Wednesday, December 31, 2014

some christmas (again), etcetera;

Given father-in-law was good enough to gift a camera this year, I was able to take pictures far better than the ones from Montebello [see my pre-Christmas Christmas post from Montebello, here]. Here you can see our lovely tree, for example.

December 24, 2014: This was my first non-Glengarry Christmas [see last year's, for example, here], deciding some time ago that it was perhaps our turn to host, given the fact that we now have the space. In our usual tradition of McLennan gathering on Christmas Eve Day for dinner and gifts, we hosted my sister and her brood, our father, and my elder daughter, Kate, all of whom arrived for a big turkey dinner prepared by myself and Christine (even with the fact that she worked half a day on Christmas Eve). It might have seemed like a lot, and yet, it wasn't--I spent Monday morning doing all of my baking (two apple pies and various cookies), and made scalloped potatoes in the slow-cooker, allowing the bulk of the work to be spread out over such a period that none of it felt overwhelming.

Apparently Christine isn't familiar with the tradition of jellied salads. Her mother suggested it was "very British," but I know we've always had it. My father loves it.

And then, of course, crackers: I spent far too long at the store worried about which ones to get (the ones I ended up with were fine): overwhelmed with options, it was nearly too much.

This year was far more entertaining than last year, simply for the fact that Rose is now big enough to actually enjoy what is happening around her. And she not only loves hanging out with her cousins, but it is quite wonderful to see how she and Kate get along (rather famously, I would say). I would have taken more photos of the day, but it isn't always easy when one is hosting.

We had dinner, presents, conversation and drinks. Kate even helped Rose have her evening bath. And then three days of half-heartedly cleaning the house, again (there wasn't much, post-Christmas; we were just worn out).

December 25, 2014: Christmas morning was stockings for Rose and Kate, and a couple of presents that Christine wanted to save for the wee babe. We lingered with coffee, and Rose tore at wrapping paper. But not for long. We delivered Kate home, for the sake of her own household Christmas, and arrived at mother-in-law's house for the traditional eggs benedict and mimosas that Christine loves so much. Some traditions we can't do without. Her brother was there also, with wife Alexis and newborn(ish) Duncan, who Rose is still adjusting to. She keeps attempting to smush his face, when she isn't hugging him or kissing his face or head (she has yet to learn "gentle"). And then another big dinner, with Christine's Uncle Richard and Aunt Marie-Paul. There were even a series of photos (which I have not yet seen) of Rose and new cousin Duncan together in their matching Hudson's Bay sweaters, in which she leans over to hug him. Why did I not take more photos?




Tuesday, December 30, 2014

new from above/ground press: Massey, beaulieu, McElroy + The Peter F. Yacht Club!

Strange Fits of Beauty & Light
Karen Massey
$4
See link here for more information

transcend transcribe transfigure transform transgress
derek beaulieu
$6
See link here for more information

The Doxologies
Gil McElroy
$4
See link here for more information

Peter F. Yacht Club #21
$6
See link here for more information

keep an eye on the above/ground press blog for author interviews, new writing, reviews, upcoming readings and tons of other material;

published in Ottawa by above/ground press
December 2014
a/g subscribers receive a complimentary copy of each


and don’t forget about the 2015 above/ground press subscriptions; still available!

To order, send cheques (add $1 for postage; outside Canada, add $2) to: rob mclennan, 2423 Alta Vista Drive, Ottawa ON K1H 7M9 or paypal (above). Scroll down here to see various backlist titles (many, many things are still in print).

Review copies of any title (while supplies last) also available, upon request.

Forthcoming chapbooks by ryan fitzpatrick, Elizabeth Robinson and rob mclennan, and watch for a new “poem” broadsheet on the blog soon by Chris Johnson!

Monday, December 29, 2014

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Stevie Howell

Stevie Howell writes, studies psych, and works in a hospital. Read more at www.steviehowell.ca.

1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

Most of the poems in Sharps were published in different places over the last four years, but it feels weirdly final to have a singular artifact. Sharps contains most of all I’ve ever written to date, and I feel like a shark--I have to keep moving, or else.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I loved short fiction first. Narrative elements and a good amount of dialogue sneak in to many of my poems. And I can’t seem to avoid creating characters. There’s a book of short stories already done in my mind that I plan to spend QT with in 2015.

