March 13-19, 2017: Poetry from Kirsty A. Niven and Mark Mansfield

​Kirsty A. Niven and Mark Mansfield

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​Kirsty A. Niven
kaniven13@outlook.com

Bio (auto)

Kirsty A. Niven lives in Dundee, Scotland with her husband and two cats. Her poetry has appeared in GFT Presents: One in Four, The Dawntreader, Mothers Always Write, the anthology A Prince Tribute and several other publications. She also contributed towards the Dylan’s Great Poem Project of 2016.

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by ​LB Sedlacek and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Newborn

Oh little pearls –

Pink rosebuds, silken –
a fist, milky sweet,

Your tight grasp
clenches and releases –

Meaningful, needing.
Love washes over,

Love consumes
as tiny crescent moons

Pattern my skin –
tireless tattoos.

A wave of it
crashes against me –

Pulling me under,
gasping for air.

An emptiness overflowing,
a wound salted.

Such a little thing,
I can’t look away –

A grip on reality,
both wrinkled and new.

 

 



Mark Mansfield
mmansfield001@rochester.rr.com

Bio (auto)

Mark Mansfield is the author of one, full-length collection of poetry, Strangers Like You (2008, revised 2016 Van der Decken). His work has appeared in The Adirondack Review, Bayou, Blue Mesa Review, Deep South Magazine, The Evansville Review, Fourteen Hills, Gargoyle, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Ledge, Limestone, Magma, Salt Hill, Tulane Review, Unsplendid, and elsewhere. He holds an M.A. in Writing from Johns Hopkins and was a 2015 Pushcart Prize nominee. Currently, he lives in Geneva, New York.

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by Mark Mansfield and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Arlington

The morning air feels fresher here.
All at once, next to a mound
of newly dug earth, rifles appear
to salute a cloudless sky. And while

they do, somebody’s choked-back tears
are muted by the blanks sounding
until each barrel descends,
as six young soldiers, three to a file

each side of a tri-colored bier,
one by one, fold then bend
its flag into a perfect wedge.

While a boy who used to play “War” near,
camouflaged by some neighbor’s hedge,
no longer plays. Today war ends.

Previously published in The California Quarterly