The Thicket issue 2; 'Wintering'

THE THICKET | MAGAZINE

issue 2 ‘Wintering’

Featuring Éloïse Armary Lorna Rose Ilisha Thiru Purcell Katie Walters Jonna Kihlman Dawid Kedra Nikita Desai

S.R. Ekstein Aiyanna Lund Ashton Palmer Faye Alexandra Rose Ben Philipps Satya Bosman

NOTE FROM THE EDITORS

Scarlett Ward I am delighted to have worked on the second issue of The Thicket along with the amazing people who contributed. Thank you to every person who submitted, and to Salomée for her hard work in submissions reading. This issue came after a brief hiatus following health struggles, and upon the return of The Thicket it struck me just how supportive the poetry community is, so from the bottom of my heart thank you. None of this would be possible without you.

It also feels strange to release a publication at a time of violence, massacre and genocide. So I cannot in good faith release this issue without making it abundantly clear that Fawn Press supports a free Palestine, free from oppressive rule and free from the horror that it currently faces.

Salomée Lou Being part of the submission reading team for Issue 2 has been such an honour. I was absolutely astounded by each poem, and having to pick a handful of poets was heartbreaking to do as each piece left a mark on me. This whole experience taught me so much as a writer and editor and I am so grateful. Thank you everyone for your trust. Even though the theme for this issue was Wintering - I am sure you will find a lot of warmth and comfort in between the words.

Table of contents

Éloïse Armary The dark days are here, honey

Lorna Rose Hibernation

Ilisha Thiru Purcell Season’s greetings

Table of contents

Katie Walters Dart estuary in December

Jonna Kihlman Winter’s residue

Dawid Kedra Golden feathered

Table of contents

Nikita Desai The storm

Aiyanna Lund Citalopram Solstice

Ashton Palmer Insular bullet wound

Table of contents

Faye Alexandra Rose Brumal

Ben Philipps The January Register

Satya Bosman The storm

Table of contents Poem of the issue

Sabrina Ekstein I love you King Arthur

Book review

Nikita Desai Burning my Roti: Breaking Barriers as a Queer Indian Woman.

Éloïse Armary The dark days are here, honey tonight, we are soft animals burrowing under the big tree small, yellow lights & the darkness doesn’t swallow us whole, tonight we eat it with our mouths open ready for wintering tonight, you read cosy crime I knit a blanket one stitch at a time tonight, the wind blows cold into our hole we fold into one another my breath against your neck tonight, our arms are each other’s haven tomorrow, tomorrow, we’ll dance to the snow tomorrow, we’ll pray for the sun stay safe, sun we’ll walk under the white sky into the black forest but tonight, your body is my exhale tonight, your body is my exhale.

Lorna Rose Hibernation After Mary Oliver

I would tread carefully under crisp moonlight to the top of the slanted field, in that particular Scottish darkness lit by cascading stars, so as not to shock him out of his sleep-standing.

A gentle giant ready to bolt at any time.

I’d curl up, head under his withers.

His bottom lip drooping down as he snoozes would cover me from the rain and our dreams would merge.

Misted castles, hearth fire blazing, a harp tickling the frosted air with the promise of sunshine, endless miles of golf course grass to feast on, a constant gentle brushing over the back until it gleams and he shines out his gold as he rides for himself and no one else, through a land without fences gates and head collars, a horizon that exhales freedom.

Scrunched under his mighty grace, I’d cease to mark time and slumber.

Let the snow bury us, until we are frozen sentinels, lazily waiting for the coming of spring.

Ilisha Thiru Purcell Season’s Greeting

You breathe out and your breath webs itself around branches crystallising what you leave behind.

I think of running my finger through it, plucking the silvered thread.

Hush and listen to a home shattering, how can destruction be this silent?

When it’s this cold, every inhale is liquid the frost fresh on my tongue.

To live now is to eat – knowing it’s poisonous, knowing it gives life.

We play at the forest giving way to us the snow crumbling, discarded masterpiece beneath feet. Snow, to dead leaves, to mud, to crisp packet we step on and over what we left behind.

At home you kiss me, and when I press my face into that sacred angle of earlobe to shoulder, branch to lower branch, you smell like the woodland, sharp, piney.

I do not ask if the forest smells of us.

Katie Walters Dart Estuary in December We make our way up to Dartmouth Castle, Me and Dad. I’m in my wheelchair, Dad in his big orange coat.

It’s winter. Steep hills.

Ill advised, perhaps, this time of year, But loss this keen does not Pay tithe to caution.

The world perches on the edge of a knife, Extends a hand down to meet us as we walk.

The ocean buries her threat In white noise, as the cliffs Cut our grief down to size.

Sky stares back at me, coldly, Losing her grip on the light.

We outstay our welcome. Catch Night as she loiters in the doorframe, Politely spilling ice across the floor.

She is perfect. Desolate as my body, And as boldly incompatible with life.

Jonna Kihlman Winter’s residue You have been on my mind, as ice-cold memories simmer.

