All posts tagged: Poetry

March 2025 Poetry Feature: Catherine-Esther Cowie’s Heirloom

Poems by CATHERINE-ESTHER COWIE

Having made both poetry and fiction contributions to TC, the multitalented Catherine-Esther Cowie returns to us this month with highlights from her debut poetry collection Heirloom, forthcoming from Carcanet Press on April 24, 2025.

cover of HEIRLOOM

Publisher’s Note

Moving from colonial to post-colonial St. Lucia, this debut collection brings to light the inheritances of four generations of women, developing monologues, lyrics, and narrative poems which enable us to see how past dysfunction, tyranny, and terror structure the shapes of women’s lives, and what they hand down to one another.

Uneasy inheritances are just the starting point for this debut’s remarkable meditations: Should the stories of the past be told? Do they bring redemption or ruin? What are the costs of saying what happened? Beguiling and cathartic, Catherine-Esther Cowie’s powerful, formally inventive poems reckon with the past even as they elegize and celebrate her subjects. 

 

Table of Contents

  • Mother: Frankenstein
  • A Bedtime Prayer
  • The War
  • Haunting

 

Mother: Frankenstein

Raise the dead. The cross-stitched

face. Her eye-less eye. My long

longings brighten, like tinsel, the three-fingered

hand. Ashen lip. To exist in fragments.

            To exist at all. A comfort.

A gutting. String her up then,

figurine on the cot mobile.

And I am the restless infant transfixed.

Her full skirt, a plume of white feathers,

            blots out the light.

 

A Bedtime Prayer

We ate the fruit Lord,

boiled and buttered we ate.

Thought nothing of it.

 

It was pleasing to the eye.

Filled our mouths, our bellies.

 

It was the fruit of a breadfruit tree.

A tree as old as the first city.

 

How it grew taller than the house.

Those monstrous leaves.

 

Its roots echoing— cracks in the walls.

Its shadow falling through the back door, the corridor,

lengthening towards the front—

 

Ghost of our first father,

ghost begetting ghosts,

our lives thinned into his weakness,

his terror.

 

But we were fed, fed, fed.

                        *

Lord, you have cast us off,

left us to starve,

 

Sent that girl.

 

Girl born with a veiled face,

a caul, calling.

 

How did she find the axe?

 

She wouldn’t eat the fruit,

refused its sweetness,

 

weight of our father,

the first city.

 

Lord, she went down to the garden,

an axe flowering in her hand.

 

It was you Lord, the bouden blan

chirping in her ear.

 

What cruel instructions?

 

Didn’t we do your will,

kept a remembrance—

the tree,

our father,

 

we were hungry, Lord.

 

The tree fell into the house.

 

The War

                  St. Lucia, 194-

A disturbed hour, the sky loud

with the memory of assault.

But still, it’s Sunday, the trees shake

like shac-shacs in the breeze,

and the sea goes on and on

with its lullaby like it has never

given cover to the enemy.

 

It is Sunday,

and we go on with our lovemaking.

I refuse to hush, let my pleasure rise

against the weary tones

in the thin-walled rooms like ours,

it was yesterday, only yesterday,

another body washed ashore…

 

Forever and forever,

death our only guarantee.

Haven’t I died already,

years ago, on a kitchen floor,

under the weight of a different man,

my girlhood shot through,

I learnt the body as machine—

dead heart, dead pubis.

 

It is Sunday,

I teem with life like the flies

swarming the torpedoed ships

in the harbour.

 

Haunting 

We frighten the children.

 

My hair ragged in red cloth,

I speak a language they don’t understand,

 

their ears tuned to English, tuned

to American cartoons.

 

And Leda, Gwanmanman Leda runs

cracks up the walls,

through the centre of our dinner plates.

 

It’s their own fault, you know,

they won’t stay in their rooms.

 

How she endures, endures,

Gwanmanman Leda. Leda.

 

Even after I married,

after she died, she endures.

Tanbou mwen.

Jab mwen.

