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where the lost things go
July 2017

Click here
out of emptied cups
July 2019

the light we cannot see

Anne Casey

ISBN: 978-1-912561-97-1

Page Count: 98

Publication Date: Tuesday, June 22, 2021

Cover Artwork: Jerome Gardes Instagram: @urbex_abandoned_ Web:

About this Book

"Anne Casey’s The Light We Cannot See aches with loveliness even as it warns against humanity’s pervasive damage to the environment.  Poem after elegant, ecocritical poem showcases Casey’s grasp of the environmental crises we have created in the Anthropocene—whether it’s the bleaching of the Great Barrier Reef ("Where once she danced"), the Australian wildfires ("This is not a drill"), or the rising ocean levels ("At sea").  But she interweaves each poem with such a profound beauty that we cannot help but to remember that at least with poetry, humans have created something good.  This is a work that breaks your heart with its almost elegiac approach to ecology and the Earth—and yet, Casey offers that scintilla of hope that with human change, all is not lost ("Either way, the fact remains").  A wonderful and staggering collection of poetry."

JC Reilly
Managing Editor of Atlanta Review
author of What Magick May Not Alter

"Anne Casey’s poetry is a revelation. Her work effortlessly moves between the metaphysical and the sensual, the concrete and the lyrical, the inspirational and the earthly. Encountering The Light We Cannot See is to encounter a whole range of human experience evoked with poignancy, poise and grace. It’s the sort of work that lodges within and stays vivid long after reading."

John Tague
Managing Editor of Griffith Review

“Anne Casey’s brilliant new collection of poetry is her best work yet — lyrical, experimental, musical and technically sophisticated. Casey engages passionately with urgent global, local and personal issues, from climate change and the COVID-19 pandemic to exile, motherhood, loss and acceptance. Writing in the tradition of Boland, Heaney and Yeats, she exhibits a mastery of form and subject, crafting beautiful, irrefutable appeals to our emotions, ethics and logic.”

Nathanael O’Reilly   
Poet, Associate Professor, University of Texas at Arlington, 
Author of (Un)belonging, Preparations for Departure and Distance

“There is great humanity in these poems, a willingness to be vulnerable and open to emotion. It is matched by a gift for words, an instinct for what can be said and what can only be implied, alongside a true poet’s love of the sound and texture of spoken language, whether pronounced out loud or inwardly towards the mind’s attentiveness. Family, grief, death and separation recur across these poems, but so equally do the tactile sensations of being alive in this world. Landscapes and weather-scapes, birds and animals, urban chatter and quiet open spaces abound in these engaging poems that explore life as it unfolds in the ominous 21st Century.”

Peter Boyle
Poet, Translator of Poetry, Author of Enfolded in the Wings of a Great Darkness, 
winner of the NSW Premier’s Prize 2020

“In this luminous and searing new collection, Anne Casey invites us into her world of ghosts from the old country rearing up in the new and enthralls us with her evocations and invocations, while planting her uncompromising political, yet beautifully softly-gloved fist, in our hypocrisies. This is a book to carry us through the darkness and guide us to ‘the light we cannot yet see’ in poems that are modern masterpieces.”

Indran Amirthanayagam  
Author of The Migrant States, Editor of Beltway Poetry Quarterly

About this book

the light we cannot see traverses a globe caught in the combined turmoil of the climate crisis, COVID-19 and humanitarian unrest, as seen through the eyes of a mother worried for her children’s futures and an exiled daughter struggling with loss and separation from loved ones in her native Ireland. Navigating the path of these apocalyptic spheres and their devastating impacts — including catastrophic bushfires in her adopted homeland of Australia — the poet strives throughout this collection of award-winning poems to connect with our “one persisting challenge — to somehow find our allied humanity”. A probing reflection on the human condition, this book leans always towards “the light we cannot yet see, but know lies ahead”. 

