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Saturday, April 15, 2017

Touch the Donkey : thirteenth issue,

The thirteenth issue is now available, with new poems by Joseph Mosconi, Jessica Smith, Douglas Barbour and Sheila Murphy, Sue Landers, Pearl Pirie, Oliver Cusimano and Marthe Reed.



Seven dollars (includes shipping). We haven’t spoken in eight years.


Wednesday, April 5, 2017

TtD supplement #77 : seven questions for Sarah Swan

Sarah Swan is from Winnipeg, but currently lives in Yellowknife, NWT. She is a former medic with the Canadian Armed Forces, a homeschooling mom, and a freelance fine arts writer. Her publication credits include the Winnipeg Free Press, Canadian Art, Galleries West, Studio Magazine, and Macleans’ Magazine. At one time, Sarah was also a poet, having published a book of poems titled Rapture Red and Smoke Grey with Turnstone Press in 2001. A chapbook, Domestica, is newly out from above/ground press. She is happy, and relieved, to be writing poetry again.

Four poems from “Domestica” appear in the twelfth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the four poems from “Domestica.”

A: The short answer is that these poems are about thinking. I’m a stay at home mom, and so lately my poems contain a strange mixture of thoughts about art, philosophy, my family, my home, and grocery lists. I think they are also about anxiety, and about the tremendous ups and downs of our inner lives. We live in a very anxious age. I read the novel Laurus recently, by Vodolazkin, and one of the characters is constantly writing on scraps of paper. For him, says the book, “the written word seemed to regulate the world. Stop its fluctuations.” I can really relate. And, the cleaner, more spare, and more exacting I can make a poem, the more stable I feel.

Q: How do these poems fit in with the rest of the work you’ve been doing lately?

A: For the past 5 years I’ve been writing about visual art for various publications, reviewing art shows etc. I love thinking about art, how it is made, what it communicates etc. In a way, I feel like many of the poems contain sentiments you’re not really allowed to include in a proper art review – things that are more personal than most professional art journalism allows. Art, you know, has a way of meshing with your everyday life, and with your personhood, if you let it. Though I’d love to write an article titled “How the Paintings of Neil Farber Affect the Psychology of a Stay at Home Mom,” in which I’d compare his crowded canvasses to my own too-cramped mind, I’m not sure who would publish it.

Q: After such a long gap since your first book, what finally brought you back to poetry? Why such a long gap between publications?

A: I wrote poetry over the years, but in stops and starts. But it isn’t very good. Somehow I lost my confidence. And then I had children. Babies and young children really do a number on the privacy and solitude needed for creative work. In the early years I really struggled with this. I missed being ‘deep in the machinery of my wits’ as Mary Oliver put it once. I couldn’t seem to find my way back to productive writing. Now that my kids are a little older it is certainly easier. What brought me back? I suppose the art writing. To the chagrin of a few editors, I was getting a little too wordy in my articles. I was using a ridiculous number of adjectives. Slowly it dawned on me that I needed to write poetry again. Also, a few encouraging people (like you, Rob!) really gave me the push I needed.

Q: Well, it did take me over a decade to figure out where you were, given your name change. Given the distance between publishing, what do you see as the differences between your work now and your work then? How do you feel your writing has developed?

A: Ha! Well, I moved a lot too! I’m really not sure if my writing has developed in any significant way. I feel like I’m starting again, from square one, and have to learn as I go. I suppose I’m more interested in brevity and conciseness now. Over the years I keep returning to William Carlos Williams, trying to figure out how he creates imagery with so few words.

Q: One thing I found quite striking about your book, Rapture Red and Smoke Grey, was the ways in which poems were grouped, whether as extended suites or sequences. The poems in Domestica (above/ground press, 2017), from whence the poems in this new issue have come, also seem to be loosely grouped. Do poems come to you in loose groups that form as you write? How do your poems begin?

A: Little phrases or word parings start rattling around in my head, and when I finally sit down and commit them to the page, the poem begins. Like many writers, I follow the words. Words are really unpredictable sometimes, and I love that. I write to figure out how I feel or what I think. I never know ahead of time. And yes, the poems sometimes arrive together. I guess I’m trying to work something out when this happens.

Q: When I first read your Rapture Red and Smoke Grey I saw something familiar there in the way long poems are constructed in the prairies, akin to works by Dennis Cooley, for example. What influences and/or authors led you to build poems and groupings of poems in the ways you do? What works have influenced the ways in which you write?

A: Dennis Cooley was a prof of mine. He was a godsend. He was really critical of my work, but was very kind about it. And he really helped in getting the work published. Of course I learned all about the prairie poets when I was a student. But, I remember being more affected by Winnipeg poet Catherine Hunter in those days, and George Amabile. Long time influences include Anne Carson, Annie Dillard, Marilyn Robinson. Those last two are novelists and essayists of course, but it is their turns of phrase, pace, and rhythm I so admire. They both have a voice that emanates a calm, quiet sanity. And they can both use language in wonderfully surprising ways. I’ve already mentioned Williams. And lately I’ve been revisiting Robert Bly – “My heart is a calm potato by day, and a weeping/ Abandoned woman by night. Friend, tell me what to do,/ Since I am a man in love with the setting stars.”

