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PLASTIC I ought to start with someone else's gain, step outside myself, put on the red and distant visor, be the other queen. Remember what is still to come. Forget. An ocean, say, with pebbles full of eyes – or what were once the outer skins of sight – how beautiful they are, intact and white against the deadened grey, intense cerise. Or maybe sand instead; the other side of memory. A hundred million minds meaningless now. A sparrow hops across snow. A dog barks. DIRECTION The wishbone though. Intact and delicate like a canoe slicing through the nothingness that should have been a heartbeat. Strength so often gets overlooked in the pink hour of dried blood. And so we miss the open mouth of determination, the way a foot is lifted not towards or away from but against. Ayesha Chatterjee is the author of two poetry collections, The Clarity of Distance, and Bottles and Bones. Her work has appeared in journals across the world and been translated into French and Slovene. Chatterjee is past president of the League of Canadian Poets and chair of the League’s Feminist Caucus. She is poetry advisor for Exile magazine.
BUSHFIRE There is one road in and out – mountain to sea and back again. We take it while we still can, trail the steady line of traffic climbing towards a choked sky. Streams only travel in one direction or dry up in heatwaves such as this. The temperatures are still rising. Last night, as the children slept, we watched light streak across the sky illuminating our shack on the hill – the back steps built close to jagged shrubs and grass. This morning we packed everything and left, shoved pink flip-flops and beach-balls into the boot, headed north. We saw flames above the trees. By nightfall that road was blistered, nothing but a scorched leaf-littered underpass, a net for fiery embers and sparks. Burning strips of eucalypt bark leapt from one side of the black lake to the other. We watch the news, recognise place names, on digital maps, not meant for tourists. We walked those beaches where huge groups gather, waiting for the ferocious fires to burn themselves out, return again to ash-dusted patches of land. BARGAINING When life comes down to a headspace of air beneath a jetty – the atmosphere toxic – and above swirling tornadoes of fire, the house burning down to the ground, trees glowing scarlet in the haze, hissing, spitting out sparks, and a fireball sun beaming yellow, eucalypts exploding under a Mercurian orange-streaked sky – you cling to wood, cling to your grandchildren, let the youngest lock fingers around your neck, her blonde curls bobbing on the cold surface, her eyes wide, lips a thin, pale line – wonder where their mother is, if she’s praying, check for five heads above water. Make your case. Stephanie Conn is a poet and current PhD Researcher from Northern Ireland. Her first collection The Woman on the Other Side (Doire Press, 2016) was shortlisted for the Shine/Strong Award for Best First Collection. Her pamphlet Copeland’s Daughter (Smith/Doorstep, 2016) won the Poetry Business Poetry Competition. Her most recent collection Island was published by Doire Press in 2018. Stephanie is a multi-award winning poet, including the inaugural Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing. She is the recipient of a range of Arts Council awards and has read her work locally, nationally and internationally. Find out more at https://stephanieconn.org/. Follow @StephanieConn2
IF TINY CRYSTALS FORM CLOSE TO THE EARTH’S SURFACE THEY FORM DIAMOND DUST My antler heart grows hooves. I follow the lead from the pack. Find shelter in a drunken forest-- what species isn’t at risk. Insulating properties of snow keep me warm-- trapped air between each flake. With body heat and earth-transfer heat my home becomes a snowbank. It’s not the hare’s scream that haunts, it’s the antecedent silence. THE TREES we fill ourselves up with slow-banked health push off the not needed with the growth behind it we tick silent rings inside our own xylem clocks each wound is sealed with home-spun adhesive we synthesize sunshine to a flameless fire we shed to survive to burn spring green INTERSECTIONS All parts have a line with never end. Ongoing fury—burns a shatter zone. Cries by a gate can’t slip out, they hover. Hold blue in your hands. Go on, cup sky. This isn’t illusion. The sound of absence is your boat coming in. The work is in the meadow. It’s hard to put past in a safe place. Some eyes see, if not birds. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS “If Tiny Crystals Form Close to The Earth’s Surface They Form Diamond Dust” first published in the UK literary journal Stag Hill Literary Journal “The Trees” first published in the LCP anthology: Heartwood: a League of Canadian Poets Anthology “Intersections” published in the online UK journal/website Burning House Press Catherine Graham is an award-winning Toronto-based writer. Her sixth poetry collection, The Celery Forest, was named a CBC Best Book of the Year, appears on the CBC Books Ultimate Canadian Poetry List and was a finalist for the Fred Cogswell Award for Excellence in Poetry. Her Red Hair Rises with the Wings of Insect was a finalist for the Raymond Souster Poetry Award and the CAA Poetry Award. Her debut novel Quarry won an Independent Publisher Book Awards gold medal for fiction, “The Very Best!” Book Awards for Best Fiction and was a finalist for the Sarton Women’s Book Award for Contemporary Fiction and the Fred Kerner Book Award. She teaches creative writing at the University of Toronto where she won an Excellence in Teaching Award and is a previous winner of the Toronto International Festival of Authors’ Poetry NOW competition. Æther: an out-of-body lyric will appear in 2020 with Wolsak and Wynn. Visit her at www.catherinegraham.com Follow her on Instagram and Twitter @catgrahampoet
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AboutWatch Your Head is an online anthology of creative works devoted to the climate crisis and climate justice.
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August 2020
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