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HOME = GARBAGE for Khalo looking out the window from my teta’s balcony at the news on my laptop some days they look the same and some days they don’t my aunt says this is weird there have never been any military tanks in zalka before three days in a row imagine the difference between this looks weird and military men directing traffic on a daily basis rifles slung across their shoulders waving the cars to keep going stop, turn left cars in two lanes somehow fitting themselves four wide stop, keep going, turn left this country is corrupt says my uncle this country smells like garbage contracts with the garbage company left unrenewed military men pinching their noses while directing traffic if we can’t manage garbage can we do anything right? we stop, keep going, turn left people sling bags of rotten garbage over mountain sides over roadsides drop garbage onto houses into the ocean anywhere but garbage disposal where to dispose when there is nowhere four months and my uncle is hospitalized lungs filled with pollution hundreds of people in the country polluted beirut protesters push industrial garbage bins into the middle of the road try pretending that doesn’t exist aimed at government officials refusing press people start to move them most people drive around them an obstacle course in preserving ignorance let us press our ignorance deeper throw bags over the shoulders of refugees this country is too small as though that’s the only problem religion into garbage brown sludge building when it’s too hot to stay inside my family heads to the beach stops at a checkpoint on the way up the mountains the military man with a rifle across his shoulders barely looks wipes sweat off his brow bored, nods, motions us forward the privilege of christianity there are hundreds of military checkpoints in this tiny country hundreds of bored military men stop, keep going, shmel there are thousands of palestinians in refugee camps in this country stop, undocumented, prohibited movement hindered by checkpoints in and out stop, undocumented, prohibited I don’t live in zalka anymore but every year I visit the garbage keeps growing downtown beirut skyscrapers hiding the garbage close the back windows or we’ll smell garbage speeding on the only highway in lebanon past garbage piles in flames taller than the gas station beside it my uncle’s lungs filled with garbage this country is corrupt, says my uncle and I ask him why he’s still here it’s home, he says, his nose plugged my family came back 18 years ago this is home, they say lungs filled with garbage Eli Tareq El Bechelany-Lynch is a queer Arab poet living in Tio’tia:ke, unceded Kanien’kehá:ka territory (Montreal). Their work has appeared in The Best Canadian Poetry 2018 anthology, GUTS, the Shade Journal, Arc Poetry Magazine, Room Magazine, and elsewhere. They were longlisted for the CBC poetry prize in 2019. knot body, a collection of creative non-fiction and poetry will be published September 2020 by Metatron Press, and The Good Arabs, a poetry collection, will be published in Fall 2021 with Metonymy Press. You can find them on Instagram and Twitter @theonlyelitareq.
ANTI-APOCALYPSE no nuclear winter no ice age no superbug no second coming no robot revolution a pear tree buckthorn plastic bags a river turtles "Anti-Apocalypse" previously published in Bad Animals (Insominac Press, 2018) Tom Cull teaches creative writing at Western University and was the Poet Laureate for the City of London from 2016-2018. Tom’s first collection of poems, Bad Animals, was published in 2018 by Insomniac Press. His work has appeared in such journals as the Rusty Toque, Long Con, and the New Quarterly; his poem “After Rivers” was included in the anthology Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (MSU Press, 2019). Tom is the director of Antler River Rally, a grass roots environmental group he co-founded in 2012 with his partner Miriam Love. ARR works to protect and restore Deshkan Ziibi (Thames River).
AVIAN ODES—CANADA GOOSE The chill, glassy mist just then Dissolving into hints of sultriness Echoed with jubilant honks, Avian position-signalling on high, Pulling my gaze up to your magnificent Flying V’s northward bound Flinging joyful vernal greetings. Come the ordained crisp autumn day The calls echoed again off frosted fields As your arrow formations streamed south, Bidding farewell until spring warmth Once more crept in. Winter past was deep, consistent; Now it staggers all around, Reeling under humanity’s blows, Glistening white morphs To sulky brown mud, Defiantly open water Supplants sparkling ice. Eminently flexible, A few goose homebodies Spawned many more of you that Seize what’s on offer, spurn the effort And trade glorious flight for ungainly Waddling about and strolls through traffic, Expropriating luscious, manicured turf, Cheerfully crapping all over your squattage; Soaring nobility mutated to a Grey-brown-black wingéd pest Herded off the cathedral greensward By a bellowing leaf blower; Target practice for a skulking Archer in a London park; Clubbing victim of a sportsman Whose putt was ruined by an Inopportune anserine klaxon. Undaunted, you multiply and toddle on, Once a belovéd seasonal herald, Now flocks of Cassandras trumpeting Warnings, flaunting consequences, Announcing a battle joined. Jennifer Wenn is a trans-identified writer and speaker from London, Ontario. Her first poetry chapbook, A Song of Milestones, has been published by Harmonia Press (an imprint of Beliveau Books). She has also written From Adversity to Accomplishment, a family and social history; and published poetry in Beliveau Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Open Minds Quarterly, Tuck Magazine, Synaeresis, Big Pond Rumours, the League of Canadian Poets Fresh Voices, Wordsfestzine, and the anthology Things That Matter. She is also the proud parent of two adult children with a day job as a systems analyst. Jennifer Wenn's website.