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: Particular works: Holy The Firm and The Writing Life, both by Annie Dillard. Beauty of the Husband, by Anne Carson (best really long poem ever!). Also, I could listen again and again to Dear Heather by Leonard Cohen, and I read the Puritan prayer book when I feel especially low. Say what you will about the Puritans, but they had such a rich vocabulary! For the past few years though, I have really been reenergized by minimalist paintings and by the still life paintings of Georgio Morandi. His limited palette is so comforting, somehow. It’s therapy. And writing, for me, is therapy too.

Monday, March 27, 2017

TtD supplement #76 : seven questions for Shazia Hafiz Ramji

Shazia Hafiz Ramji lives in Vancouver, BC where she works as an editor and writes poems, reviews, and stories. Her poetry was shortlisted for the 2016 National Magazine Awards and is forthcoming in Canadian Literature and filling Station. She was co-editor for the "Intersections" issue of Poetry is Dead and has been a guide for Poor Yoricks' Summer and Sacred Jest, groups dedicated to reading Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace.

Her poems “It’s not not talking about it” and “Mouth” appear in the twelfth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poems “It’s not not talking about it” and “Mouth.”

A: “It’s not not talking about it” and “Mouth” share a fixation with language, self-reflexivity, and sincerity; they are poems of negation and failure. Both poems are from a manuscript-in-progress tentatively called Cults of the Unwavering I. Cults takes its title from a title of a book in a footnote in David Foster Wallace’s novel, Infinite Jest. It essentially refers to a non-existent book within a book of fiction.

“It’s not not talking about it” arose after researching representations of authors who have committed suicide. For this poem in particular, I was thinking about the French surrealist poet, Jacques Rigaut, and one of my favourite movies, Oslo, 31 Aug, directed by Joachim Trier.

I wrote “Mouth” when I woke up after reading Edouard Levé. I don’t think I could articulate what it’s about, except the fact that it has to do with locationlessness and a failure of communication.

In these poems and in Cults, I see the autobiographical personas of authors who have committed suicide as a “heterotopic” space, to borrow the term from Foucault. This is a space I think of as being constituted by self-consciousness. It’s a space that feels deeply personal and/or actual but is held aloft by fantasy made possible by affective economies and a neoliberal framework.

Q: What is it about “the autobiographical personas of authors who have committed suicide” that prompted you to attempt them in writing?

A: I’m not attempting to inhabit and write the personas, but I am attempting to articulate the space in which they’re able to work. It’s a space that feels charged and desperate to me. Definitely neurotic. Barthes says that neurosis is a makeshift and he talks about Bataille who speaks of neurosis as “the fearful apprehension of an ultimate impossible.” Barthes says “this makeshift is the only one that allows for writing (and reading) ... the texts, like those by Bataille ... which are written against neurosis, from the center of madness, contain within themselves if they want to be read, that bit of neurosis necessary to the seduction of their readers: these terrible texts are all the same flirtatious texts.” I think this sums up why the autobiographical personas of authors who have committed suicide appeal to me – I’ve been seduced and now I am obsessed!

Q: How is the manuscript-in-progress taking shape? Was this conceived originally as a book-length project, or did the poems themselves move you into that direction?

A: The poems themselves moved me in the direction of book-length project/s.

Some poems that form part of the ms-in-progress are in my new chapbook, Prosopopoeia, which just came out with Anstruther Press. I’m happy that some poems will also find a home at Nomados Press. I’ve felt motivated to keep going because of these forthcoming chapbooks, which have given me room to develop and expand my work.

I’m hoping to have mostly new work in the ms, however. The poems for the book are developing; I’ve been filling up the index cards and stringing together ideas on big sheets of paper I keep stuck on the wall!

Q: How difficult is it to excise chapbook manuscripts out of a book-length unit?

A: My writing process is probably conducive to the chapbook-length ms, although I haven’t intentionally made it so. Because I become fixated with a set of ideas and do a lot of reading first, then develop poems in response over a period of time, and then break and do the same with an associated set of readings for poems, I end up having sets of poems that happen to be chapbook-length. When I was compiling my manuscript for Anstruther, I chose what felt right, but I also included poems that didn’t seem to cohere with the rest. I wanted to be edited by Jim Johnstone at Anstruther because I admire him and his work, and I work as an editor so it was a real treat to be on the other side. Jim was very perceptive, generous, and open-minded when we cut and tweaked together.

Q: You’ve mentioned your current project, which will solidify as a full-length collection. Has you work prior or even concurrent to this fallen outside of this collection? Where do you see your current work fit into a larger trajectory of your work?

A: The work for my manuscript has developed out of the poems in Touch the Donkey #12 and out of my chapbook Prosopopoeia. It focuses on surveillance and biopolitics, both of which grew out of my interest in suicide, self-reflexivity, communication, work, and technology, themes that shape the poems in Prosopopoeia.

I don’t know where I see my current work fitting into a larger trajectory of work. I trust the writing process enough to know that it will turn on itself once it becomes consistent and complacent. I think that I feel my writing expanding scope to engage with a world outside of its literary and philosophical influences while finding new ways to accommodate these influences.

