Category: Poetry

CP Nwankwo

once the city sprouted with gods—

seeds whispers, freshly braided with the breaths of the

ancients; tombs cracked impulses like

husks and roots curled from the bones of history. say

once, children built homes in the ribs of

cedars. their colours of laughter carved into a country

bark. once, elders named their dreams

after a tree. for trees do not forget the orders of a lively

hope. once, all things were bright and

beautiful. and eternity was hymnary into the greens of

a monsoon wind. but when the axe is

hungry, ferns unfurl singing dirges to the fractal geo-

metries of empires. only the deeds of

mycelium remembers the threads of hunger in which

she has entertained. does the forest

shrink into memories, if not that the city has lichen a

little normal into ingratitude? take the

crack walls of sycamore and build these heartbreaks

no more, this part where the rain out-

lives the wildness of fire and war. softly, softly the

mercy in the vine would blood over

us. and the borders of dust would come rhythm with

the original poem of god. down the

swollen belly of the earth, the acacia would fold its

leaves like a clasped hand, awaiting

the unction of redemption. the rain would play the

field of angels and the patient hand

would hold a miracle to her pomaces. back to the

prayers that tasted like gunpowder,

locking me like a decked heaven. but the truth is,

I’ve hurt myself gauzing kindness

out of the neon mouths of an open field. the sight

of me in tender hands of bulrushes.

Alexandra Dawson

As I walk past the sex store downtown, I think

of flags, how the zealots strap them on and

screw us. I am not interested in the fire

of your want, unless you want to stop

this world from burning, unless you want

to topple the men from their mountains

of heads, their slot machine eyes spinning and

spinning and spinning. No, this is not a love

poem. I will not crawl through the trenches

of your longing. You can sob all you want,

and still, the icebergs cry harder. No one

ever told them that sadness makes you

disappear. The truth is, I simply couldn’t

do it. How could I write about love at a time

like this? But I guess, I did love the idea

of us, once. A daring species. A people made

of poetry. The way I used to run after stray

kindness. My delight when I reached out

to compassion, and felt it grab me back. The time

a stranger held my hand at a department store,

enclosing my fingers in hers like they were tiny

tender petals. Or when we all lay on the ground,

six of us, like landed seals, trying to coax that

cat from out beneath the streetcar. How funny

is this life, that once the cat was rescued, we

all stood up, dusted snow from our coats and

continued on our way.

Kelsey Dean

I wanted to throw my arms around the thick white neck of my brother’s polar bear and cry I’m glad that you are safe from the endless water. I wanted it to nose me, too. I wanted my palm against the fur, and the warm skin beneath. I wanted to see our bones. I wanted to know they were strong. I wanted to be unafraid of being swallowed—by the bear, or the blue night, or the holes in the weft of the world. I wanted the water to move. I wanted lapping. I wanted to hear bees in the arctic quiet. I wanted wolves. I wanted anything but that cerulean muteness, pressing and pressing. I wanted to make noise. To produce birdsong. I wanted a heart-red cardinal to fly from my throat, screaming. I wanted to keep my brother in my hands. I wanted the bear to soften and curl into the snow. I wanted slumber. I wanted my brother to sprawl on the back of his bear and point to the constellations. I wanted them to stay. I wanted to not be suddenly alone in the silent twilight that was all that was left of the world. I wanted to chase them over the crest of the pale blue hill. I wanted to be untroubled. I wanted to gather their footprints and hold them, weeping. I wanted my chest to feel unbruised.

Elinor Ann Walker

My neighbor through the woods

has cemented over half his yard

near the culvert, built brick walls

where white oak trees used to be.

I’m not sure what he was thinking.

Proud of his trail cam, he says

he’s a hunter, knows the land.

He hasn’t lived in Tennessee

that long, the state with more

caves than any other. Ground

water seeps up to ephemeral

streams along woodland edges,

finds the lowest point, and I hope

it always will. I don’t tell him this

(he can’t hear anyway, deafened

by leaf blower, chain saw, power

washer). Outside to get a signal,

he shouts into his cell phone

as I imagine the pull from below,

what might sink, yield drop by drop

to limestone, mineral deposits,

stalactites reach to stalagmites

sturdy enough to lean on, pillars

circling dark lakes where pale,

blind fish drift. But water recedes

in drought even underground;

Lost Sea lost sea, 25 feet, then

recovered. So he probably won’t

notice until there’s a real flood.