The fiction planet feels billions of light years away from poetry, professionally. The gap is intimidating--but the fact of distance is the worst reason not to explore, I know.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
I write s-l-o-w. A draft usually comes out in one go. I binge-toy like a cat with nip for a few days. Then I leave it for at least a few weeks, and come back to it with new eyes. Lots of times, it feels like when you try and describe a dream to someone else. Dead-eyed. Except I’m the one on the outside the vision I had, and it just can’t be raised. But occasionally it can.

4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
Honestly, many of my poems begin with me ranting in bed at night.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I can’t manage to feel one way about readings. The vibes are so variable and I can’t be the mountain. If someone sneezes, I say, “Oh no! They don’t care at all!” Then I say, “They can’t help it, it’s a reflex! Get over yourself!” And it feels like I’m Richard E. Grant in How to Get Ahead in Advertising, fighting with my giant boil co-head in the middle of a dinner party.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
I don’t have a lot of patience for theory. But I have many concerns. I get this line in my head from some daytime TV talk show I saw, when they had a cook on as a guest. She’s shoving onions around in a frying pan, and he host asks her, “How did you start cooking? Did you go to culinary school?” And she hollers: “I went to the school of MAMA!” That’s pretty much my background with theory.

I’m with C. Wright Mills on this -- “Let every man be his own methodologist.”

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

I think the writer’s job is, or ought to be, to “tell it like is,” [Otis Redding link]:
http://grooveshark.com/#!/s/Tell+It+Like+It+Is/2ERgYi?src=5 including, especially, to level with themselves.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
It ought not be difficult. If it’s difficult, you’re likely with the wrong editor, or are not ready to publish. I had some false starts--I had one guy have me buy him endless beer only to hear him tell me over and again stuff like, “I don’t know what to do with this…Everything you do is a contrivance…” And then try and grab my ass.

An editor’s job isn’t to indulge you, or to buy your drinks, but it’s useless to work with someone who doesn’t get or respect you, just because they’ve got a “name.” I’d say to save your awe for outer space and the dead. I’ve learned good people never want to accentuate or exploit an interpersonal gap.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
•    “Time itself performs miracles.” -- George Wald

•    “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” -- Maya Angelou

•     “I’m driven by two main philosophies: Learn more about the world than I knew yesterday and lessen the suffering of others.” -- Neil deGrasse Tyson

•    “Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced.” -- James Baldwin

•    “I have learned that when things are beautiful, to just keep on.” -- Bill Callahan

•    "YOU cannot give me ANY advice!" -- Kanye West

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?
I started writing reviews to force an opportunity to read contemporary stuff widely, and to get used to working with editors and deadlines. It amused me that I could get paid to read, as I would have been reading something anyway, and as paid work had, until then, been yoked to creative sublimation...

But I’ll be honest. I feel like I cut my teeth on other people who were also just trying to learn and grow, and I regret some of it. I don’t think I have superhuman perceptual abilities, or that my experience is a sufficient substitute for your own.

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
Routine is such a vibe killer. I totally need the spirit to move me.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I usually turn to Owen Pallett or Kid Cudi. Or I give it a rest and retreat a while into cinematic guilty-not-guilty pleasures in order to recharge, like Conan the Barbarian.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Cigarette smoke :(

and Pledge :(

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
I feel way, way more influenced by everyday people I meet through my job in a hospital, my psych studies and cognitive science in general, and all other arts combined. Nature scares me.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
The most important writers to me are Andrew O’Hagan, James Baldwin, W.H. Auden, Talib Kweli, Ta-Nehisi Coates, Paul Virilio, Lauryn Hill, and Bill Callahan.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Live somewhere else for a purposeful reason in walking distance to an ocean. Get my head all the way around music theory. Learn Irish and Arabic. Adopt a merle sheltie and/or a snow-white cat.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
I am attempting another occupation. I’m in the early days working toward becoming a cognitive neuropsychologist.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I wrote last. I did everything else first.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Books: CA Conrad’s Book of Frank. Eimear McBride’s A Girl is a Half-formed Thing. Claudia Rankine’s Citizen. George Saunders’ 10th of December. Ken Babstock’s On Malice. Saeed Jones’ Prelude to a Bruise.

Films: The Tree of Life. When We Were Kings. The Great Dictator.