Q: I do find it fascinating that you have a chapbook with Anstruther Press, yet your poems have been published in venues such as The Capilano Review and are forthcoming in filling Station — I wouldn’t see these as having much, if any, aesthetic overlap (I think of the late D.G. Jones as being a possible exception). Do you find it tricky to navigate the considerations and politics of genre and form when writing, or are you able to move easily as your interest allows?

A: That’s a complex question, one I’ve struggled with quite a bit. I think that working in publishing over the years has made me realize just how much categorizing different types of aesthetics can be a concern with branding, selling, and money. I realize that we’ve all come up with poetry camps together, tossing “lyric” poets to the right and “conceptual” poets to the left, or vice versa. I write lyric poems. I write conceptual poems. I write things that don’t look like poems but have been published as poems. Publication is where the categorizing begins, but even presses like Anstruther have their deviations in genre and form, e.g. Exit Text by Genevieve Robichaud, a total gem. I find it tricky when I think in false dichotomies made for simplified marketing-speak, but I can move easily when I remember that there are people like Jan Zwicky writing about Wittgenstein, and Ken Babstock writing about SIGINT, and Stephen Collis writing about “Blockadia.” And then there is Lisa Robertson and I just want to read.

I look forward to spending time with D.G. Jones.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: I return to David Foster Wallace consistently, particularly his novels Infinite Jest and The Pale King, and his short story “Good Old Neon.” DFW’s work makes me think through my concerns around language, technology, and sincerity with a deep and lasting understanding that only novels can bring. Jeff Derksen’s first book of poems, Down Time is always on my desk, as is Peter Gizzi’s In Defense of Nothing: Selected Poems. Hito Steyerl’s essays, The Wretched of the Screen and McKenzie Wark’s essays, Telesthesia always bring me back to my work. Nilling by Lisa Robertson has saved me from abandoning my work; I feel like it’s been a guide for me in so many ways. Daphne Marlatt’s, Meredith Quartermain’s, and Wayde Compton’s books are in close reach too, just in case the city comes onto the page, which happens often.

Friday, March 17, 2017

TtD supplement #75 : seven questions for Erín Moure

Erín Moure’s 2017 new-old book is Planetary Noise: Selected Poetry of Erín Moure, edited and introduced by Shannon Maguire (Wesleyan U Press), marking forty years of poetry. In 2016, she published two translations, of François Turcot’s My Dinosaur (BookThug) and Chus Pato’s Flesh of Leviathan (Omnidawn). Two translations will appear in 2017, of Antón Lopo’s Distance of the Wolf: Biography of Uxío Novoneyra (Fondación Novoneyra, Galicia) and of Brazilian Wilson Bueno’s Paraguayan Sea (Nightboat Books, NY, fall). 2018 will see publication of her translation from Galician of Of Stubborn Dreams, by Uxío Novoneyra. Moure lives in Montreal.

Her poem “ferticule” appears in the twelfth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poem “ferticule.”

Well, it’s a fertile molecule, a poem small and fertile. As such, it has something to do with little theatres. Its refrain is a chant in which (as in the medieval cantigas de amor) there is no concrete image. The refrain is a movement from the interior, from the cells. It is small rhythm. At first, it is each time followed by concrete images, then becomes less concrete as the poem proceeds. Finally, even the words become unwords that do not articulate a universe we know. At the end, the last three words are real again, and concrete, if disparate: a chewed cud, the Spanish for “to heat up,” and the name in Polish of the southern city of Krakow or Cracow or Cracovie, a city with a long history in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, in the Habsburg monarchy, and, sadly, in the Second War, as the capital of the Nazi General Government for conquered territories in the East. Now it is a popular tourist city in Poland, and one of the most bustling cultural places in Europe.

“Ferticule” is a wondering about thinking or meaning, one that wonders by actually trying to think or mean, through chanting. The poem is thwarted, or indigestible, yes, but the chant remains. The thwarting could have to do with the poem being part of a work in progress called The Elements, which has to do with my Dad and is a book my Dad wanted to write with me about his own condition. I am trying not to write a sad story about dementia, where the metaphysics, and ontological base, of a “normal” person is set above those of someone whose brain is different. Rather, I am trying to receive that difference as equal, and let it enter the book on a more receptive footing, to see if this can help provide a ground, one ground, for hearing new epistemologies. My Dad died fairly suddenly, before he was able to work with me. But we spoke of it and he wanted me to do the work. He wanted lyric poetry, and there is plenty of that in the book. But there are also moments of destabilization, such as “ferticule”.

Q: As you say, this piece is part of a far larger work-in-progress. What is it about the larger project – whether book-length or multiple book-length – that appeals? One could ask how you moved to this from composing individual poems, but is there even such a thing as a poem that stands alone?

Actually, it might be said that I moved in The Elements from larger project to composing individual poems. One reason for the title of the work is that each poem is an element, is poem in and of itself. This includes the few longer poems in what I call linear sections, as well. The project is 104 pages, shorter than my other books.