STAND BY THE LAST STREAM Mother, I can hear you cry with every pipeline being laid to unrest deep in your folds, deep in your layers. I can hear you cry and those who believe know why- Stand by the last stream it’s only a matter of time and stories will be told of a time when water was clean and free. It will be a fairy tale in good books sold at exotic establishments. It will be what dreams are made of and what man will die for. Stand by the last stream watch it struggle pitifully, trying to complete the circle with nothing left to prov. Stand by the last rive,r gather around it to pray hard this doesn’t end the intentions of Mother Earth. Remember the slow trickles, the last sounds anyone ever hears of a time when water was clear and a time when it was free, a time when water fell from the sky clear droplet, clear droplets that could be tasted as it fell. Stand by the last stream that feedds the life of our animals who trusted Mother earth to always provide. Imagine the new bear or the new child not knowing where the last stream is. What will become of them? Stand by the last strea, the last unmurky source of life, peace and renewal, gurgling, choking for breath and space not a fish in sight because they are all in farms and zoos. Stand by the last stream as our children's’ children gather round and wonder why, saying they could have done a better job, and they’d be right. Stand by the last stream, with your friends and loved ones and reminisce about a time when you could reach in with both hand, almost in prayer and cup the water and drink straight from Mother Earth- the breast of mankind. Stand by the last stream wondering what happened, turning into a 3rd world country as the trees that once stood tall, fall by the wayside waiting to be turned into more paper for more signatures and stamps of approval to go ahead and destroy the last stream. Stand by the last stream with your child looking on at the last crystal clear wate trickling to an end and try to find the words to explain. Try and explain what no one will understand and hindsight is 20-20 Stand by the last stream as money floats by instead of fish, and gold can’t be eaten, and silver can’t be eaten, and diamonds can’t be worn, and animals can’t be saved, and the trees rot on the ground while children swarm singing in empty playgrounds by the last stream, and you can’t give a newborn oil, and not even the dandelions will grow, and the birds won’t call, and the pictures you see in your head will only be a story... and the only thing left will be regret... Will you stand stand by the last stream... Previously published in Seven Sacred Truths, Talonbooks in 2018. Cree poet Wanda John-Kehewin studied criminology, sociology, Aboriginal studies, and creative writing while attending the Writer’s Studio writing program at Simon Fraser University. She uses writing as a therapeutic medium through which to understand and to respond to the near decimation of First Nations culture, language, and tradition. She has two poetry books published by Talonbooks, two children’s readers and is currently working on a graphic novel. She finds time to write between the lines.
SOUTHERN GASTRIC-BROODING FROG Rheobatrachus silus collected by David S. Liem Australia 1972 adult male 38.4 mm snout to vent slate-coloured smooth, slimy skin prominent eyes, black with gold spots round blunt snout jaws close snap inhabit boulder-strewn streams, spend days submerged summer rains initiate breeding females swallow fertilized eggs, tadpoles develop in the stomach, are birthed through the mother’s mouth fully-formed froglets spew forth 1978 summer rains late 1979 rains very late 1980 & 1981 rains late again last seen in the wild December 1979 last captive frog died November 1983 Extinct THE CALL OF THIS SPECIES The grunting of a pig a hen cackling the bleat of a sheep the low bellow of an ox a cricket singing near the water a dog’s bark a duck quacking young crows cawing a delicate insect-like tinkle a broken banjo string a finger running over the small teeth of a comb a squeaky door being slowly opened a carpenter’s hammer the tapping of paddles on the side of a canoe a cough a watch being wound a nasal snarl a low-pitched snore two marbles being struck together sleigh bells the clangor of a blacksmith's shop P-r-r-r- pip-pip-pip-pip poo-poo-poo-poo-poo-poo purrrreeeek cr, cr, cr cre-e-e-e-e-e-p, cre-e-e-e-e-e-p pst-pst-pst queenk, queenk eeek! kraw, kraw, kraw jwah, jwah ah, ah, ah, ah krack, krack, krack ca-ha-ha-ac, ca-ha-ha-ac, ca-ha-ha-ac pé-pé, pé-pé kle-kle-kle-klee cran, cran, cran, c-r-r-en, c-r-r-en creck-creck-creck cut-cut-cut-cut ric-up, ric-up, ric-up ru-u-u-ummm ru-u-u-ummm grrruut-grrruut-grrruut-grrruut grau, grau gick, gick, gick, gick tschw, tschw, tschw wurrk, wur-r-r-k trint-trint tr-r-r-onk tr-r-r-onk, tr-r-r-onk! The call of this species has not been recorded THREATS fragmentation of forest clearance of cloud forest movement of the cloud layer up the mountainside timber harvesting landslides ice in the montane grasslands late rains severe dry seasons drought-related increases in evaporation successive fires extending deeper into the rainforest slash-and-burn agriculture cattle grazing illicit crops irrigation practices illegal mining guerrilla activities construction of a dam upstream construction of a cable car pesticides used in maize farming upstream airborne pollution conversion of habitat into a golf course Las Vegas invasion of mist flower introduction of the Bullfrog non-native trout safari ants feral pigs lack of genetic diversity heavy parasite loads exportation for the pet trade stress due to handling for data collection over-collecting chytridiomycosis chytridiomycosis chytridiomycosis
Kate Sutherland lives in Toronto where she writes poems, makes collages, and teaches law. She is the author of three books: Summer Reading (winner of a Saskatchewan Book Award), All In Together Girls, and How to Draw a Rhinoceros (shortlisted for a Creative Writing Book Award by the Association for the Study of Literature and the Environment). A new collection of poems, The Bones Are There, is forthcoming from Book*hug Press in Fall 2020. These three poems are part of a longer sequence about extinct frog species which will appear in its entirety in the new collection.