Author Biography

Originally from west Clare in Ireland, and living in Sydney, Australia, Anne Casey is an award-winning poet and writer, and author of two previous, critically acclaimed poetry collections—where the lost things go (Salmon Poetry, 2017) and out of emptied cups (Salmon Poetry, 2019). She has worked for 30 years as a journalist, magazine editor, media communications director and legal author. Senior Poetry Editor of Other Terrain and Backstory literary journals (Swinburne University, Melbourne) from 2017-2020, she serves on numerous literary advisory boards. Anne’s writing and poetry are widely published internationally and rank in The Irish Times newspaper’s Most-Read.
She has won/shortlisted for poetry prizes in Ireland, Northern Ireland, the USA, the UK, Canada, Hong Kong and Australia, including: the American Writers Review Contest; The Plough Prize; ACU Prize for Poetry; Henry Lawson Poetry Competition; Women’s National Book Association of USA Poetry Competition; 25th Annual Melbourne Poets Union International Poetry Competition; Hennessy New Irish Writing; Cúirt International Poetry Prize; Overton Poetry Prize; Bedford International Writing Competition; Atlanta Review International Poetry Contest; Tom Collins Poetry Prize (Fellowship of Australian Writers, Western Australia); and, Fellowship of Australian Writers Queensland Literary Competition. 
Anne passionately believes that every poem, like all art, should leave us changed by the experience. Her poems feature internationally in newspapers, magazines, journals, anthologies, broadcasts, podcasts, music albums, stage shows and art exhibitions—The Irish Poetry Reading Archive (James Joyce Library, University College Dublin), The Irish Times, The Canberra Times, Australian Poetry Anthology, Griffith Review, Atlanta Review, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Tahoma Literary Review, Quiddity, Entropy, apt, The Murmur House, Barzakh (State University of New York), DASH (California State University), Connecticut River Review, The Stony Thursday Book, FourXFour (Poetry Northern Ireland), Westerly Magazine, Cordite Poetry Review, Voices of Women and Plumwood Mountain among many others. 
She holds a Law Degree from University College Dublin and qualifications in Media Communications from Dublin Institute of Technology (Technological University Dublin). She is the recipient of an Australian Government Research Training Program Scholarship for her PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Technology Sydney. 

Website:   Social Media: @1annecasey

Author Photo: David Clare, First Light Photography

Read a sample from this book

for Rory

I saw a crow catch
 another’s ragged black
spiraling down
towards the carmine
 splay of dying
 light on the horizon.

 Three nights before
  he died,
we stumbled on
 the bundle of
 dead possum
curled on its side,
as if asleep.

 He didn’t look
  as if asleep
streaming live
 from the living
 room of your childhood
home, lying
stiffly in his casket.

It feels like sacrilege
 to speak
 of this—like the line
I wrote three nights before:
fearing they may not
 survive the long wait
 till we might arrive.

Waking him
 online through two
 days and nights—
fingers conjoined,
familiar words
 spiraling down
 through decades.                             

 up out of night’s 
 black wing, a ripple
of muscle
memory jawing
 ...full of grace the hour of our death.

 Small silver minnows
flounder towards
the horizon:
 prayer-fish flopping
 up the numb
length of tongue
flutter at stiff lips.

I caught a black crow:
 one ragged wing
 spiraling in, the rest
splayed against
the wind—over
 the great rent
 in his beautiful field.

The wrench of this
 reshaped horizon
 where you laboured
over his mighty beech—
 felled by wild winds—
 its breadth half his height.

 Your breath laboured
at this great wrench:
the length of him
 felled alongside
 the coffin lid—stiffly
upright, the dying light
caught in its brass cross.                     

 We stumble on
as if asleep
all week
 floundering against
 the splay of dying,
the numb length
of living.

I talk about my mother
 dying, tell you
 It’s natural—
silver minnows, lying:
there is nothing
 natural in burying
 your father online.

I catch your black
 in the ragged
splay of dying light,
together we spiral
 towards the thin
 carmine line.

(‘Prayer-fish’ was awarded 2nd prize in the Crosswinds Poetry Contest 2021 (USA) and was commended in the Tom Collins Poetry Prize 2020 (Fellowship of Australian Writers, Western Australia).