Your last question resonates: I think all good poems refer and relate to poems that came before, and reach toward the poems of the future. But not only do poems not stand alone, I don’t think they “stand.” That’s an ableist word. Rather, I think they roll. They hold out words and sounds of the néant, and sometimes the real poem takes place between any one poem and another, in that space the poem/s open, forward and beside each other, and backward too. Translation makes time go backward by making poems in other languages contemporary to us; poetry can do that too.

Yet, to go back to the longer project: we read poems in books. In the end, I am always writing a “book,” I think. So. in that sense every poem or text has to contribute to the space of the book, to understanding what that space is and might be, and how it might change. The book is a wonderfully flexible mechanism! And it resonates, always, with other books, and with the books of the future.

Q: With over a dozen poetry titles going back some thirty-plus years, how do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see yourself headed? I know you’ve a selected poems just published; was this an opportunity to look at more of an overview of your ongoing work, or is this something you already do? Or not at all?

At any given point, I am immersed in two or more writing projects, and two or three translation projects at different stages of completion; I read my contemporaries in Canada, the USA, and Galicia primarily; I’m immersed in the past—in 19th century Galicia, in 20th century Ukraine, in David Hume and Miguel de Cervantes to think about George Bowering, in Ionesco to think about stagings, in Rosalía de Castro to think about migration and precarity, etc. An overview of my own work? I am not sure if that is even a useful or possible thing for me; I just keep going. In the poems, Planetary Noise, it’s feisty poet, editor, and literary scholar Shannon Maguire who writes the introduction and provides the perspective, and who read all my books and proposed selections; she welcomed my thoughts and opinions, but it was her efforts made the book possible. I’m grateful for that, grateful that she turned her bright mind to the 40 years of my own work in poetry, and grateful too for her consultative process in deciding the contents and for her work with Wesleyan University Press, who have been tremendous.

As for where I see myself headed... same place as all of us: the ground, more or less. I’ll try to get a few more things done before then, writing included, translation included, and love and laugh too, and be there for my friends in times tough or glad, as they are there for me. Life is amazing and I want it to go on, of course. I’ve been very privileged to live in a peaceful part of the world, and to have basic health care, and to have had decent access to education, food, shelter all my life, and have neighbours of all origins and nations. I want to listen, too, and live long enough to see writing and possibility and future changed by younger writers, particularly Indigenous writers, as their thinking via their languages and traditional knowledge is going to be essential to all of us to make a future earth in which we and our children can thrive.

Q: Given you work on multiple projects concurrently, I’m curious as to the ways in which projects relate to each other. Do your multiple projects feed into each other, or are each deliberately constructed as an entirely separate thread? Are all of your projects – akin to bpNichol, for example, or even Robert Kroetsch and Dennis Cooley – individual elements of a single, ever-expanding canvas?

I don’t work as do bpNichol or Rachel Blau Duplessis, for example, with a single ongoing life project, as in The Martyrology or Drafts. In Shannon Maguire’s introduction to the Selected, she classifies my more recent production in terms of trilogies, which makes sense to me. So there are definite links. I did conceive of the first such trilogy as one: Search Procedures (the investigation of what it is to be a person and not just a human being), The Frame of a Book (or A Frame of the Book) (the investigation of what it is to relate as person to another person, a relation we call love), and O Cidadán (the investigation of what it is to relate as person to other multiple people we don’t even know, which is the citizen relation). Maybe what I am working on now, The Elements, forms a trilogy with Sitting Shiva on Minto Avenue, by Toots and The Rooming House, one of which will appear from New Star Books later this year, and one of which is still to be written. In working on any given project, avenues open up that can’t be explored as part of the project, either open up in the work at hand and get tangled with my life, or in the life at hand and get tangled with the work. I’d say the latter is the case for all three projects in my head at this moment. I also see translation of poetry as part of my work, as a contribution to the shared conversation that is poetry. Much of that sphere of my work is scarcely visible in Canada, as I translate poets who are from other nations, and there is no institutional support for that translation here. So my conversations tend to move into the USA and Europe, which is exciting, of course. It also has a great influence on my own poetry, though I do mourn the inability to converse more with my fellow Canadians on the challenges to poetic thinking that arise from working across languages and welcoming poetic voices from across our borders. I miss the chance to share that, so particularly welcome VerseFest’s invitation to Chus Pato in 2017.

Q: I’ve always preferred the idea that writing, generally, is a conversation. Over the course of your work, who do you feel you’ve been in conversation with? What writers are you speaking, or even responding to?