WALKING INTO THE OCEAN I frequently think about walking into the ocean. My sense of obligation to the earth simply the flimsy contract of a collapsed toy ship factory. I wonder how long fish would live if no longer fugitive to keel, kellick, and angry boom chain. Giving Botox to the water, the workers of our county must have looked forward to the coolness of soil when they drowned. The last of their incense breaths fleeing from Pender Street, home between ashy pages of quiet night and negligent morning. That portion of motherland was christened Oriental Hawaii. Which part did you name me after? I watch as you twist together umbilical buoy with steaming red sausage. Squeeze blood from wet towel. I get it all mixed up—the water from sausage oil, sun spots from badges of living. Tell me the difference between my bones and the bones of whale shark. Only, this nuclear explosion paints in tiny brushstrokes like iron filings. My ghost grips my neck until I can breathe again. My fear is that the ocean knows too much, would reject me too. The pomelo at the corner of our fridge untouched for months. Face torn up like sausage skin. Roof of my mouth softening, mistaken for glue. The ocean is a fable, seaweed stuck between front teeth. If we laid out our hides side by side, which of us would have more scales? And after all of it: I ride nekton back to before I walked. To find my baby-body fed. To find the coolness of soil in the ship yard’s false summer heat. Safe? A warmth I have betrayed has betrayed me. Who can say if this daydream is more about walking than about water. More about the empty swing than about the drop. More about daring to steal a pillow from a sleeping giant. Unwound spool and a jar of kitchen grease, honeying frozen flies. Somehow the tea is still cold; it’s like you have forgotten who I am. What would you do if I could become a worm wedged between subduction zone boundary between us, waking up to everything, gone? The ocean is not a feeling, not a child, not a mother, not a worker, not a word. But she is still learning from contours of glass—just like we are. jia you [1] putin marches chinese soldiers across shanghai streets. fear the Uighur terrorists, jiuma warns me, and no sooner, street stands steaming with nan and kebab fold into the hollow sprawls of massage parlours, german furniture stores, french bakeries, italian pubs, American sex toy shops, local shoe shops doubling as sunday school, real massage parlours, a lego construction of western carpets and han ornaments. disappeared. students tell each other before gaokao[2]: “jiayou.” mothers tell their children before gaokao: “jiayou.” thick wallets tell their diasporic offspring before AP economics: “jiayou.” translation: build pipelines transporting oil between Skovorodino and Daqing translation: build pipelines transporting greed and colonialism across Turtle Island rupture water with oil. drink oil-flavoured bbt with the thick straw of a gun barrel. brush your teeth with bitumen paste, rinse rinse repeat. extract it from skin browner than ours. take it, drink it. until the sun never dares set on our civilized, meddling kingdom. yellow powder amalgamated with sheens of white-- xiaojie the fairest in the land. a quick nod, scorching back scratcher: got you covered. advancing grades, following orders, guaihaizi marching westward until we lose ourselves between the failure of 89% and the success of swearing allegiance to the queen (making the last payment on the mortgage). filial, determined, loyal to the very end. there would be no chinese faces protesting pipelines that day. I wonder if we’d need to drink poison from these waters we steal from to see the filth on our hands. but you cannot bribe a river to love you, forgive you, no. not today. because the Yangtze remembers the poppies that poisoned, the villages evacuated, the children sold, the maozedongs and elizabeths laundered exchanged transported. just so little xingxing could go to school. just so little favourite grandchild could have a better life. just so we never have to talk about 49, 66-76, 89 tucked between the eights in our addresses and phone numbers, the ones and zeros of our pockets. just so. you tell me, “jia you.” but how can you when you do not know the name of this river. when you do not know where your bones will be buried. when you have crushed your veins between big data and the sea. just so we never have to talk about what we pretend not to know. a bottle of cooking oil, crushed by a tank. [1] jia you means “add oil,” another way to say “good luck” [2] gaokao is the National Higher Education Entrance Examination, a prerequisite exam to get into higher education in the People’s Republic of China "jia you" previously published in Tributaries: ACAM undergraduate student journal Jane Shi is a queer Chinese settler living on the unceded, traditional, and ancestral territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh First Nations. Her writing has appeared in Briarpatch Magazine, Canthius, The Malahat Review, PRISM, and Room, among others. She wants to live in a world where love is not a limited resource, land is not mined, hearts are not filched, and bodies are not violated. Find her online @pipagaopoetry.
