Catherine Swire was the winner of 2022's Best of the Bottom Drawer prize with her book Flame Ash Feather a memoir about the trauma of losing her sister Flora in the Lockerbie bombing and how raising chickens helped her through her grief.
The global writing prize from The Black Spring Press Group saw over 350 writers, poets and playwrights from around the world compete and everyone was encouraged to submit that book that had been long lingering at the bottom of the writing desk drawer, too odd, or eccentric, or difficult, or experimental, to get a publishing deal so far. We chatted to Catherine Swire and asked all sorts of questions, including the first time we have ever asked someone if they would indeed like to be a chicken...
Your book's structure; the 12 'eggs' of knowledge is so well-planned and rich with metaphor. Did that structure come to you early on when writing the book, through the process or towards the end?
The book, though I know it may sound a cliche, was organic. That is, the conception, structure and voice were one. In that sense it wasn’t planned it came, though obviously the result of years of thinking, reading - and chicken tending. Making it, felt like a physical act, through my hands, feeling the pen and pencil on the paper in a notebook (I usually work on a laptop), I changed very little in editing. I worked to a timer, since one of its purposes was to bring time into a timeless situation, and the structure unfolded within the time allotted (I’m fascinated by clocks). I think I jotted notes of chapter titles just before, linking them to the collection of poems about chickens I had gathered. It took me a little while, to work out that the twelve chapters (I love significant numbers) also made a dozen. I was drawn to the ellipse, the white smooth shape, and matt texture of the egg; oblique and unknowable; as well as the egg’s symbol of new life and the practical, nutritional value.
What can you tell readers about your title? It is simple and poetic, and seems really well thought about.
The title continues to unfold for me. The original title hovered between Flame, Ash, Feather and Dozen with a subtitle, A Complete Guide to Keeping Chickens, as a nod to Izaak Walton, whose sweet, patient observation of the nature of fish, The Complete Angler, I admire. Clearly the title refers both to the colour of the chickens and the drama of explosion - also to spirit. The title talks to the way poetry, particularly pastoral, works to translate and process unthinkable violence (for example that of Civil War; Marvell literally slows and greens the fighting in his garden writing). For me in some ways the chickens, flame-like but, living, sentient, feathered, small enough to be held - help to process the force of explosion.
Do you think in your story of loss intertwined with the joy of life; chickens resemble mythical phoenixes? Rising from fire and destruction and becoming stronger in their rebirth?
Yes! There is a deep sense of cycle in the book and a definite, quiet journey from the oblivion of the cull, towards conscious thought. At first, I didn’t make the connection between the two flaming birds; then I saw a Chinese silk kimono, how the circular motif of the phoenix was repeatedly woven into the cosmos (I’ve also learned about chickens from Far Eastern artists). I know Dumbledore has a fine phoenix but I’ve loved them since I was a child; first in E.E Nesbit’s book, ‘The Phoenix and the Carpet.’
What would be your three most important tips/words of advice be to readers who would maybe be inspired by your book to start their journey raising and sharing their life with chickens?
You may find yourself living alongside a world as diverse and polyphonous as your own!
- Be open to the prehistoric - reaching back to the reptilian basic functions of brain stem and cerebellum connect us to the first circulations of the world of magma and rock, remind us how deeply we are part - it can give strength below overwhelming emotion at times of extremity.
- Learn from the brevity of chickens. I never learned to detach from the chickens who lived with us, but I think they taught me a great deal about death and how to recognise and understand my own fear.
- Share your chickens, especially with children. It fascinates me the way small children and animals naturally study each other and chat; a skill we often lose. Join every campaign to improve the way that chickens are farmed.
A fun question...in chapter/egg no. 5: 'Of Chicken's and Humans' - (a nice nod to Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men), there is a poem about a chicken who doesn't think it's a chicken, begging to come inside the house. In your years of rearing and caring and being surrounded by these birds, have you ever imagined what it would be like to be a chicken for a day?
All the time, at the deepest, most quiet level, I sense I nearly am a chicken; we are a 75% genetic match - also so many other animals. If I were a chicken, I would stay in the yard with my mother, sisters and chicks and make a lot of noise. I would scrape up a big, dusty hole and radiate my wings out flat in the sun. I would tell the cocks off loudly. I don’t know if I would most enjoy being shut up with everyone in the dark - or being let out for the light.
There is a real raw and honest theme of family in your book, most of the time very hard and possibly even harder to write about. Has writing this book been cathartic in a way?
Thank you for asking! There’s shame as well as catharsis in this book; I wrote it five years ago and put it in a bottom drawer. I think the act of writing about the mess of friendship and marriage was cathartic. But, in my experience, mourning sudden loss, has its own timing and I could express some of the impact of my sister’s death simply because an internal cycle was completing. In that sense the book came out of a natural process rather than being a cathartic act. My family situation, like many, is obviously complex, but I do not underestimate the deep work of the book. In my experience, when you write a book, even a small one, you make new space. My last book Soil, with the Artel press, literally made ground by exploring the way that landscape translates trauma; and this book also will make new life. I don’t know how yet; it will take time, it’s only just out. I am glad it is here at Easter.
...and with its publication and sharing your story with readers, is there a weight that maybe has lifted/or perhaps shifted a little?
I think a shift. For me, writing moves from the inside out. This book, despite its lightness, and its focus on the portly demi-wild, has begun to feel quite serious. Obviously, I worry for my family and friends. I hope it shows the gap between the real impacted space and the overwritten media narratives of disaster. In my dreams it would deepen discourse around the way we represent and understand terrorism in the West. I can’t say how important, particularly at the moment, with the War in the Middle East as well as between Russia and The Ukraine, this feels. So, if it’s more shift than lift just now; it’s because I know my chances are sombre.