I doubt he’ll float by on his boat

to save us. The state of things now.

My boots suck through the thaw

as I slog back to the house. In April,

what remains of my tracks will glisten

with tadpoles if heavy rains still come.

Note: Lost Sea, a real place near Sweetwater, TN, is a large underground lake in the Craighead Caverns cave system.

Sneha Subramanian Kanta

I.

[Is ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ Coastal Road worth ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ecology?]

we must speak about the land as an orbit an erosion

a map carbonized into the helm of cinderblocks

you are playing with Mumbai like we play a game of cards

[∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ may decongest the city. But ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ people ∙∙∙∙∙∙ places it will harm?]

in a physics class I kept hearing plants

when my teacher said planks

[∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ at a time when fisherfolk, like other ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ communities, ∙∙∙∙∙∙ struggling to recover ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ the heavy blow of the ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ pandemic. ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ “Had you been there ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ you would have had tears ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙,” ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙. “I invite ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ come live with us for two days, ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙. ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ not even have vegetables ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ with rotis sometimes.”]

the truest sentence is a hailstone.

because the Arabian sea is swallowing our city

where it is being built for wealth regardless of tides

where tomorrow’s ancestors are today’s elusive parents.

my father walked barefoot to a temple several times

to pray to a goddess, this temple is situated upon the Arabian sea

where now my mother’s ashes are mixed with water

in the pandemic in a new country, we move ten houses

in twelve months. our cartilages remember a country

as sponging throbs of firmament emptying into rain

[∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙, an assistant professor ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ calls this a “skewed idea of planning”.]

tell me the history which will not be written in books

and I will tell you the cleaving of a family, how it begins

[“Our beaches will go underwater, ∙∙∙∙∙∙ currents will change, ∙∙∙∙∙∙ shoreline ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ eroding faster, ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ loss of biodiversity, ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ livelihood of fishermen ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ destroyed. ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ an exercise in extravaganza ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ could ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ have been avoided, ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙,” ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙. “This belief ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ restore nature ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ from every ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ mind, ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙]

my mother’s father was a fisherman, a Koli

with significant ties to water. we all will be connected

to water is a story which will yield a life.

the water turned alkaline, nana, before I could

leave the country. the word for alkaline in Marathi

is अल्कधर्मी. when calling out to God, I weep in Marathi.

II.

[‘100-year-storm’ batters Mississauga, ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ damage could have been ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ worse]

when it rains, rasped, thunderstorm blur knots

churning the city into water into lake into pond into river

ocular and abject, I remember the Credit River for its amplitudes

of sound, cultivating entire forest marshlands

why are you thinking about wealth with the alliteration of water?

[While storms like the one ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ are rare–the last comparable ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ in 2013–experts say climate change could trigger more ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ temperatures climbing just one degree ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙.]

for two years, the cherry trees have begun to bloom

earlier due to rising temperatures. a congregation of families

will arrive to watch the eighty trees at Kariya Park.

two cities are called sisters. after refrains of fog bridled

into the balconies of high rises, eyelids will sketch pestles

of autumn leaves that surpass an erosive winter.

when I leave a country, the birds meet me in sutures of cities.

[∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙, the stormwater drainage system ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ more than 51,000 catchbasins, 270 kilometres ∙∙∙∙ ditches, 150 kilometres ∙∙∙∙ creeks, ∙∙∙∙∙∙ 81 stormwater management facilities (including ponds, ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙, ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙) that help
∙∙∙∙ collect, drain, and clean ∙∙∙∙∙∙ ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ rainwater runoff before it enters Lake Ontario, the source of ∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙ drinking water.]

Two 100-year storms hit our city in a month.

A distillation prayer of an immigrant passes through

widening trees into the greenbelt, exiting the city as the Credit River

takes new forms. With the city changes the country

and then the world. Except water, in its memory

of taking form through rituals against slants of cartography.

I won’t say I have left the Arabian Sea of changing waters.

In his last years, my paati’s anna kept calling God in Tamil.

When I was a girl in a sprawling temple of gingelly oil lamps

I asked my mother if God will understand my prayers in English.

God understands all languages, my mother would say.

Now I pray in malls, parking lots, bus stops, empty rooms.

Through water, I step out of the borders of a country.

∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙∙If we won’t listen, will water—

will water take formless thuds; throb, ferried into everything,

as if a country as if an unmooring, liquefying into an auspicate

inexhaustible source of oneness?