Probably more responding to than speaking to! Definitely in conversation with. Even with the dead for their whispers persist and converse with us still, being as we can only read all things as contemporaries, and with or against (warp or weft) our contemporaries. Diogenes Laertius, Lorca, Butler and Derrida on mourning and hospitality, Chus Pato, Eugen Ionescu, Francisco Cortegoso, Méndez Ferrín, Rosalía de Castro, Heinrich Böll in The Clown and Billiards at Half-Past Nine, Timothy Snyder on Eastern Europe, Aristotle, Cristina de Perreti on Derrida, Myung Mi Kim, Foucault on discourse and its structures, Lisa Robertson on the cinema and weather and the moment and the sentence we need, Christine Stewart’s upcoming project, Treaty 6 Diexis, Rachel Blau Duplessis, Oana Avasilichioaei, Phil Hall, Pam Dick, Uljana Wolf, Christian Hawkey, Gerald Edelman in the 1990s, CD Wright, Andrés Ajens, Guillermo Daghero, Jake Kennedy, Geneviève Robichaud, Chantal Neveu, François Turcot, Nicole Brossard, Robert Majzels, Norma Cole, Gertrude Stein, bpNichol, Caroline Bergvall, Nicole Markotic, Louis Cabri, Alice Notley, Barbara Guest, Fred Wah, the Quartermains, Margaret Christakos, Liz Howard, Louky Bersianik, France Théoret, Laura Mullen, Dom Denis, Calum Neill, Jordan Abel, Aisha Sasha John, Jacques Roubaud, Joan Didion, Winnie the Pooh, Gonzalo Hermo, Daphne Marlatt, Serhiy Zhadan, Yuri Izdryk, Roman Ivashkiv, St. Augustine, Allison Clay, Colin Browne, Yasemin Yildiz, Peter Kulchynski, Jean-François Lyotard, Robin Blaser, Albert Camus, Thomas Merton, Mendinho, Luz Pozo García, Belén Martín Lucas, John Cage, Christa Wolf, Randall Jarrell, Mother Goose, Elisa Sampedrín, Carole Maso, Rachel Zolf, Renee Gladman, Claudia Rankine, Anthony Burnham, Immanuel Kant, Descartes, AM Klein, Ben Lerner, Luce Irigaray, Antón Lopo, Oriana Méndez, Harryette Mullen, Georges Perec, Lorine Niedecker, George Oppen, Paul Celan, César Vallejo, Jerome Rothenberg, John Millington Synge, Giorgio Agamben, Jacques Rancière, Colette St-Hilaire, Angela Carr, Claudia Roden, Eugeniusz Tkaczyszyn-Dycki, Svetlana Alexievich, Al Purdy, Rosalía de Castro, Primo Levi, Phyllis Webb, George Bowering, Rilke, Philip Levine, Alice Notley, James Wright, Frank O’Hara, Vida Simon’s art, Pavel Yurov’s documentary theatre, and Bernard-Marie Koltès too, and Heiner Müller of course. And there’s not just writers! There’s art curators and commentators like Emeren García and Kim Fullerton, artists like Lani Maestro, Clive Holden, Vida Simon, translators like Lou Nelson, poet-translators. Plus my brothers, one of whom is a historian and the other an engineer.

Actually, I hate questions like this. I can’t answer them. My own work is a bit of blown pollen in a groundscape and seascape teeming and rich with the work of all these people and more... and older, Gilgamesh, and the dances in the streets of eastern villages at the beginning of village time... dances made to dispel death.

Q: One might suggest that your work has been an exploration of how the individual interacts with the group, from your work through the ‘citizen’ to the staged performances in and within Little Theatres. I also see a variety of other threads throughout your work, such as the poetry of both “witness” and “resistance.” Where do you see your work situated between these ideas? A blend of the two, or does that even miss the point?

I’d say the position of witness insofar as it interests me is always in a position of resistance. I’m a quiet person by nature and raise my own voice as witness when something troubles me to which I can’t assent. My work, I’d say, thinking here of the trilogy of Search Procedures, Frame of a/the Book, and O Cidadán, has tried to explore, despite censure or ego or other pressures, what it is to be a person and not just a human being, and this necessarily involves others. Not “the group,” I’d say, but others, the community of persons-not-ourselves with whom we share space and time but whom we do not know. Without this link of community and responsibility toward the other — which includes above all the responsiblity to resist genocides — we cannot fully be persons. We are humans, perhaps, but are slaves or self-colonized, I might say, by authorities and privileges that distort us to ourselves, and that in fact do not have our shared interests at heart.

As Bernard-Marie Koltès demonstrates in La Solitude dans les champs de coton, which I saw again last fall in Montreal at Théâtre Prospero, the situation in which we often find ourselves vis-à-vis others is that of commerce and not of exchange, and we are damaged by this. In the language of Koltès’s monologues (an influence, to be sure, when I was writing Kapusta), which is often compared to that of 18th century discourse, we see the origins and development of commerce and its entry into our bodies long before what we like to call late capitalism. That 18th century period coincides, as Foucault wrote, with the time when the modern notion of the “author” emerged (a restrictive notion, intended to shut down possible meanings, and a notion also based on commerce, not exchange).

But back to those three books from the 1990s and early 2000s. They triangulate the space of an Elgnairt Adumreb, the opposite of a Bermuda Triangle, in which our ships do not disappear but can float. It is inside that space where other flotation devices arose, like Little Theatres and O Cadoiro, my translations of Chus Pato and Rosalía de Castro, of Andrés Ajens and François Turcot, and then O Resplandor and into The Unmemntioable and Kapusta. Inside that space is the work of many other writers as well, and many thinkers and doers. I did not invent that space! I just mapped it provisionally, half stumbling into it, having already swallowed a lot of seawater, so I too could create there and breathe.