...but why no music: I gotta say Chassol’s Indiamore, Owen Pallett, In Conflict, J.Cole’s 2014 Forest Hills Drive, D’Angelo’s Black Messiah, and Bill Callahan’s Dream River.

20 - What are you currently working on?
Biology labs.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Sunday, December 28, 2014

commentaries : Jacket2 : some notes on Canadian poetry,

Beginning in January, I will be posting three months' worth of commentaries on Canadian poets, poetry and poetics over at Jacket2, thanks to a kind solicitation by Julia Bloch (adding to the pieces I've already had posted there). Watch for a series of interviews with and short essays on Gil McElroy, Nikki Reimer, Phil Hall, Shannon Maguire, Roland Prevost, Christine Leclerc, Pearl Pirie and plenty of others. Just keep checking the link here. I'll most likely be posting at least twice a week.

Saturday, December 27, 2014

Laura Farina, Some Talk of Being Human



A DEFINITION FOR SNOW

When we went carolling
I slipped a compass inside my mittens

and as our voices rose
in puffs above
the white lawns
of our parents’ neighbourhood

you broke into the descant –
high notes in the cold air

and secretly
in the palm of my hand
I pointed the way north.

One might be forgiven for not immediately being aware of the work of former Ottawa poet Laura Farina, given that her first poetry collection, the Archibald Lampman Award-winning This Woman Alphabetical (Pedlar Press, 2005) [see my review of such here] is now nearly a decade old. Now a resident of Vancouver, her second collection is Some Talk of Being Human (Toronto ON: Mansfield Press, 2014). Much like her first collection, Some Talk of Being Human is constructed as a collection of short, observational lyrics, sometimes funny, sometimes a bit abstract and surreal, while others are more direct, all falling under a book title that is perhaps one of the most fitting I’ve seen in some time. Farina’s poems are wistful and contemplative, composed with a quiet humour, a kind of dreamy melancholy that whispers through and between each of her lines, as well as a silence: heavy, pervasive and dark.












GOODBYE

I left the all-night shawarma place.
I left the snowbanks and the mittens in them.
I left the smell of subways in the rain.
I left a library book in a washroom at YVR.
I left a gummy bear in the pocket of my jeans.
I left my sister waiting at the yoga studio.
I left chocolate milk on the aging counter.
I left Peterborough, Ontario.
I left the Quaker Oats factory,
a dark thing in the sunset.

There is a charming matter-of-factness to many of these poems, including an intriguing range of geographies, such as in the poems “A Birthday, a Door, Toronto,” “What the Highway Said to Me,” “I Have Always Been Good at College” and “I Went to Florida,” that begins: “It was hot. / Much of the food was deep-fried // I got sunburned / while taking an architectural walking tour / of South Beach.” And yet, these are not simply observational poems, in or of the moment, but poems that utilize those moments as opportunities to move beyond their borders, shifting into subtle explorations of far larger, abstract, and even mundane considerations. In Farina’s poems, there is the occasional play between meaning and sound, as memories, histories and even the future are explained, questioned and challenged, as are the more banal day to day moments. As she writes in the poem “A Century of Creepy Stories”: “Who tracked dead grass into the empty church? / Why does broken glass always look hungry?”

SOLSTICE POEM

Three bonfires
and the shadows around them
are people when they go home.

A bottle breaks,
and from somewhere a guitar.

But underneath
a silence
pressing in like mountains
all around.

It is already dark
on the longest day of the year.



Friday, December 26, 2014

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Kerry-Lee Powell

Kerry-Lee Powell was born in Montreal and has lived in Antigua, Australia and the United Kingdom, where she received a BA in Medieval and Renaissance Literature and an MA in Writing and Literature from Cardiff University. Her poetry has appeared in The Spectator, Ambit and MAGMA. Her fiction has been published in The Boston Review, The Malahat Review and the Virago Press Writing Women series. She has been nominated for a National Magazine Award and a Pushcart Prize. In 2013 she won The Boston Review fiction contest, The Malahat Review’s Far Horizons award for short fiction and the Alfred G. Bailey manuscript prize. A chapbook entitled The Wreckage was published in the United Kingdom by Grey Suit Editions in 2013, and a novel and book of short fiction are forthcoming from HarperCollins. Inheritance is her first book.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