 

But the children,

the children.

They stare.

Regard me strangely, sadly.

There will be no walk to the park today.

No jump rope high.

Only their rooms.

They will stay in their rooms.

 

Alé, alé. I chase.

They hide behind a wall. Spy.

 

I must clean my house like I cleaned Leda’s room.

 

Scrubbing. A form of memory.

A song. Trojan horse for my own blues.

 

Keeper of the madness.

The mad. Leda.

Mwen faché.

I was only a child,

only a child

made for play,

not the washing of soiled sheets,

of shit-stained walls,

of an old woman.

 

But the children,

how they stare.

Their blink-less eyes.

Pouty lips.

Why won’t they go into their rooms?

Leave me to Leda.

 

We are a pair.

She, because of her bad head.

Mal tèt. And I,

because I was a child.

Small. Piti.

Crushable.

Like a roach.

 

The mad and the little,

The mad and the little,

Give them a tickle,

Then a prickle.

 

Leda, stop your singing.

 

And I must stop this fool parade.

This arm muscling towards memory—

 

You’ve made it up,

Isn’t that what they said?

Mal tèt, bad head.

 

No one ever hit you. Mantè.

Isn’t that what they said?

 

But Leda, Leda,

my sweet Leda.

Mad monument.

Rogue memory.

 

But we must think of the children.

They cry for us, Mommy, Mommy.

 

 

Catherine-Esther Cowie was born in St. Lucia to a Trinidadian father and a St. Lucian mother. She migrated with her family to Canada and then to the USA. Her poems have been published in PN Review, Prairie Schooner, West Branch Journal, The Common, SWWIM, Rhino Poetry and others. Cowie is a Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop fellow.

March 2025 Poetry Feature: Catherine-Esther Cowie’s Heirloom
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Dispatches from Mullai Nilam, Marutha Nilam, and Neithal Nilam

Poems by S. VIJAYALAKSHMI, KUTTI REVATHI, and PUTHIYAMAADHAVI

Translated by THILA VARGHESE 

A farm in Tamil Nadu, India

A farm in Tamil Nadu, India. Photo by Flickr user Emily Abrams.

 

Mullai Nilam (The forest and pastoral region)

Forest Fire
By Vijayalakshmi

My forest is on fire,
and a solar sphere explodes within.
There is fire everywhere,
both inside and outside.
Unaware of the intensity of the fire,
they maintain silence
like the serenity of a corpse.
From the burning fire
bursts out a waterfall tainted in red.
All over the shores have bloomed
the flaming lilies of motherhood.
Even when they smell blood
in those flowers,
they feign ignorance
and dig out the root
roasted in the forest fire embers.
Of the tiny birds that have fallen dead,
their tongues relish the taste of meat
of those cooked to perfection.
They are searching for animals
to turn them into meals,
pretending as if they didn’t hear
their lamentations
in the burning forest.
They raise their cups
filled with dark crimson fluid
from the river
that flows like a red streak
and say ‘cheers’ to one another.
The voices
of the lover,
husband,
grandfather,
father,
great-grandfather,
brother,
friend and comrade,
are all heard
in the second round of ‘cheers.’

 

Neithal Nilam (The seashore and coastal region)

Salty Tears
By Kutti Revathi

She who has turned into a sea
is totally oblivious
to her longings and sobbing
rising up as thousands of waves
in her tears.
Even in saltwater,
she cultivates immortal plants.
In her silent world,
she lets the life forms that are unaware
of the exterior world roam freely.
Crashing against the rocks
and pounding on them,
her hands drag into the sea
her offspring,
who yearn to reach the shoreline,
and send them to play in its depths.
Denying all her treasures and colours, 
she spreads out her hands
and claims she has nothing.
She keeps going tirelessly
with no sleep or rest.
She, who has become intensely salty,
gives birth, day after day,
to the sun that rises
turning her into blood,
horses, and all eight directions.