I don’t trust necessarily what is called the “poetry of witness” where the poet speaks for another (and, yes, since the 70s, this concept has been problematized and rewritten by many others). But I do believe the act of witness i.e. listening to the other and recognizing their right to space (I had written at first “giving them space” here, as if space were mine to give! yikes! the formations of our own neurons that prevent us from thinking!) by attempting the act of hospitality à la Lévinas —which is not to judge or to make the speaker conform to what we believe— is critical for poetry and thus for our future as thinking beings, as persons.

Q: I think you may have already answered a variation on this, but, finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

So many people, as I said before. In sixty-two years, it couldn’t be otherwise! And works I can’t help returning to are likewise many, and depend on what it is at the moment that I can’t help. But today, were I losing my faith in poetry? There is so much clamour in poetry, and sometimes there is joy in the variety, and sometimes there are too many words of poets and poetry seems a vulgarity I could part with. If this happened right now, I’d read touch and smell: Barbara Guest’s Fair Realism, César Vallejo’s Complete Poetry (tr. Clayton Eschleman). Late Paul Celan, in the Joris translations. Emily Dickinson’s The Gorgeous Nothings. Norma Cole’s My Bird Book. The Collected Books of Jack Spicer. Caroline Bergvall’s Drift, George Bowering’s rocky mountain foot, Lisa Robertson’s 3 Summers. Phyllis Webb’s Water and Light, Giorgio Agamben’s “Notes sur le geste.” Lorca’s Divan del Tamarit, Clarice Lispector’s Água viva. Lani Maestro’s Tulalá, Susan Howe’s That This. Andrés Ajens’s Æ. Michael Palmer’s “Série Baudelaire” (tr. Emmanuel Hocquard et Philippe Mikriammos). Chus Pato’s Carne de Leviatán and Secesión. Ingeborg Bachmann’s No sé de ningún mundo mejor (tr. Jan Pohl). Heiner Müller’s Hamlet Machine. Christa Wolf’s No Place on Earth. Miklós Radnóti’s Tajtékos ég in all the translations. Between “cloudy” and “frothy”, how to choose! Neal McLeod’s current Facebook posts on the Cree language, which are poems. Gilgamesh, in the Gardiner translation from the Sîn-leqi-unninnī version. Os Eidos by Uxío Novoneyra. New poetry in Room Magazine by Marilyn Dumont. And those medieval Galician troubadours. Martín Codax! “Ondas domar de vigo.” I’ll let him have the last word...


Thursday, March 9, 2017

TtD supplement #74 : seven questions for Kate Hargreaves

Kate Hargreaves is a writer, book designer, and roller derby skater who makes lattes on the side. Her most recent book is the poetry collection Leak (BookThug, 2014), and her writing has appeared in journals across Canada and the U.S. She lives in Windsor, Ontario with her boyfriend and their black cat Winn. Find her online at CorusKate.com, @PainEyre on Twitter and @CorusKateDesign on Instagram.

Her poems “removal of splints following septoplasty,” “Backspace” and “taco baby” appear in the twelfth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poems “removal of splints following septoplasty,” “Backspace” and “taco baby.”

A: I’ve always had a fascination with the human body, especially when it is making itself known by being uncomfortable or a little bit gross. I had a septoplasty a couple years back, and having never been that aware of the state of my nose, I was suddenly unable to become unaware of it. I couldn’t breathe at all, I had plastic tubing sewed into my nostrils plugged up with dried blood, and this went on for two weeks. When they came out, I imagined that there had been far more than just medical grade silicone and a few stitches up there.

“Backspace” was written in a bit of frustration as, coming out of grad school where part of my job was to write, and being out of academia, working 40+ hours a week, with no one forcing me to write, I found that there just wasn’t enough time in the day to get any writing done. When I finished work, I was too mentally exhausted to get anything creative accomplished, and writing became part of the list of chores that were piling up.

“taco baby” came out as a bit of a strange tangent while thinking about the vast expanses of suburban grocery store parking lots. I like playing with the domestic and the mundane and making them a bit more surreal and visceral, so when I had this vague idea of a hot cement parking lot soaking up the heat and this person sort of trapped within it, the poem sort of spun out from there.

Q: How do these poems fit with the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: The poems are quite a bit different from what I am working on lately in terms of form, because I am currently writing a collection of short fiction. In terms of content, though, they echo one another. There is a definite sense of an over-consciousness of the body in the fiction I am writing, as well as sort of magic realist moments where it is unclear whether something strange is happening or being imagined.

Q: I’m curious about the echo, as you say, between the poems and your current fiction-in-progress. How might the current work relate to the work in Leak, or even Talking Derby: A Life on Eight Wheels (Black Moss, 2014)?

A: The current project doesn’t have a tonne to do with Talking Derby, in terms of its subject matter besides that fixation on bodies and bruises and injuries, etc. However, the writing style does in some ways echo the way in which Talking Derby used some tactics I use in my poetry and transplanted them to fiction. I write my fiction with a pretty loose grammar that is more coloured by the actions or feelings of the speakers, so sometimes it reads more like poetry.

I see the new fiction collection as a bit of an extension of Leak as the main character has a lot in common with the speaker(s) in Leak. She’s neurotic, dealing with discomfort in her own skin, behaving erratically. I’ve sort of taken the voice from Leak and made her into a more fully formed character with a name and a story.

Q: With two published books to date, as well as your current works-in-progress, how do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see yourself headed?