My book has only recently launched, so it’s hard to say. Over the last few weeks, I’ve felt alternately elated, vulnerable, empowered, anxious, relieved, and really tired. Some of the poems in this collection were written a few years ago, and some more recently. Later poems experiment with longer lines, expand thematically on the austerity and terseness of earlier work.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I write both fiction and poetry, and came to poetry after starting off as a fiction writer. Sometimes I’ll have an idea for a poem that turns out to be better suited for a short story or vice versa. I have a book of short fiction coming out next year, and many of the stories were written during approximately the same time period as the poems in this collection.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

I recently had this discussion with a couple of writers. I will pretty much always have an ending in mind when I embark on a poem or short story, whereas the writers I spoke with were both compelled to write precisely because they didn’t know where the work would end. Perhaps it’s because I tend to mull and brood a great deal beforehand, and don’t have a sense of an idea or concept as ‘art’ unless I can perceive its shape.

4 - Where does a poem or work of fiction usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

My collection of poetry, Inheritance, is centred around my father’s experiences with post-traumatic stress disorder and his eventual suicide. But this is mainly because it was a powerful subject that I kept returning to without necessarily intending to. I have a great deal of admiration for people who can govern their imaginations well enough to write on any particular subject from the outset. I can’t or at least haven’t yet. I wasn’t aware of any particular theme when writing the stories in my short fiction collection. However, as the stories amassed, I began to see pervasive themes and images. This recognition inspired me to expand upon those themes and write several of the later stories, and it also allowed me to do some substantive editing on earlier pieces.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
Some work really lends itself to being read aloud, and I’ve met so many wonderful writers, readers and organizers in the last few weeks. It’s heartening for those of us who live fairly solitary lives to be out amongst actual human beings instead of at a desk with the voices in our heads.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
I have been specifically concerned with issues related to post-traumatic stress disorder, trauma and violence. The poems in Inheritance explore the links between PTSD and the ways in which poetry resurrects human experience, particularly through the use of formal devices. Many of the formal poems in this collection are concerned with themes of obedience, rebellion and power. They weren’t written with an agenda in mind, but I feel they explore some uncomfortable issues. Whose voice speaks through me? What does it mean to occupy an archaic form? The questions make me uneasy, but are nonetheless central to my experience as my father’s daughter and as a female artist in a patriarchal culture. And it was very important for me to not shy away from the emotional intensity of the subject matter, to allow the sense of mourning and love and trauma. It strikes me that this is what a lyric poem is in the end, a love song to the culture. And I think that all our stories and myths bear the scars of trauma. In a broader sense, I’m interested in humanism. I’m skeptical about art and its purposes and aims. It strikes me that we too often celebrate self-expression and creativity over what might help to ease suffering on a larger scale. I don’t mean that art should moralize. It’s one of the most rewarding forms of enchantment. But if I was compelled to define its relevance, I would say it’s the best means by which we can both create the world and understand the world as created –by our own perceptions, values and ambivalences.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I have a lot of witty, imaginative friends who contribute enormously to their communities and who never read books, let alone read poetry or literary fiction. At the same time I’m persuaded of literature’s absolute value to humanity. We are social beings, communicators. A writer’s influence will always depend on the culture in which their work is read, which is why some writers are popular during their lifetimes while others fall in and out of favor as the centuries pass. Relevance is an issue. As a writer, you have to have something to say.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
It’s sometimes frustrating and painful to work with editors, but you learn what’s worth fighting for. I’ve been lucky enough to work with several of the very best.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
That writing is a physical activity and not a mental one. Anthony Howell, a poet and fiction writer who was once in the Royal Ballet, told me this a few years ago after I’d watched him scribble off and on all day in a notebook he is almost never without. For him, writing in his notebook is akin to a dancer practicing at the barre. It’s a useful way of thinking because it reminds you that with writing, you must exert yourself in order to determine what you’re capable of. And to see if those inner musings can be transmuted. Lead into gold. More often than not for me, it’s the other way around.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to short story to novel)? What do you see as the appeal?
Writing is hard! I blame poetry, because it taught me to agonize over every sentence.

