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Kazim Ali’s Sublime Ordinary

By Ross Leckie

The sacred, the profane, and the glorious mundane shimmer through Kazim Ali’s poetry. The poems are visionary in the best sense of the word. They see both the translucence and the immanence of the world, a seeing that commingles vision, remembrance, and remembering, as he puts it in “Cover Me.” “Remembrance” is the odd word out here. Unlike vision and remembering, remembrance refers to something specific, a moment of history now commemorated. For Ali vision and remembering seem to step into a ceremony of memory that is elegiac, which can be as personal as a keepsake and as social as human slaughter: the museum, the monument, and the monumental. The visionary is given a body in these poems, through sex, embrace, travel, migration, and even something as simple as walking. . . .

The Wolf Hunter by Jason Henderson

As a literary journal housed in Fredericton, we at The Fiddlehead were moved when we received a poem from Deputy Sheriff Jason Henderson in the wake of the shooting on August 10th in our city. “The Wolf Hunter” is written in honour of law enforcement and is dedicated to Cst Robb Costello and Cst. Sara Burns of the Fredericton Police Force, both of whom were murdered that day along with citizens Donnie Robichaud and Bobbie-Lee Wright. We wish strength to everyone affected by these deaths.
—Sue Sinclair, Editor


The Wolf Hunter

An Interview with Rebecca Thomas

Interview by Emily Skov-Nielsen, Marketing and Promotions for The Fiddlehead. Rebecca Thomas will be in Fredericton on August 25 to give a workshop "Writing Your Guts Out" from 2-4 at the Fredericton public Library and to give a reading later that evening at 7pm, also at the Fredericton Public Library. For more information, visit the Facebook event here or scroll down to see the poster.

Conor Mc Donnell

"Qui vincit? (medicamina)"

This house could hold more empty seats but the people 
who would sit in them were put away long ago.

There is no work here bring out your dead no bodies left 
to pass the piss-test, close the factory down. 

Everything is not what you read, old colic torques to form 
new cancer a different diagnosis to ponder,

collections of atypical things eventually typify something
— backpain, beatings, boredom, parties —

Conyer Clayton


If the river stood still it would
           become a mountain.

Built on the backs of mallards
           and trout. Their bodies etched
in stone; we dig them out

           and blow the dust off. Rebuild
their existence in code, digital preening,
virtually nesting in the shade by the bushes,
gliding on invisible currents we transmit
to one another every moment of our lives.
We cut it back for aesthetics, but
it will always grow. We always come back