 

Marutha Nilam (The agricultural and plains region) 

Marutham*
By Puthiyamaadhavi

You are meditating;
I close the door
and sprinkle peace
all over the room.

You are exercising;
I wait with a towel
to wipe off your sweat.

You apply cologne on you
after showering;
I wait by the door
until you come down the stairs
wearing wrinkle-free clothes.

The light fragrance
that grazes you
wafts in the air
and gives me goosebumps.

The smell of the child’s diarrhea,
the vomited milk,
the curry that smears on me
as I hastily scoop up the gravy,
and the odour of sweat,
all of them dissolve on my body
in a split second.

As I stack up the periodicals
you’ve read and left untidy,
the pictures of smiling women
with beautiful, trim bodies
disappear inside their folds,
little by little.

*Marutham is one of the ancient land divisions described in Tamil Sangam literature that is said to date back between the 1st to 4th centuries. Marutham refers to the agricultural and plains region, in which the drive for ownership of land and property is reported to have played a major role in advancing the dominant role of men, thereby creating a power imbalance between partners back then. Gender inequality continues in modern days as well.

 

These translations were done with the support of the 2024 ALTA Emerging Translator Mentorship Program.

 

Vijayalakshmi, a teacher by profession, is actively engaged in the Tamil literary field, penning poetry and articles on literary, social, and environmental issues. An ardent feminist, Vijayalakshmi continues to contribute poems, short stories, and essays to Tamil publications, and has to her credit four published books of poetry, one book of short stories, and two collections of essays. A recipient of literary awards, Vijayalakshmi has also compiled and translated Afghan Landai poems into Tamil (through English). 

Kutti Revathi, a Siddha doctor (Indigenous Tamil Medicine) by profession, is the author of 21 books of poetry, 6 short story collections and 3 essay collections and a novel in Tamil. A former editor of the feminist magazine Panikudam, Kutti Revathi is also a documentary and feature film director. With a focus on body politics, Kutti Revathi’s poetry challenges the traditional norms related to women’s identity and autonomy within the Indian context. A recipient of literary awards, Kutti Revathi continues to engage in discourse on power imbalance and resistance in a patriarchal social setup. She is also currently spearheading the website on the history of Tamil Music, “Karunamirthasagaram”, for the Oscar winning composer A.R. Rahman.

Puthiyamaadhavi, a retired bank officer, is the author of seven poetry books, six short story collections, three novels and six non-fiction books. A recipient of literary awards, Puthiyamaadhavi brings attention to contemporary sociopolitical issues and women’s place in society through her writings. Committed to feminist ideologies, Puthiyamaadhavi actively participates in literary forums to raise awareness of social issues arising from gender imbalance.

Thila Varghese is a writer and translator in London, Ontario, where she works part-time as a writing advisor at Western University in Canada. Her translations of Tamil literary works have been published in international journals and magazines. Thila’s translation entry was a finalist in the inaugural 2023 Armory Square Prize for South Asian Literature in Translation. Her translation of Khaled Hosseini’s Sea Prayer into Tamil was published in India in 2023. Thila was awarded a Mentorship in Poetry from a South Asian language with Khairani Barokka as part of ALTA’s 2024 Emerging Translator Mentorship Program in partnership with the SALT Project. Her translation entry received a First-Time Entrant Commendation in the 2024 Stephen Spender Prize for translation of poetry.

Dispatches from Mullai Nilam, Marutha Nilam, and Neithal Nilam
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Podcast: Gray Davidson Carroll on “Silent Spring”

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Transcript: Gray Davidson Carroll

Poet Gray Davidson Carroll speaks to managing editor Emily Everett about their poem “Silent Spring,” which appears in The Common’s fall issue. Gray talks about poetry as a way to witness and observe the world and how we experience it, and how it’s changing. Gray also discusses how they started writing poetry, how they approach drafting and revision, and how their work in public health fits with and complements their work in poetry. We also hear a reading of Gray’s first poem in The Common, “November 19, 2022,” about the Club Q nightclub shooting in Colorado Springs.

