
Laurie Holding
Sonnet to Mr. Frost
& other poems
David Ruekberg
A Short Essay on Love
& other poems
Elaine Greenwood
There’s a thick, quiet Angel
& other poems
Richard Baldo
Carry On Caretaker
& other poems
Jefferson Singer
Dave Righetti’s No-Hitter…
& other poems
Diane Ayer
A Fan
& other poems
Kaecey McCormick
Meditation Before Desert Monsoon
& other poems
Meg Whelan
Resubstantiation
& other poems
Katherine B. Arthaud
Possible
& other poems
Aaron Glover
On Transformation
& other poems
Anne Marie Wells
[I'm crying in a sandwich shop reading Diane Seuss' sonnets]
& other poems
Holly Cian
Untitled
& other poems
Kimberly Russo
Selective Memories are the Only Gift of Dementia
& other poems
Steven Monte
Larkin
& other poems
Mervyn Seivwright
Fear Mountain
& other poems
Mervyn Seivwright
Constant Mornings in Gȕttingen
This hallowed lake puzzles
Austria, Germany, Switzerland
in a wet covenant.
On Saturday mornings
couples have cleansed themselves
at this lake, a pilgrimage,
a weekly ministry
where the water preaches
to them, stripping all
before their baptism.
Before their plunge
a Mary Magdalene pier washes
their feet, their ankles
as water covers them.
There is no lifeguard here,
they revere the lake,
swimming out past buoys
or square platforms
placed by levels of faith
they always have
from the fledgling age
of the shore trees. An oak tree,
circumference of four pairs
of hands held by warm bodies
in a ring, paired with ivy,
co-existing with a cherry tree—
has witnessed generations
of kinship worship here.
Crossing the Border from Beausoleil
She hauled her mop,
her bucket filled
with solvents to cleanse
the vision
of her dreams. Trudging
past my table
at a restaurant
where she may object
to eat. Her eyes
latching a hook
filling me
with guilt
with resolve
with pain
with hope.
Her eyes
not letting go,
me avowing—
sawubona.
Her daily trek
across demarcation
to the monolith
of Monaco. A square
mile of soaring
penises, blotting
out last season’s
buildings, last season’s
forgotten discoveries.
Without her
who would scrub
their tiles of marble
their stubborn offspring
their 48 thousand euro
per metre void—
without her.
Her eyes told me
the path she walked
would wither. Her
black skin refused
to stay on the wonder-belt
of colonialism,
the seduction
of a spawn’s flash
of an 8mm-film whore.
Her eyes shared
her kismet—her truth.
Fear Mountain
I was told it was like the gates of Hades,
a Buddhist temple cast with natural mountain
walls, four mountain peaks to guide
each of the old directional winds,
a conductor molding an orchestra. Story
of a monk whose soles embedded each grain
of soil through Japanese rice patties, snow peaks,
building bricks in Osore Valley
listening to Buddha’s echo. Far in the north
where nature carves ice imagery on roads
guided to the scent of sulfur burning
my nose hairs. Earth’s skin here crackles,
bleeding smoke hovering as ghost clouds
across my knees. Bubbles rippled
cream-yellow crusts as milk curdled over
the lake called Styx. A thick air, presence
of children’s spirits blowing, spinning
pinwheels left by families to connect to them
in their solitude, a path to ancestors.
Nothing lives here. Barren hills, hues of gray
stones and dust mirroring memorials
spaced in star constellations. I hear no voices
only vibrations in the wind tickling my ears,
wondering of my journey, listening
to the fearful songs of their transition.
His Crack Left No Headstone Grave
The caretaker shuffled
his head, crackling
the pages of a ledger
of locations, installments
swelling to a brash stop.
Staring into space, deliberating
which words would he infuse—
euphony and heresy
to dull the taste? Sorry,
not only for the loss
of your mother, he said,
as he walked away
pointing at a patch
of shamrock leaves
and Bermuda grass. Between
two headstones, finely cut,
her patch of grass
was bare, vacated love
left no lasting endearment.
Till death—he departed
my mother, his passion
cracked insurance, savings
until the yellow rocks
in his lungs, burned
away. In stillness—
I could hear the wind
against her blades
of grass, soft whistles
of thrushes afford
retrospective—she
walks in me.
Mervyn Seivwright
writes to balance social consciousness and poetry craft for humane growth. The Spalding MFA graduate is from a Jamaican family born in London, appearing in AGNI, American Journal of Poetry, Salamander Magazine, African American Review, and 48 other journals in 6 countries. He is a 2021 Pushcart Nominee and Voices Israel’s Rose Ruben Poetry Competition Honorable-Mention, and he has an Autumn 2023 collection due with Broken Sleep Books.