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
I am writing a novel and finding it difficult as a novel involves skills and disciplines that are somewhat alien to me. But it’s good to be challenged, to work at the limit of one’s abilities. On a more mundane level, my day begins with coffee and a notebook. I make lists, try to bust through the anxiety and sense of being overwhelmed by the task ahead.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I’m inspired by paintings and by music, and only rarely these days by movies or other books. However, I am deeply influenced by books I read in the past, canonical figures like Plath and Dostoevski and Nabokov, Lowell and Henry James, as well as lesser-known writers like Yevgeny Zamyatin. In the end, I feel that influences are more like tools or clues in a mystery. What you’re really doing as a writer is learning to find and express your own vision of the world. And this is often a troublesome and troubling journey.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
I’ve lived in a few different homes, but as I live in New Brunswick and it’s fall at the moment I’ll say wood-smoke and wet leaves.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
I spend quite a lot of time in the woods. They are difficult to avoid out here. In my fiction, I like to contrast the life of the mind, of civilization, with the wildness beyond it. I’m attracted to suburban locales or small towns as settings for that reason, as they show humans situated on the ragged borders of what’s knowable and what’s frighteningly not. I never intended this, but visual art and music have become vital to my practice. My poetry is often formal and very sound-oriented. My short fiction collection is called ‘Willem de Kooning’s Paintbrush’ and the titular story was inspired by the violence of his technique in several paintings. I’m idea-driven but I have an artisanal approach and tend to focus on texture and style.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
My partner, who’s taking a couple of years off from university at the moment, studies philosophy of mind and cognitive science. His observations about consciousness, neuroscience and the mind continue to amaze and inspire. It’s an area where there are a lot of misguided pop notions and I appreciate his lucidity. Other writers I’ve recently been inspired by include poet (and now friend) Stevie Howell, whose new book approaches similar themes to mine but in a totally different, and brilliant, manner. I’ve been reading with her off and on for the last few weeks and my appreciation of her work continues to deepen.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Finish my novel! Then travel, maybe to Eastern Europe. Somewhere I’ve never been.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
At one point I thought I’d do a PhD in medieval literature. At another point I thought screw it, I’ll be a landscape gardener or go back to bartending. I enjoy physical work and I made more money as a cocktail waitress then in any job I’ve had before or since. But I do value and require plenty of time alone these days.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
As a kid I always wanted to be a writer and made up little booklets that I gave out to friends. I wrote the usual dark stuff as a teen and had some early success with publishing work in literary magazines and interest from publishers in my twenties. But I ran away from it all. I hated my work back then, felt like I was a phony. Then I tried not writing for a while, but that didn’t work out very well either! It’s an ongoing act of bravado for me to put it out there, to not fall back into silence.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
The last great book was Lynn Emanuel’s fabulous book of poetry called The Dig. Tony Hoagland told me to read it as a cure for my tendency towards terseness and I’m thankful he did. Can I pick two movies? One great film was Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut, which I hated the first time around and then watched again a few weeks ago and was blown away. A masterpiece. The other was Pan’s Labyrinth which accomplishes everything I’ve ever wanted to do as a writer in about an hour and a half.

20 - What are you currently working on?
The novel! I’m also writing a little non-fiction these days, taking notes, feeling my way around the form.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

some (early) christmas : montebello,

With Christine's father and his wife Teri, Christine's brother Michael and his wife Alexis (and baby Duncan), we did our second annual Montebello over the weekend, for McNair Christmassy-type celebrations [see last year's post on such]. At least, this year, I didn't have to worry about having to recharge the battery on our old car (since passed along to a cousin, given a two-door is tricky to navigate baby into/out of carseat). Given that Rose is a year old now, she was much more user-friendly during this trip, waving excitedly at anyone and everyone who passed by, and we gave her more than a couple of opportunities to walk and run (supervised) through the huge Montebello space.

We drove out early on Saturday for the sake of outdoor winter-ings, but the warmer temperatures made the trails difficult, and we didn't think Rose would tolerate the rental sleds (we should have brought the sled she received for her birthday), so our walk outdoors was rather contained. It was even too warm for the sleigh rides! But we walked for a bit around the grounds, Rose enjoyed her time on the swings (she loves swings), and she saw a helicopter lift off from the other side of the massive hotel complex.












Christine attempted the swimming pool with Rose, but baby would have none of it, crying the whole time until I pulled her out to wrap up in towels (I didn't think anyone wanted to see screamy swimming photos, so haven't included them here). Once she was out of the pool, she was quite content to sit on the sidelines with me, pointing at all the other people flailing about in the eighty-plus degree water. Rose played with Teri, hugged her grandfather's leg, rifled through her aunt Alexis' presents, played with her uncle Michael, and very much enjoyed seeing her new-ish cousin Duncan (the second grandchild, after Rose, on the McNair side). At one point, she went to kiss his face, as Duncan attempted to latch onto her nose.

