eight years

eight years

not nearly enough to cleanse the stench, funk / grime and crime within the walls of an estate corrupt / not enough to baptize a new beginning or / dissolve evil embedded in historical detail

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The Social Virtues Series

tilt shift photography of green fruit
GMR
 

Recent Posts

Three Poems

Three Poems

On Kansas 156 All the radio has to sayis eighties rock and Kenny Rogers.You get behind a horse trailerand stay there because you can’t seearound it...

Blue Magic

Blue Magic

              (at Silver Lake, St. Anthony, Minnesota) If I stare long enough...

Green Mountains Review, based at Northern Vermont University, is an annual, award-winning literary magazine publishing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, literary essays, interviews, and book reviews by both well-known writers and promising newcomers.

6 + 2 =

Fern King

Fern King

ACCORDING to Wikihow.com, the proper way to launder a cashmere sweater is hand wash with mild soap, then lay flat on a clean towel. This is more or less what Jane said last night, now confirmed by an independent third party. Can’t she be righteously, indignantly wrong for once? I want to live in a world where my girlfriend bungles the essential facts about an important laundry controversy, and then I go down on her and we watch Hulu and never fight ever. Is that too much to ask?

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This was Then, That was Now: An Interview with poet Vijay Seshadri

This was Then, That was Now: An Interview with poet Vijay Seshadri

As editor of Green Mountains Review, I would like to extend deep gratitude to Vijay Seshadri for speaking with us about his new book This Was Now, That Was Then (Graywolf, 2020). Seshadri won the Pulitzer Prize for his collection 3 Sections in 2014. Currently, he is Poetry Editor at The Paris Review and teaches at Sarah Lawrence College. He is also the editor of The Essential T.S. Eliot.
— E. Powell, May 13, 2021

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Two Poems

Two Poems

Poetess Anoints Herself In wild audacity I wedded Word, obscured ragged frock made fit for my existence. I claimed branch broken weavings as my incendiary hair. Hovered over crumbling coast while my silken breath swung bare-breasted. The sea was nothing but spit in...

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