Northern Light

travel poem



The light was still ours.
It leaked from your eyes
And your smudged hand
Remains forever poised over
Blank sheet.

Night is never ending
In that, we can agree.
What little sun there is, warms
Ancient stone structures with faint
Orange light.

But perhaps it is the
Silent moon we see, and with which
The fishermen work the nets on the harbor.
The pungent odor of oil, sweat,
And cod.

Men curse the stubborn night.
The frozen air. Water lapping at the pylons.
They cannot swim.
They will die here.

The smoker sits by the window
And has his portrait painted.
Swirls of Indigo surround burning ember.
Street light refracted through silty glass.
The toxic fruit smell of turpentine.

Ash inch-thick on faded
A layer of ash on everything.

The smoker pays us no mind.
He gazes out at the ancient

Whose conquering
Was the nation’s
Great shame.



photograph by Chris Myers


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Sergio Remon Alvarez

Born in Madrid Sergio moved to New York City at a young age. He studied playwriting under Karl Friedman and theater at Purchase College. After college, Sergio moved to Alta, Utah where he was a dish washer, waiter, handyman, ski repairman, firefighter and free-skier. Upon his return to New York City, Sergio has alternately been a bookseller, boxer, painter, translator, graphic artist, jazz musician, and writer. He studied creative writing at Gotham Writer's Workshop, the Unterberg Center for Poetry, the St Marks Poetry Project, and New York University. He currently splits his time living in New York and Madrid. He runs with the bulls in Pamplona.

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