We had a lovely time, and Rose was extremely well-behaved during the entire trip, even when fidgety during parts of the meals (I simply walked a few minutes with her down some of the myriad hallways). She waved at everyone, and charmed just about everyone in the hotel (including the occasional person that seemed grumpy--how could anyone be grumpy while staying at Montebello?).  Before dinner on the Saturday, Christine even managed to get Rose out for a brief nap on her back, in one of the wraps (there was so much activity that she wanted to pay attention to, all the time, so I'm impressed she managed it).

And: by the time you are reading this, I'm in the midst of putting turkey in the oven, to host various of our small McLennan clan at our house, hosting father, sister etc and daughter Kate for our first non-farm Christmas. I've been baking!


Tuesday, December 23, 2014

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Mary Kasimor

Mary Kasimor has most recently been published in Yew Journal, Big Bridge, MadHat, Horse Less Review, Altered Scale, Word For/Word, Posit, Otoliths, EOAGH, and The Missing Slate. She has three previous books and/or chapbook publications: Silk String Arias (BlazeVox Books), & Cruel Red (Otoliths), and The Windows Hallucinate (LRL Textile Series).  She has a new collection of poetry published in 2014, entitled The Landfill Dancers (BlazeVox  Books). She also writes book reviews that have been published in Jacket, Big Bridge, Galatea Resurrects, and Gently Read Literature. She considers her work experimental—both her poetry and ink/water colors.

1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first book or chapbook did not really change my life. It was exciting in a way, but each time I begin a poem I feel as though I am writing  for the first time. What I am saying is that it didn’t increase my sense that I had “made it” in anyway.

My work has become more experimental and organic than my earlier poems, even though I was moving in that direction even with my first book.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I wanted to be able to write quickly, and that is easier to do with poetry than fiction or non-fiction. I also feel closer to the spirit of poetry, and it is more magical to me. It is also more visual than fiction and non-fiction, and my poetry is visual.

I did not read much fiction for a long time because I wasn’t very interested in fiction. I now enjoy and read novels and non-fiction. I read non-fiction that is philosophical or scientific.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

I rarely procrastinate when I begin a project. One reason for that is because my writing is usually very spontaneous. It is difficult for me to decide to write about a specific idea or theme, and as a result, my writing is about what is on my mind at the moment. In the chapbook entitled Duplex, I wrote about my children and how I related to them. That book is not as interesting to me as my other books and chapbook because it was somewhat planned and focused. I think that my writing is best when I am not focused on a theme or idea or even style.

My drafts change during the course of my writing. I first write in a notebook and revise in a notebook. Then I transfer it to a computer and revise over and over again. The revision process is important in my writing.

4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
A poem begins with something that I am usually thinking about. Sometimes a line is very random and that is the beginning of a poem. It is rare for me to work on a “book” from the beginning. I want to be able to explore ideas, words, images, sounds, and I don’t want to be limited by structure or theme.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I don’t do many readings. I am always concerned that people will either dislike or not understand my poetry. I think that my poetry is better read than listened to by an audience.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
In my poetry I am trying to get into the essence of where we as humans began and how we fit with other sentient or non-sentient matter. Several years ago I read Lynn Margulis’ essays on evolution and I found them fascinating. I continue to try to understand her theories through my poetic form.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
The writer should be telling people what they don’t want to hear about themselves—the cruel and ugly and stupid, and also the surprisingly wonderful things about being alive and/or human.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Since the editors whom I’ve worked with have given me complete freedom, I do not find it difficult working with an outside editor. The editors have been from small presses, and maybe that is why I feel that I have a great deal of freedom.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
When I was working on my MA in English, I was planning to write a thesis on Deconstruction as it applied to Barbara Guest’s poetry. Several good friends advised me to write a creative thesis instead, and I decided to follow their advice—and it was good advice.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?
In my opinion, writing both poetry and critical prose requires creativity and deep thinking. I do write reviews of poetry, and I have found that I become part of a creative process while I am writing it and throughout all my revisions, and there is something deeply satisfying about writing reviews. However, writing poetry is more creative and more difficult. 