Frozen to the ground, as our house in the winter.

We tried to keep it warm and cover all the holes.

But still, the snow crept in, through the hollow in our souls.

Nikita Desai The storm Angry, roiling, untamed, Foaming at its lips, Ready to devour The revenge of the sea, Terrifying and glorious, Unleashed, uncontained, Wrathful and beautiful A threatening tearing tide, Waves of fury, Crashing, gnashing, Ever advancing, In its eagerness to wipe away, Blow away, drown, flood, storm, Crash, cleanse, and destroy, Rip and renew Winds so fast they whip at my face, And I, unashamed, untamed, Welcome their ungentle force, Raindrops shattering against my cheeks I see the storm coming, I welcome it, embrace it, love it, I am not afraid of its chaos, For I know At the heart of this seething sea, Is the key, To balance, restoration, peace I am unafraid of the Great Cleansing

Aiyanna Lund Citalopram Solstice

You open your palms to reveal your inner child tucked inside your thawed fingers.

I unpick the serotonin from your nail beds, What’s mine is yours.

The 1:30am snowfall is paved Without trespassers. I let you invade My inner blizzards Defrosting in December’s capitalism.

The world’s mulled eyelids brim with glacial expectations Do my unwrapped suicide notes keep you warm in winter?

Hush, the neighbours Might perceive us from frosted windows And envy the sober dreams of two autistic children.

Ashton Palmer Insular Bullet Wound He wears bullets & teeth to chew grasslands a grey half-zip coats his body like the cast on a pub man’s teeth. He pulls a gun he’s a huntsman he’s a silent rosary he cries like the Virgin Mary who gored the still stag.

You can smell the iron on his sleeve; you can taste the nerve endings & the deep vibration of his bullet. The shot moves the earth: moves the lighter, moves the winter, moves the stomach; fibres singe his fingertips, the stag stands he’s a homemaker, he’s a man.

His antlers intimidate, & a cast web reigns between them — a canopy, a performance, a stagnant dance— crossfire.

Railway loudness crescendos in their shared eyes, shared lungs, pulsing the same shared air; understanding is a gut punch; you can smell the iron in its singes, in its horns. the stag dies in a blood corset his blood drips in the newspapers passed away in the shared melanin sheets murdered.

Tacky, he dries on our sleeves, on our fingertips; in our body, he’s hanged with all the other dead things— killed in the snow insular.

Faye Alexandra Rose Brumal I could talk about bears and hibernation, or how the thickness of a polyanthus stem equates to hardship.

But, to ripen is to, first, rot.

Let me explain: You seek apricity through the turbid months, but to flourish one must grapple with the thistles and accept the annual mulch the decay, though, the fulgor of summer's song sticks to their ribs, the silent gratitude; to ripen is to, first, rot.

Ben Phillips The January Register It was a month of sore weather: the frontier ceded in the raw stretch, developments in corruption blooming hardy among stones of the city. Some pronounced home a new redoubt, a ballast in endless evocations; inside was a sort of seed, an elegance against a thirst you could turn in.

After dinner we found the world addressed by lilac, a difference. The snow had fallen and fell, drifting, in leaning sheets: in a dream blank the lampposts and bright men ran.

We said we hadn’t known it would come quietly, the abundance, invent us where we stood.

The snow went falling, like leaves in Dalston.

Satya Bosman The winter that lives in my memory When winter starts to anchor itself and the last of the leaves have fallen, my mind travels to my grandparent’s pool in Africa. Cicadas clicking and the rumble of thunder heralding the afternoon storm.

My cousin and I playing who can find the most marbles at the bottom of the pool. The prize - coming first.

Scanning for the glints of light, shark like hunting our prey.

Holding our breath for ages then a dash to the top for that gasp of air that could have been our first.

The sun beating down on the terracotta tiles which we glued ourselves to, to absorb all the heat, before jumping back in the water until sunset.

When it rained we were mermaids.

Winter to me is a swimming pool.

Poem of the issue Sabrina Ekstein I LOVE YOU, KING ARTHUR IN HOLLYWOOD I love you King Arthur bastion of empire and waste of national etiquette I love you King Arthur the way Sean Connery sparkled in his chorus of glitter green myth I love you King Arthur rattling your collection of sunken cathedrals I love you King Arthur and your tumultuous sexuality the way each woman around you slips into a fish or raven or shattered mirror I love you King Arthur no one has ever been able to pick up the sword since you did I love you King Arthur we can’t stop talking about you I love you King Arthur in Hollywood what else can you do except grin and bear the fame you will never shine brighter than your own crown I love you King Arthur because everyone should hate you brutal-warrior desperate-lover incest-fucker myth-maker sword-tugger bridge-burner battle-burden prophetobsession wizard-whisperer wayward-desire stepping in and out of the glamour like your own private jacuzzi I love you King Arthur I never knew you wanted to die until Richard Harris told us I love you King Arthur our most faithful influencer I love you King Arthur you never give an inch you never stop sloshing around in the moss and mud impaled on your own phallic grasp of memorial I love you King Arthur generational homonational crush I love you King Arthur don’t let anyone ever let you forget the silver on the screen is burning brighter than your own kingdom I love you King Arthur King of Winter and Tinsel I see you dying in my dreams every night but no one ever believed me the way they believed you I love you King Arthur wetter in death than you ever were in life now you couldn’t find a lake to die in no matter how oracled you fall

Book review

Burning my Roti: Breaking Barriers as a Queer Indian Woman

Nikita Gill

Burning my Roti is a largely autobiographical exploration of Sharan Dhaliwal’s experiences as a British-Indian queer writer and activist. At its heart, Burning my Roti is about two desires: the desire to understand and express our own individual authentic identity and the desire for purpose, community, and belonging.

