CIRCLES
 
   
    1
 
First they told me
the future would solve
the present.
 
Then they told me
the present
would solve the future.
 
The present is the world
minus intention.
 
I’m not allowed there.
They know this.
 
I begin a string
of letters, picketing
distance.
 
 
​
    2
 
The Cheerios
in the babies’ cups
are full of Roundup.
 
“Circle,”
one girl chirps.

"Circles" previously appeared in Conjunctions 73.

​Rae Armantrout's book Wobble (Wesleyan, 2018) was a finalist for the National Book Award. A new collection, Conjure, is forthcoming from Wesleyan in Sept. 2020. She was recently interviewed in The Paris Review's "Art of Poetry" series.

HALFLING BEAR (ECLIPSE)
 
the trophy hunter has it
the scientists & the media
celebrate, debate, discuss
photos of the corpse fly
all around the world
& linger for years
 
the miracle of courtship
alignment sought & found
the passing of a honeymoon
the wonder of apparent difference
transcended with pleasure
 
the private rendezvous of
polar bear & grizzly, followed
by months of solitary gestation
of nurturing, nursing
feeding
teaching the young
 
all the years of a young bear’s life
discoveries, missteps, accomplishments
the cultural patterning inhabited, as
taught by the mother
& the world met, step by step
 
all these
disappear
 
into bloodlust & big money
dna proofs & a too small sample
the death of a halfling bear reveals
the minds of scientific observers
& all forms of prejudice: miscegenation
still, so scandalous
 
this is not a freakshow
but evidence of life unfolding
& showing its shape as it goes
the elders say, usually they fight
but not this time

"halfling bear(eclipse)" originally published in Halfling Spring: an internet romance (Kegedonce Press 2013)

​Joanne Arnott is a Métis/mixed-blood writer and arts activist, originally from Manitoba, at home on the west coast. She received the Gerald Lampert Award (LCP 1992) and the Vancouver Mayor’s Art Award for Literary Arts (2017). She published six poetry books, a collection of short nonfiction and a children’s illustrated. Recent publications include her third poetry chapbook, Pensive & beyond (Nomados Press 2019) and the co-edited volume, Honouring the Strength of Indian Women: Plays, Stories and Poetry by Vera Manuel (U of Manitoba Press 2019). She is Poetry Mentor for The Writers Studio, SFU, and Poetry Editor for EVENT Magazine.

READING THE MURMURATIONS

In the end times, they say,
the birds might silence themselves,
drop feathers as hints, molt at odd times,
and mate with their fiercest rivals.

But the days will arrive
without warning–
no bells rung with symbolism,
no trumpet voluntary flourish,
no drums rolling attendant.
​
They will have already arrived,
these muted and too quiet days,
dressed in common clothing
and pretending to fit in–
silencing mothers and lovers
as they come, trailing catastrophe
in their muddied wake.

to cope


​it’s all unseasonal rains
winter in the Great Lakes these days
in niibin the boreal is ablaze
the amazon and outback aflame
increasing tsunamis and earthquakes
and all we can do is yell CLIMATE CHANGE
                                                                                                                                            what else do we say?
while the US keeps taking brown babies away
numbered like the West Bank
Bantustans
Japanese internment camps
Auschwitz
the Indian act

our migration routes are older than your borders
we have cultural items older than your legal orders

this is natural law renaissance
embodying ancestors’ excellence
bringing land back
on ready when RCMP attack

Unist’ot’en bimaadiziwin
resistance is a way of living

SCREAMING INTO A PIANO

 
… The pictures captured a mood of as much astonishment as joy; it was as if the delegates could not quite believe they had succeeded in reaching an agreement of such significance.
- Amitav Ghosh
 

 
Recalling decision 1 / CP.17 on the establishment of a room
wide enough to hold your imagining. Like the moon
fallen onto the field, new
& mistaken by my aunt for a spaceship. Also recalling
relevant decisions to respond to everything by screaming.
Rain lines. Parts per million diluted
light. Each acre along this river
& if there are still children blowing tufts int   o
                                                                        forg 
                                                          iv                     e        n
                                                                            e        s             
                                                                                             s
 
Welcoming
the adoption of planned repairs for the south
entrance north alley west gate. Recognizing that
even in crossing towards it I would stubbornly
remain a parallel incident. Reimagining no one
there. Back bicycle wheel spinning
hillside. Throwing the moon.
Acknowledging that agreeing to uphold & promote
revisions ought to be enough
this time. Singing.
 
 
 
 
"Screaming into a Piano" previously appeared in a chapbook Night Leaves Nothing New (Baseline Press Oct 2019)

Emily Lu earned her B.Sc. at the University of Toronto and her M.D. at Queen’s University. Currently completing her postgraduate training in psychiatry, she lives in London, Ontario. Night Leaves Nothing New (Baseline Press) is her first chapbook. ​

“Wailsong 4 Sydney” collects instances of a novel form of found poetry that I call the amput(ransl)ation. First, a random string of alphanumeric characters is typed by hand into Google translate, which misinterprets this string as a legitimate entry in one or another language (often, but not always, recognizing it as Arabic script). Then, one or more characters are iteratively excised from the string, producing a descending sequence of alternate translations, until not much more than a stump is left.