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
I try to write every day, and writing in the morning is the best time. My writing process is not terribly structured. I will leave the beginning of a draft, returning to it many times with new ideas.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I read other poets whose poetry I greatly admire. Several examples would be Anne Carson (of course) and Lyn Hejinian.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Lilacs remind me of Minnesota, which is where I grew up and consider home, even though I live in Washington now. It reminds me of home because lilacs bloom after a hard and cold winter.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
Visual art and jazz influence my poetry. I love abstract art and the great jazz musicians (Coltrane, Davis, Parker…)

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
I enjoy reading books about science, as long as it is written for the non-scientist. I am catching up on many of the great novels—I just finished reading The Idiot.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I would like to travel more. I also want to continue writing and writing.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
I find science fascinating. If I had a scientific mind, I would have loved to go into research.

I taught writing and literature courses, and I usually looked forward to teaching.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I loved music, but I realized my limitations. Writing poetry worked for me. I never know what I am going to do next, and that is part of the beauty of writing.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I have read many great books, and the last great book that I read was The Idiot. The characters and situations that Dostoyevsky created were intriguing. His interpretation of human nature was ultimately tragic.

The last great film that I’ve seen was The Artist. I can only describe it as being charming and delightful. I have actually seen other great movies since The Artist, but this is one of my favorites.

20 - What are you currently working on?
I am working on a new chapbook, and I am letting the poems lead me. I don’t know what I will do with the chapbook once I am finished with it. Maybe someone will publish it or maybe it will just remain in my computer files.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Monday, December 22, 2014

Dorothea Lasky, Rome



THE AMETHYST

All my life
It was a lie
To try to go towards bliss
But death is the ultimate blissfulness
To be a candy or a corpse
The world holds you on its tongue
And no one can save you
Not even your own children or your friends
So have a seat with the home of the dead
They will eat your colors
Until you are blank
The best thing to happen to you
The greatest happiness
To be an animal who is smoke
And beyond the mouth
That tears your bones from one another
To be a mound of meat
At the table of the living

Brooklyn poet Dorothea Lasky’s fourth poetry collection is Rome (New York NY: Liveright Publishing Corporation, 2014), following Thunderbird (Seattle WA/New York NY: Wave Books, 2012) [see my review of such here], Black Life (Wave Books, 2010) [see my review of such here] and AWE (Wave, 2007) [see my review of such here]. In the past, Lasky’s work has been compared to the work of both Frank O’Hara and Allen Ginsberg, and the influence of O’Hara’s “I did this, I did that” strain of lyric narrative is unmistakable. Both O’Hara and Ginsberg were also performative sentence-poets, writing out their immediate world as they understood it, and the performance poem-essays that make up Lasky’s Rome is clearly immersed in much of the same approach. Much like Lisa Robertson (but in a more narrative vein) and Lisa Jarnot, Lasky is very much a poet of sentences and stark phrases, allowing them to speak and shout and whisper and silence when appropriate, and even provide the occasional gut-punch. The final stanza of the piece “Poem to Florence,” for example, reads:






There were things I wished I’d said
And done
But it is too late now
So I go
Heavy with my offering
This book, this book

The ten-poem sequence that lends the book its title plays off considerations of the city of Rome, the fictions of real and imagined lives, and a grandness of history against certain disappointments of the contemporary: “Rome is about the Colosseum / Said the cashier in the local market / Where I went with my mother / In the town I grew up in / No longer a young man / But tunneling towards a ferocity / Not anyone could have predicted [.]” Throughout the title poem, as well as sprinkled through the book as a whole, Lasky forces confrontations between classical knowledge and the contemporary, pushing a darker series of tones through romantic ideas and ideals, as well as an exploration of some corners that aren’t often articulated (or so well) in contemporary poetry. As she writes in the poem “Porn”: “I watch porn / Cause I’ll never be in love / Except with you dear reader / Who thinks I surrender [.]” Part of what makes Rome so striking is in the way she writes the intimately personal so deeply dark, as though each line somehow a nail-scratch seeking blood beneath the skin. Listen to the opening stanzas of the poem “Moving,” as she writes:

Yes, I am moving but I am not
I will never see my body dead
In the way I have seen yours

The soul never sleeps
I told you
After you were gone

What was your name
I kept moving on
Until I did not need you anymore