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Karan Chambers
23
wave
autumn
2025
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the poet
Poet, tutor and former English teacher Karan Chambers (she/her) has just completed the first year of a Creative Writing MA at Royal Holloway. Highly Commended in the 2023 Cheltenham Poetry Festival International Poetry Prize, she's had work in The London Magazine, The Honest Ulsterman, Gutter, Anthropocene, Butcher’s Dog, Mslexia, Propel Magazine, Under the Radar, 14 Magazine and Ink, Sweat & Tears. Her pamphlet woman | folk appeared in February 2025, and her second pamphlet with Atomic Bohemian is due in 2026. Karan lives in Surrey with her husband, three lively children, and a long-suffering cat.
the poems
hebridean spring
here is land like an upturned fist. darkknuckled. jutting.
awkward angles & uncanny places. a stretch. rock &
shingle. skerrystruck. between jawopen seas. here are its
quiet hollows. its openreach heights. its spiked invitation.
here is the gorse. furzespine prickle. brindlecoated. here is
the heather. a restless unfolding. lingslung fire. smoulder &
tongueflicker. here is a melody. scattering its way through
the leaves. softkeyed promise. fertile ground sings to fallow.
here are the women. working. & tending. & growing. &
raising the bairns. & dreaming of more. here are the men
at sea. except when they’re not. except when they’re
shadowstood. landlooming. claiming what’s theirs. it’s fine
if you’re willing. want makes flames of us all. but what if
you’re not? what if your body can’t bear another. we’ve all
seen his hands round her ankles. seen submersion in her
eyes. i know how a woman drowns
google tells me that summer
2023 is the northern hemisphere’s
hottest summer in 2000 years
fish are dying from shropshire to sussex across
the channel the loire has almost completely
evaporated silver scales gasp in shrinking
waters here reservoirs run dry
gardens crumple
under heavy heat & blackberries shrivel
on hedges before we can stain
t-shirts lips little grabbing hands
purple clusters hanging
parched listless
i do my best to conserve resources
turn taps off
while soaping hands & brushing teeth take short
showers clothes crack
with dirt & sweat
before i wash them
my mind is air
above hot asphalt shimmering
late into the night i wonder what next summer
& the ones after
will bring how much difference can i make
i’d like to believe
but it all feels so futile
a few weeks later the weather breaks
& we dance in the muggy evening skin sweating even as rain slicks
pavements i feel relief but then watch the news
chest tightening as what seems like
half a continent is washed away
woman: drowned
silt-tongued, stonepocketed, her body
a riverbed eroding
its banks. surfacing with pondweed hair,
she is pearleyed, staring, a glossy
reflection want
untethered. the drift
of mouth of cheekbones
seawards, lips & lashes
currentstricken spurred
into confluence
a warning
for all those who never learned
to swim
Publishing credits
hebridean spring: Anthropocene
google tells me that summer 2023 is the
northern hemisphere’s hottest summer
in 2000 years: exclusive first publication by iamb
woman: drowned: woman | folk (Salò Press)
Author photo: © Paula Deegan