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Poetry Winter 2022    fiction    all issues


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
& 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
& other poems

Katherine B. Arthaud
& 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
& other poems

Kimberly Russo
Selective Memories are the Only Gift of Dementia
& other poems

Steven Monte
& other poems

Mervyn Seivwright
Fear Mountain
& other poems

Writer's Site

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—


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


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.

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