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12 or 20 (small press) questions with Bardia Sinaee on Odourless Press

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Odourless Press (www.odourless.ca) publishes hand-sewn poetry chapbooks as well as broadsides and pamphlets. This spring it published two chapbooks, Sucks To Be You and Other True Taunts by Suzannah Showler and Cloudpeople by Matthew Walsh and broadsides by Ben Ladouceur and Mat Laporte. Its first three pamphlets were published in fall 2011: Mutt by Ben Ladouceur, Back To My Old Self by Jeff Blackman and Royal Jelly by Bardia Sinaee. Odourless Press acknowledges financial support from the makers of AndroGel.

Bardia Sinaee's poetry has appeared in Arc, CV2, PRISM, The Puritanand The Walrus. He started Odourless Press in 2011. He works at the World's Biggest Bookstore in Toronto.

1 – When did Odourless Press first start? How have your original goals as a publisher shifted since you started, if at all? And what have you learned through the process?

In spring 2011, I started Odourless Press as a Wordpress page where I’d post other people’s poems that I liked and wanted to share. I started printing poetry (my own along with work by Jeff Blackman and Ben Ladouceur) that fall in the form of small folding pamphlets (50 cents each). After I took over for David O’Meara as one of the hosts of Literary Landscape, I used the Odourless Press blog to host podcasts of the radio shows.

The Odourless hiatus took up all of 2012 during which time I graduated by the skin of my teeth then moved back to Toronto (Etobicoke, with ma and pa, to be specific). When I got here I wanted to publish some of the writers I’d met but I thought I might wait a few years. However after Christmas my hours at work plummeted and I realized I’d probably never again in my life have so much unencumbered (rent-free) time to dedicate to editing, materializing and sharing other people’s poems, which was why I’d started Odourless in the first place.

2 – What first brought you to publishing?
In/Words Magazine and Press. That tiny office in Carleton University’s Dunton Tower with its printer, paper cutter, long-arm stapler and outdated Adobe software. The people, events and publications that continue to come out of that collective constitute (beyond a great community) a free, hands-on education in creative writing and publishing for anyone willing to put in the time. I learned to edit work at the writers’ circles. I learned to perform at the readings. I learned to design and publish in the office. I also learned to drink in all those places.

3 – What do you consider the role and responsibilities, if any, of small publishing?
As long as no one’s getting swindled or hurt, I don’t think small and micropublishing have any responsibilities but to explore their own freedom.

4 – What do you see your press doing that no one else is?

This early on, I don’t think there’s any one quality that’s exclusive to Odourless. In part because the micropresses I was inspired by, namely Apt. 9 and Ferno House, pay as much attention to design and binding as they do to the quality of writing, so it’s not like I’m picking up anybody’s slack.

If Odourless Press is able to keep publishing consistently beyond this year, I want to see how far I can take the practice of designing the material around the writing. Some poems call for a simple half-letter-sized book, others might be better served in an absurdly-long ten-panel fold-out pamphlet.

5 – What do you see as the most effective way to get new chapbooks out into the world?
Depends on the circumstances. In Toronto I’d say a launch. In Ottawa I’d probably hit up open mics and book fairs. In Iqaluit you might want to be sure you also make PDF copies available.

6 – How involved an editor are you? Do you dig deep into line edits, or do you prefer more of a light touch?

I want to be an involved editor, but this spring I was basically re-establishing the press while making the books, so it was all last-minute light touch stuff. I’d like to get an early start on the next two Odourless chapbooks though, which will be from Phoebe Wang and Mat Laporte, so maybe I’ll have more in-depth edits.

7 – How do your books get distributed? What are your usual print runs?
Launch. Book fairs. Authors’ own readings. I’m still setting up my Paypal merchant thingy, after I get back from the Ottawa small press fair you’ll be able to buy the chapbooks online.

Initial print runs are 50 copies. As of this writing, I’m about to do reprints of both spring chapbooks--I’m thinking 25 copies this time. After that I’ll make them available for print-on-demand till next spring when they’ll be officially out of print. Broadsides are limited editions of 50 copies. No reprints on those.

I might up the initial print runs for the fall chapbooks to 75 copies.

8 – How many other people are involved with editing or production? Do you work with other editors, and if so, how effective do you find it? What are the benefits, drawbacks?
I do it all, baby!

9 – How has being an editor/publisher changed the way you think about your own writing?
It hasn’t. What has changed is how I look at other books as physical objects. When I see interesting-looking books I try to reverse-engineer their covers, layout and type using functions on InDesign and Illustrator.

10– How do you approach the idea of publishing your own writing? Some, such as Gary Geddes when he still ran Cormorant, refused such, yet various Coach House Press’ editors had titles during their tenures as editors for the press, including Victor Coleman and bpNichol. What do you think of the arguments for or against, or do you see the whole question as irrelevant?

Odourless Press is my baby. I pay for its food and wipe its bum. I was the first author I published, and if I had any new writing of my own I’d probably publish it myself. If Odourless were receiving public funding, self-publishing might constitute a conflict of interest, but it’s not, so for me the question is irrelevant.

11– How do you see Odourless Press evolving?
Again, it depends on my circumstances. If I get a stable job (with dental coverage) I’ll definitely buy a book binder and just start making trade books. For instance if I had the resources right now I’d be giddy to publish Ben Ladouceur’s first trade collection. But if in a few years I’m living precariously on a minimum-wage income where an unexpected dental filling might cost as much as a year’s worth of publishing, I might have to go back to selling word-formatted pamphlets for 50 cents or go on hiatus again.