Through the book, Dhaliwal dissects the tension between these two desires created by social hierarchical systems such as patriarchy, heteronormativity, white supremacy, and capitalism, and the feelings of inadequacy that these systems create.

Using her own stories interwoven with interviews of others, Dhaliwal frames the challenges faced by immigrants, women, and queer people in the context of these hierarchical systems. Sharan’s own honesty and vulnerability in sharing her experiences plays an important role in demonstrating the deep psychological and emotional damage of (often white) heteronormative behavior and beauty standards.

The book explores ways feelings of inadequacy are enforced and propagated, through media, bullying, societal expectations, and self-policing.

Dhaliwal’s frank and honest discussions of ways people change themselves to be more acceptable and desirable: from nose jobs, disordered eating, skin lightening, to mental health struggles and suppressed queerness, not only serves to address the taboo around some of these topics, but also demonstrates the

ways in which people cope with the oppressive pressures of these social standards.

The strength of Burning my Roti lies in how it explores important aspects of intersectionality: intersectional oppression and the roles society plays in that oppression, as well as intersectional healing and redemption, and the importance of both individual and communal healing in that redemption. Through her own journey, Sharan demonstrates how understanding the larger social forces can help people at these intersections understand their feelings of inadequacy, begin to heal, build chosen communities, and reclaim their identities to live more authentically and purposefully.

On its surface, this is a book written by a queer woman of color for queer women of color, but in my opinion is an essential read for people of all backgrounds to gain a firstperson perspective on the intersectional

pain and challenges of immigrants, people of color, women, and queer people. As a bisexual Indian woman who has lived in Canada and the UK most of my life, this book felt like a revolutionary exploration of the complex challenges to self-acceptance, feeling safe, and living authentically in a heteronormative, hierarchical, and misogynistic world still dealing with the after-effects of colonialism.

Knowing that someone who shares my background has wrestled with familiar insecurities and self-loathing but has also found ways to reframe and redirect that selfloathing into awareness of the deep injustice of existing systems resonated deeply.

Dhaliwal’s honesty in addressing her own privilege as a light-skinned, thin, Britishborn, cis woman who could afford procedures like rhinoplasty or laser eye surgery further illustrates the importance of understanding both oppression and privilege and how they affect us.

Burning my Roti is a largely autobiographical exploration of Sharan Dhaliwal’s experiences as a British-Indian queer writer and activist. At its heart, Burning my Roti is about two desires: the desire to understand and express our own individual authentic identity and the desire for purpose, community, and belonging. Through the book, Dhaliwal dissects the tension between these two desires created by social hierarchical systems such as patriarchy, heteronormativity, white supremacy, and capitalism, and the feelings of inadequacy that these systems create.

Using her own stories interwoven with interviews of others, Dhaliwal frames the challenges faced by immigrants, women, and queer people in the context of these hierarchical systems. Sharan’s own honesty and vulnerability in sharing her experiences plays an important role in demonstrating the deep psychological and emotional damage of (often white) heteronormative behavior and beauty standards.

On its surface, this is a book written by a queer woman of color for queer women of color, but in my opinion is an essential read for people of all backgrounds to gain a firstperson perspective on the intersectional pain and challenges of immigrants, people of color, women, and queer people. As a bisexual Indian woman who has lived in Canada and the UK most of my life, this book felt like a revolutionary exploration of the complex challenges to self-acceptance, feeling safe, and living authentically in a heteronormative, hierarchical, and misogynistic world still dealing with the after-effects of colonialism.

Knowing that someone who shares my background has wrestled with familiar insecurities and self-loathing but has also found ways to reframe and redirect that self-loathing into awareness of the deep injustice of existing systems resonated deeply. Dhaliwal’s honesty in addressing her own privilege as a light-skinned, thin, British-born, cis woman who could afford procedures like rhinoplasty or laser eye surgery further illustrates the importance of understanding both oppression and privilege and how they affect us.

Burning the roti highlights the need for uncomfortable conversations to address the systemic problems and inequalities affecting the world. In doing so, Burning the Roti does more than validate the struggle of queer women of color: it contains the beginning of a roadmap to healing for a world still struggling with gender, wealth, and racial inequalities as well as queerphobia.

‘Burning my Roti’ Sharan Dhaliwal - Hardie Grand Books

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