Gray Davidson Carroll's headshot next to the cover of The Common Issue 28.

Podcast: Gray Davidson Carroll on “Silent Spring”
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Excerpt from The Math of Saint Felix

book cover of The Math of Saint Felix by Diane Exavier, red with white text
 
 

This piece is excerpted from The Math of Saint Felix, a poetry collection by Diane Exavier ’09. Exavier will be a guest at Amherst College’s LitFest 2025, an exciting, 10th-anniversary celebration of Amherst’s literary legacy and life. Register here.


algebra

flower vase with multicolored flowers in front of a green wall 
I am the counting
ledger and I pray
broken parts reunite,
bones reset,
remnants transpose.
Excerpt from The Math of Saint Felix
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Excerpt from Lamentations of Nezahualcóyotl: Nahuatl Poems

By NEZAHUALCÓYOTL

Retold by ILAN STAVANS

 

 

Nezahualcóyotl (1402–1472) is the only pre-Hispanic Aztec poet we know by name. The word means “Hungry Coyote” in Nahuatl. But Nezahualcóyotl wasn’t solely a poet. He ruled the Texcocans, who, along with the city-states Tenochtitlán and Tlacopán, formed the magisterial Triple Alliance, which ruled from 1428 until the arrival of the Spanish conquistadors almost a hundred years later. Nezahualcóyotl was also known for his philosophical meditations, his urban projects, especially aqueducts, and for his views on war, sacrifice, and the legal system.

Excerpt from Lamentations of Nezahualcóyotl: Nahuatl Poems
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Dispatch from Marutha Nilam

Poems by SUKIRTHARANI, ILAMPIRAI, and SAKTHI ARULANANDHAM

Translated from the Tamil by THILA VARGHESE

 

Table of Contents:

  • Sukirtharani, “For the sake of living”
  • Ilampirai, “Loot”
  • Sakthi Arulanandham, “Land Grabbing Bird” 

 

Black and white image of a bird with a long neck

Drawing by Sakthi Arulanandham for her poem “Land Grabbing Bird.”

 

Marutha Nilam (The agricultural and plains region)

For the sake of living
By Sukirtharani

In the courtyard filled with
bubbling water flowing from
the palm-leaf thatched roof
during monsoons,
grew a golden shower tree.
On that tree, yellow flowers
bloomed in clusters.
There was a nest on the tree
where sparrows with short beaks
would be chirping incessantly.
Sitting under the shade of the tree,
I would be studying passers-by.

Dispatch from Marutha Nilam
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Four Poems by JinJin Xu

By JINJIN XU

Blue cover of There is Still Singing in the Afterlife

These poems are excerpted from the published work of JinJin Xu ’17, a guest at Amherst College’s LitFest 2025Register for this exciting, 10th-anniversary celebration of Amherst’s literary legacy and life.


 Table of Contents

  • “There They Are”
  • “To Your Brother, Who Is Without Name”
  • “The Revolution is Not a Dinner Party”
  • “Against This Earth, We Knock”

 

Four Poems by JinJin Xu
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LitFest 2025 Excerpts: Video Poems by Paisley Rekdal

Amherst College’s tenth annual literary festival runs from Thursday, February 27 to Sunday, March 2. Among the guests is PAISLEY REKDAL, whose book West: A Translation was longlisted for the National Book Award. The Common is pleased to reprint a short selection of video poems from West here.

Join Paisley Rekdal and Brandom Som in conversation with host Ruth Dickey, Executive Director of the National Book Foundation, on Sunday, March 2 at 2pm. 

Register and see the full list of LitFest events here.


Not

 

What Day

 

Heroic

 

Paisley Rekdal is the author of four books of nonfiction and seven books of poetry, most recently West: A Translation, which won the 2024 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award and was longlisted for the National Book Award. The former Utah poet laureate, she teaches at the University of Utah, where she directs the American West Center.

LitFest 2025 Excerpts: Video Poems by Paisley Rekdal
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