A: Really at this point I am just happy to be writing anything again. I had a few years during which I really struggled to get any writing done at all because I was so creatively and mentally exhausted from working full time on other people’s books. It took me a little while to recharge and reapproach my own writing and I think in the process it has definitely changed. I’m still interested in language play but I’m having fun with narrative a bit more now as well. Going forward I would like to see the fiction I’m writing become a book-length manuscript. I’m also interested in exploring some different ideas in poetry so I still write a bit of that on the side but the fiction is the bulk of my writing at the moment. I’m trying to get to a point where I can make more time for writing between my design work and my part time job, but the logistics are tricky.

Q: Given that composing poems are currently secondary to your fiction work-in-project, are you aware of any specific project evolving, or are you working instead on a series of occasionals that have yet to shape themselves? Is the fiction prompting the occasional poem, or is the poetry forcing your attention?

A: The poems are not really one project at the moment. I was working initially with the idea of exploring exercise and fitness and the ways we talk about these things, but the poems I have been writing haven’t all been part of that train of thought. Sometimes I will have an idea that I think will work for the fiction project and for whatever reason when I sit down to write through it, it ends up being a poem, and that’s alright with me.

Q: What writers or books are in the back of your head when you’re putting together a poetry manuscript, or even an individual poem?

A: Because of the great professors I had at university when I was doing my BA and MA in creative writing, including writing Leak, I tend to always consider what Susan Holbrook and Nicole Markotić would say about something I’m writing. They are both writers whose work I admire, as well as wonderful editors with very keen eyes for detail, so I tend to think if I would be embarrassed to show a piece to them that it likely needs more work before it sees the light of day.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: I have read Miranda July’s No One Belongs Here More Than You over and over in the past few years, and am thinking about it a little differently now that I am writing fiction. I also return a lot to Ariana Reines’ Mercury, especially when I feel like my writing is getting murky and I need some influence in terms of making it more direct and concise.

Monday, March 6, 2017

Touch The Donkey #11 reviewed in Broken Pencil



I just discovered that Joel W. Vaughan was good enough to review Touch the Donkey #11 in Broken Pencil .Thanks so much! You can see the original review here. Previous issues reviewed by Broken Pencil include #10 [see the review here], #5 [see the review here] and #1 [see the review here].

The eleventh incarnation of rob mclennan’s poetry journal presents a few writers familiar to those well-acquainted with above/ground press’s prolific output (including Buck Downs, lary timewell, and Kemeny Babineau). However—in addition, the little journal features double the number of fresh faces as well, balancing stylistic expectations with a little new blood. In all, there is nothing here which significantly differs from mclennan’s editorial approach in previous issues, but this is by no means to say that the poetry contained herein is not worth investigation.

A kind of ‘scratching out’ of form makes itself felt in a number of these poems, and one wonders whether mclennan’s grouping of them together was thematically intentioned. Buck Downs’s “full speed in partial paradise,” reading: “beaten gold | in hammered sheets | golden chain | I doubt I see” was composed using personal notes that were transcribed, cut out, and re-arranged, then pasted into little disordered monologues. Kemeny Babineau’s “The Log of Wonorata,” similarly, began as an erasure poem, and figures semi-significant couplets (ie. “V: Red Wolves of Poverty | Petroleum Mecca teat”), though it does not present itself as such when printed in short-line towers, just as Downs’s work cannot be made out as word-collage. An excerpt from The Pain Itself, by kevin martins mcpherson eckhoff brings this scratching out of form to new heights, figuring an entire page in prose, with text replaced by “Lorem ipsum…” garbled Latin.

above/ground’s “Touch the Donkey #11,” then, seems concerned with representing and mis-representing the form in which poetry is written, originates, or operates, and often to interesting effect. It is worth a look.


Monday, February 27, 2017

TtD supplement #73 : seven questions for Kate Greenstreet


Kate Greenstreet’s new book The End of Something is forthcoming from Ahsahta Press in 2017. Her previous books are Young Tambling, The Last 4 Things, and case sensitive, also with Ahsahta.

Her poems “CARDBOARD STAR,” “IS THIS FOR ME?,” “HE WAS A BOY ONCE,” “IN A HOUSE OF MARKS,” “HORIZON MOTEL” appear in the twelfth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poems “CARDBOARD STAR,” “IS THIS FOR ME?,” “HE WAS A BOY ONCE,” “IN A HOUSE OF MARKS,” “HORIZON MOTEL.”

A: These poems are from a manuscript called The End of Something, scheduled to come out in May from Ahsahta Press. I see this book as the conclusion to my previous three.

Q: How do you see the current project as a conclusion? And a conclusion to what, precisely?

A: The new manuscript is actually the center of a bigger project that includes art, video, and audio experiments, based on The End of Something and offering alternate ways into it. That will all be accessible from a site (theendofsomething.com), which will go up when the book is published.

After I finished case sensitive, when I was writing The Last 4 Things and then Young Tambling, I didn’t think of the books as parts of a set or some kind of continuing inquiry. But while working on this one, I began to realize that my books are interconnected, and to feel I was putting down a fourth corner to define a formerly open-ended space.