IT WON'T END WITH A BANG,
it won’t end with DEFCON 1, but with muddied water guzzled down desperate throats and mothers crying at shallow graves. with winds whispering away whimpering cities, and brothers packing mothers and sisters to safety. it won’t end with the masses. there will be no riots in the streets, instead they will run blue and be made seas gushing into coast. it won’t end with a hero. no, the hero will die of pneumonia, or starve when the livestock have died from dysentery and mildew has taken the plants. we won’t be chased. if we had been, we may have run. instead, death will crawl at a sickly pace and close the space between us. it will end how it all started… with water rushing shores, earth cracking open, and fire razing forests, to make room for new inhabitants. but not with a bang. Ayman Arik Kazi is a Muslim, bisexual, Bangladeshi-Canadian immigrant and a student at the University of Western Ontario. That's a lot of identifiers. He founded the Western's first community for spoken word artists and poets, Spoken Word Society. He has written for several small publications like Young Voices and The Reckoner of MGCI. Ayman likes weaving the many aspects of his often conflicting identity into art that offers a scope into his mind.
NONE OF THIS IS A METAPHOR FOR ANYTHING In the car I traced the power lines with my fingers and hopped over the poles like little toads real little jumpers like the ones we collected together before the marsh was condos that must’ve been 25 years ago today it feels longer we were born under the high watermark and knew what that meant how many metaphors do you need to make sense of a dying planet? at least one more? at least one more nothing gets to the point I’m trying to make, there is no such thing as real sacrifice anymore the difference between fake blood and real blood is roughly how much we’ll pay for it Tyler Engström's first book of poetry, Thee Golden Age of the Internet, is forthcoming from Frontenac House in 2021. He was a 2017 finalist for the Writer's Trust RBC Bronwen Wallace Award and his writing has been found in FreeFall Magazine, Freq Magazine, and the poetry anthology Drifting Like a Metaphor: Calgary Poets of Promise. @tylrengstrom
COLONY COLLAPSE Survivors crawl across withered black comb, invisible apocalypse, sisters wandering lost in the corn fields, seduced by filaments of silk, the toxic pollen. Scooping up death-- no distinction between friend and foe, all obliterated in service of unblemished fields, poisoned bees littering the ground. The low hum of welcome washed into air, torn apart by a breeze. Sent down streams like the limbs of Orpheus; the queen perched on her throne, wondering who will come to feed her. Regal head tilting patiently, big eyes surveying the decay. Where is her long train, her cloak of swarming bodies, tight as tapestry? Gone, all gone. Her own body meaningless without them. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS “Colony Collapse” has been published in a previous version in Hamilton Arts and Letters and in Under the Gamma Camera (Gaspereau, 2019). Madeline Bassnett is the author of the poetry collection Under the Gamma Camera (Gaspereau 2019), and two chapbooks, Pilgrimage and Elegies. Her poems have appeared in journals including long con magazine, Prairie Fire, Hamilton Arts and Letters, The New Quarterly, and in the anthology, In Fine Form, 2nd Edition: A Contemporary Look at Canadian Form Poetry. She is currently on the board of Poetry London and teaches in the Department of English and Writing Studies at Western University. She lives in London, Ontario.
WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I LAID THE EARTH'S FOUNDATION? at the heart of garbage the -away of the throw-away circling us in: The desert of the real a mouse click away crack turn schism salt to melt all winters away where were you when I laid the Earth’s foundation? you ask and I build Arks for when Noah comes back Khashayar Mohammadi is a queer, Iranian born, Toronto-based Poet, Writer, Translator and Photographer. He is the author of poetry Chapbooks Moe’s Skin by ZED press 2018, Dear Kestrel by knife | fork | book 2019 and Solitude is an Acrobatic Act by above/ground press 2020. His debut poetry collection Me, You, Then Snow is forthcoming with Gordon Hill Press.
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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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