While perusing this form, on January 10th, 2020, in the midst of the Australian bushfire crisis, I happened upon a sequence that spoke of Sydney, Australia, of greenness and heat, of smoke, and of payment. Delving a bit deeper, I identified the sequence in question, and explored various permutations of both the string and the type and order of character excisement, ultimately producing this sequence of found poetry, which serves as a dirgesong for the bushfire crisis currently underway in Australia.
​
It is typeset here in Australia, an open-source typeface designed by Denver Ross that "takes inspiration from the arches of the Sydney Opera House to the waves of Bondi Beach."

RIVER*

When you leave, take with you the way light shimmered
               gold in the river,
how the weight of what you loved swirled into filigreed
                gold in the river.

That was how it felt to me, as the eventide of the 
                 annihilated dream,
when I first crossed into illumination at the 
                  threshold of the river.

There were mapmakers before me: their footfalls fade
                   tender on the earth.
Like you, they brought palms of amaryllis, asked to be
                    consoled by the river.

There's a pond in the forest whose water only ripples 
                     where you weep.
But here, all ruptures. Let your heart flood,
                      uncontrolled, into the river.

Listen: the saga unbraids. Loyalties shift, fish-dappled
                       in her surge.
You can no more submerge a story than you can
                       hold a river.

Carry all you can into the world, a tributary. But
                       pilgrim, linger a little.
Sit a while beside me. There are renderings still
                        untold in the river.

* This poem is from Sharanya Manivannan's second collection,  The Altar of the Only World (HarperCollins India, 2017).

TWO POEMS 
BY STEVE MCORMOND

 
DARK CLOUDS (ANOTHER APOCALYPSE)
 
The clouds rolled in and never left.
Lightning in them but no rain.
 
Life, as Auden observed, went on
disinterestedly. There was the tuna
 
casserole to keep from burning, the dog
whimpering to be let out.
 
Panels of experts convened on TV
to discuss the subterranean rumblings,
 
the preponderance of messianic cults.
We perked up at the gory bits,
 
the jumpers and self-immolations,
rituals involving goat’s blood.
 
Accustomed to instant gratification,
we wanted our apocalypse now.
 
How many times could we say goodbye
before we grew bored, turned a blind eye?
 
We had fetishes to attend to,
money to make and spend.
 
Years since we’d seen the stars,
they ceased to cross our minds.
 
No, never
any rain.

 





ENVOI

What advice can I give, my fledglings,
my little vanishings, as you pack your things
and prepare to leave? Everything is fine, the sky
has been falling a long time. My wisdom in short
supply, these words must seem vague and kitschy
like the Lord’s Prayer painted on a grain of rice.
Already you are better than me. Each generation
is and should be incomprehensible to its parents.
We will want to go quietly. Don’t let our grey hair
keep you from meting out the judgment we’re due.
Love immoderately and permit yourselves rage.
Anger makes things happen. The mob is gospel.
And to those who claim it couldn’t be stopped:
At every point along its path, the arrow is still.


​
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

"Dark Clouds (Another Apocalypse)" and "Envoi" from The Good News about Armageddon (Brick Books, 2010). 

 
Steve McOrmond is the author of four books of poetry, most recently Reckon (Brick Books, 2018). He lives in Toronto. www.stevemcormond.com
 

I NEVER GOT OVER 60 LIKES

O, darlin’s

When hasn’t life been expendable?

Another train departs

tossed on a heap of disposables

Cell phones plastics mountains

There is no law

Only the monied

This too shall pass

We already know the ending

We’ve seen it

Left before the credits

“I didn’t think it would be such a downer.”

“This sucks, let’s leave.”

“Why did you unfollow me?”

“You unfriended me bitch”

Like that’s the end of the world.

Just one click

In a darkened theatre

We stay to the bitter end

The price of the ticket

To see what might happen

Any surprises plot twists

“I didn’t see that one coming”

“I did.”

The oldies the goodies

The good guys show up

Oft times even only one

To set the captives free

To take down the evil ones

Shot in glorious black and white

Light projected a fresh stream

the cup of one’s hands

When there was free water to drink

“Can I have a glass of water?”

“Water some water please”

“My daughter needs some water.”

You only think you’re tired

The entire tired sick fucking world is

It sucks to be tired

tired of this all of this

Maybe I’ll message Christopher
​
See if they’re tired, too.

KIRBY’s earlier chapbooks include Cock & Soul, Bob’s boy, The World is Fucked and Sometimes Beautiful, and She’s Having A Doris Day. Their full-length debut, This Is Where I Get Off is now in its second printing (Permanent Sleep Press, 2019) and currently being adapted for the stage. Kirby is the owner and publisher of knife | fork | book. www.jeffkirby.ca

THE HEATWAVE
(after A.M. Klein)
 
The weather cites the welling mercury;
un autre mois comme ça, we'll all be dead –
so say the clamours banging on our walls.
In the papers, calls
for carbon caps are lain next to a sea
of melting rhetoric. Sunburns run red. 
 
A week, and it will break! How many stores
of all their A/C units are blood-let?
Outside their boiled abodes, the city tries
to fight off fire with ice,
cones ripple and dip, kids squeeze their Freezies warm.
There are no winds to fan our fevered têtes.
 
But it will come! One night this week a boom
will wake the sweltering masses, light will flash,
fat drops will pound upon our window panes,
then roust from cooling rooms
the sardine-tin-packed youth to a terrasse
'til autumn overtakes us yet again.