Although I see The End of Something as a conclusion, I also like the idea that a reader could start there and go to case sensitive next. Or to either of the others. The books seem to belong to each other in a new way, so that any one of them might be the beginning or the end of a cycle that now feels complete.

Q: The curious thing about all of your writing to date being part of a single project: what might come next? Do you see yourself writing something beyond this collection, or might you simply move onto other things?

A: I want to bring poetry into the other things I do, more than I have already. And I want to find out what else I can make with language. I’m not exactly writing at the moment. But I have the habit of writing things down. Jean Valentine said to me once: “We’re always reading, and we’re always writing, even when we think we’re not.” At lunch yesterday, I started reading Fanny Howe’s poem “Loneliness” to Max. Do you know it? It’s a wonderfully matter-of-fact poem, unsentimental, but my voice cracked at “And you climb the stairs obediently” and I had to stop for a minute. In the pause, Max said: “Mid-poem, she began to weep. The audience became restless.” That made me laugh, and I wrote it down. I don’t have the temperament to keep a diary, but I don’t think I could break the habit of writing things down for no reason. Or I wouldn’t want to. So that’s the present. About the future: there are other kinds of books I want to make, different from the books I’ve made so far. I have ideas. But I know from experience that those ideas will not lead me where I think I want to go.

Q: With four trade books over the past decade-plus, how do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see your work headed?

A: I’ve become a somewhat different person in the past ten years, but my methods haven’t changed. Say a farmer calls a dowser on the phone. She drives over and gets out of her truck. She might have a special little branch with her or pick one up off the ground. She walks out to where the water needs to be. Maybe it’s there, maybe it isn’t. My writing has developed in more-or-less this same way. Walking around with a stick until I feel a pull, one field after another.

Q: I get the sense that your books are pieced together as a kind of slowly constructed collage. How do your books get built, and how did this develop?

A: Well, if you found yourself in a room where there were hundreds of photographs on the floor and seven taped to the wall, you might notice a common element, maybe a subtle element, in the taped-up photos. Looking down at the floor, you see another photograph that seems to belong to the set of seven. Luckily there is also a tape dispenser on the floor, so you tape that eighth photo to the wall. At this point, you might feel the urge to rearrange them. They’re not your pictures! But no one else is around, so you go ahead and move the fourth one to the first position. You’re “reading” the photos from left to right, as we do in English. Something’s missing—there’s that empty space, but it’s more than that. You get down on the floor. You begin to select certain pictures and put them in a pile. Soon you have two small piles. Off to one side, you spread those out. You put one of the pictures from the first pile into the second pile. You put two of the pictures from the second pile into the first pile. You realize that you need to start a third pile. Okay. Now you can put some of the pictures from each pile onto the wall. One seems perfect for the empty space. But as soon as you’ve taped that up, the last photo feels wrong. You take it down and lay it on top of the third pile. You try a photo from the second pile for that end spot and it’s good there, but asks for clarification. You’re constructing a kind of a narrative from these pictures. You know you will understand what you’re doing when the arrangement is right. It’s not about chronology, it’s about meaning. You’re not trying to tell a story, you’re trying to find the story. There are still hundreds of photos to go through! The answer is in there somewhere.

It’s like that. But instead of pictures, you’re working with pieces of language. Phrases, sentences, paragraphs. So you’re looking but also listening. And speaking. Where do these language fragments come from? Like the photographs on the floor, who knows? They come from anywhere. Words you woke up with in the middle of the night, old notebooks, what your neighbor told you on the stairs. You say a phrase out loud and join it to another, then add a sentence that comes to you in the moment, which reminds you of—but you don’t want to go there. Although later you might talk with a friend about that memory and find a chunk of your conversation useable.

The process goes on and on this way until you finally find the sound and the order you’re seeking—the best you can do. Then you change it four more times, write a whole new poem from nowhere, and even though you’ve used the word “something” a hundred times, you’re done.

Q: What influences, do you think, helped bring you to this point? And when you say you want to “bring poetry into the other things” that you do, what are some of these other things and how have you managed to keep them separate so far?

A: I’ve been working with visual art, sound, video, and text for quite a while. It’s funny to think of someone trying to keep all these things separate—I haven’t, but at this point I’m more actively looking for ways to combine them. It’s exciting that so many artists work in multiple disciplines now. That’s probably the main outside influence on my current thinking.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: My needs vary. In the past few days, I’ve returned in a big way to Immanent Visitor: Selected Poems of Jaime Saenz, which I first read while writing case sensitive. It was important to me then and I often come back to it. I don’t read Spanish, so the English translations by Kent Johnson and Forrest Gander are the poems I know, poems I especially love to read aloud. Gander and Johnson also translated The Night, Saenz’s final work, and I just reread their introduction—an enlightening and entertaining essay about the author and about some experiences the translators had in La Paz, his home city. Both books include wonderful photos of Saenz—not incidental to me, as they heighten my impression that I know this guy, from the old land (and I don’t mean Bolivia).

Brief stanza from a poem in Immanent Visitor: “Contemplating the bones on the plank, numbering the darknesses with my fingers starting from you. / Seeing that things are, I fill with desire. / And I find myself crossing a great distance.”