Night traps
for Joe

At twelve, he’s too old to believe
in monsters I think as we huddle,
  faces swarming with swirling
  colours from his bedside lamp, medusas
undulating in watery obscurity, fear clouding
his ordinary radiance    and my heart

a snared hummingbird: the unanswered
question my bright-eyed boy flounders around
  always in darkness—shut down to
  his daylight wonder: rushing    to greet
the leaf-tailed gecko (long-time resident behind
our outdoor couch) which recently produced a tiny replica,

the brush turkey tightrope-strutting
the length of the fence, wide-eyed possums
  glinting from dusky branches as his teenage brother
  grumbles past to sort trash    and practice his cynicism
What’s the point? My teacher says they don’t
get recycled anyway…   trust crumbling    like the dust

of so many cicada skins so eagerly plucked
from nearby swamp oaks—spectral    sentinels,
  those exoskeleton twins left to witness the fading
  Please don’t bulldoze this     appeals falling
on deaf ears—a whole forest nobody hears
destined to be carted off in mulching trucks

under orders of our neighbour, the State Premier,
who visited his school to shake hands
  before writing off    our precious bushland—
  where once he bobbed    bound to my heart,
cooing as we ducked a troupe
of black cockatoos swooping through,

toddled to the counting of water dragons,
ran to track that elusive rock    wallaby,
  raced to chase white tiger
  moths; stopped to probe bandicoot
droppings    (with a stick); chewed over    the albino galah,
anaemic anomaly amidst its pink flock—all signed off

to make way for a new    motorway
with its undercover proviso: a thirty-year no
  public transport clause—artificial sweetener
  for behind-the-scenes dealers, while it seems
around us the whole world is burning      or drowning           
as we flail       against federal plans pledging certain

destruction to Earth’s largest living structure—
where at three he paddled off, lost        in wonder
  and each year since, we’ve gurgled together
  through butterfly shoals, skirting bug      eyed
reef sharks, jump-scaring at feinting parrotfish,
gaping through fogging goggles at giant clams and    brain

corals where we swam shoulder-to-shoulder
with an ancient turtle, before
  bubbling back up to the surface like
  his     unanswerable question:
Where will they go Mum,    when
all the trees are gone? And the reef?

A thousand tiny wings
skip a beat as I bend
  to kiss his pillowed cheek 
  wanting so much    to lie
to him that the monsters scratching
at his windows    aren’t real.

(‘Night traps’ was awarded 1st prize in the International Proverse Poetry Prize 2020; was a finalist in the Atlanta Review International Poetry Contest 2020; and was longlisted for The Plough Prize 2019).

Either way, the fact remains

There is no way back
Therefore we can no longer hold as irrefutable truth that
Every human heart has sufficient good at its core
That we could muster the collective will necessary to save our precious planet
There is no denying
We are capable of taking the measures necessary for our own survival
To secure the future for us and the almost nine million species around us
We could make the right choices
The fact remains that
Earth cannot repair itself
There is no basis even from advanced satellite findings to show that
Earth and all who dwell on her can survive the impacts of human activities
The greatest scientific minds of our time attest that
The world’s largest living structure, the Great Barrier Reef, is on-path to certain destruction
Over two thousand species from sea-level to two thousand metres deep are destined to perish
We can no longer support the assertion that
There is always a way—
There is a way to undo the damage we have done—
Allowing that we make every effort to counter global excesses
The impact of human activities is irreversible
Although we may think

That we can take action to fix this
We cannot deny the inevitability
That not one of us can make a difference
Nature cannot heal itself
We can no longer lie to ourselves that
This devastation can be reversed
(Now read each line from the bottom up.)

(‘Either way, the fact remains’ was awarded 3rd prize in the International Provers Poetry Prize 2019 and was nominated for The Pushcart Prize 2020 by Beltway Poetry Quarterly in the USA.)

All Poems Copyright © Anne Casey 2021

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