For all I know, next spring I might abandon chapbooks and just publish six little pamphlets from six different authors. Outside of perfect binding, I want to try different shapes, different papers, different typographic styles. Like I said, this next year or so is probably the only part of my life I’ll be privileged with so much time to scour design blogs, test-print weird prototypes and experiment on Adobe.

12– What, as a publisher, are you most proud of accomplishing? What do you think people have overlooked about your publications? What is your biggest frustration?
Accomplishment-wise, I’m proud of the quality of poetry Odourless has published. I have a lot of insecurities as a poet, but I trust my instincts as a reader and editor. I honestly think that Odourless is tapping some of Canada's very best young poets, and you gotta tap that. Tapping that is paramount. I’ve encountered work by similarly exciting poets of this generation situated (I think) out west, like Kayla Czaga and Vincent Colistro, whose work I’d love to publish here if I’m ever able to get in touch with them.

Frustration-wise, every now and then I come up against one of these older small press people who've developed a bit of a David vs Goliath complex with the rest of the literary world. They can be a bit antagonistic and sometimes end up insulating themselves from new and exciting work (and people!).

13– Who were your early publishing models when starting out?
I’ve already said Apt. 9. There are tiny presses in Montreal and BC making neat books, but I think Toronto’s Ferno House and Paper Pusher are near the top in terms of interesting design. The Emergency Response Unit folks have a reliable eye for good poetry. I love Junction Books. I’m shamelessly Ontario-centric due to lack of exposure. While I don’t own any of their chapbooks, I’ve admired the old Streetcar Editions and Pink Dog stuff listed on Apollinaire’s Bookshoppe.

14– How does Odourless Press work to engage with your immediate literary community, and community at large? What journals or presses do you see Odourless in dialogue with? How important do you see those dialogues, those conversations?
By publishing. I’ve already listed some presses I admire and try to imitate. Most of my favourite poetry journals/magazines publish online (which helps eliminate geographical distance, but not geographical cliquishness (which I’m guilty of)). I see these dialogues as important, though perhaps not to be taken too seriously. Maybe Matthew Walsh will take copies of his Odourless chapbook out east (where’s he from) and out west (where he’s moving) and some reader will donate their estate to Odourless Press instead of their ingrate kids.

15– Do you hold regular or occasional readings or launches? How important do you see public readings and other events?
Yes, launches. Important, but not too self-important or else they’re no fun. The best and worst thing about readings is that if you miss one there’ll always be another one. Unless the reader dies. Pre-death readings are highly important.

16– How do you utilize the internet, if at all, to further your goals?
If the internet had been invented in the 1950s, Contact Press would’ve been a whole other beast. The internet is how I’ve found out about more distant projects, like the Mellow Pages Library, to whom I hope to send Odourless chapbooks. If Bill Knott's blog was still up I'd find his address and mail him chapbooks. On the receiving end, I hope to eventually use the internet to solicit work from poets I’d never run into at readings here because they’re in Vancouver or St. John’s.

17– Do you take submissions? If so, what aren’t you looking for?
Like Mike Piazza on holiday, Odourless Press is not seeking unsolicited pitches.

18– Tell me about three of your most recent titles, and why they’re special.
Let me tell you about the two Odourless chapbooks from this spring and one upcoming fall chapbook. Suzannah Showler’s Sucks To Be You and Other True Taunts continues the recent tradition (ushered (at least I think) into Toronto by Kevin Connolly’s Asphalt Cigar) of delivering genuine meditation in a dense, surrealist-inflected, disarmingly silly package. Like David McFadden poems but with less loafing around. Zani and I both worship at the altar of Dean Young. She also seems to be on the same wavelength as recent Coach House poets like Helen Guri and Andrew Faulkner. The Sucks To Be You poems and the chapbook itself are both condensed squares. Her poems gain momentum from sometimes elaborate and highly varied sentence structures and in that way resemble some of Karen Solie’s work (think of Solie’s poem “Flashpoint”). Unrelated: the long vowel sound in Showler’s last name is pronounced like bowler and not like scowler.

The core of Matthew Walsh’s Cloudpeople is also meditative, but in a much more meandering way. The influence of PK Page is traceable, but also the mystical bent and expansive scope of someone like Whitman. I feel like the speaker in Matthew’s longpoems is the kind of guy who wanders in the park then stops to smell a clump of dirt for like half an hour. But there’s also this hyperactive side to his shorter poems that build on and accelerate their own linguistic energy. Like “I’m Condoleeza Rice” or “Whippoorwills and George Orwell” which riff off the assonance and syllabic stress patterns of the subject’s names, or “anne, ma azure woman,” which doesn’t use any letters whose parts jut above or below the line (think l’s, y’s, d’s, f’s, etc.).

The third chapbook, which Odourless will publish this fall, and which I’ve read a number of times already, is Mat Laporte’s Life Savings. He printed three simple copies of an early manuscript draft which he sold for $2 each when he read at the Emerging Writers reading series, and as soon as I read it I wanted to publish more copies. I’ve always wanted to publish political poetry, but that’s as hard to come by as it is to define. Mat’s poetry is political in the sense that it’s destructive. It subverts and caricatures the language that paradoxically upholds both consumerism and austerity. His poetry is also a record of its own destruction: the syntax is self-interruptive; images compete then morph; some sentences are just sentence clauses that abruptly end; all thoughts and materials are perpetually flying apart and all consumption seems like a hilariously doomed attempt at containment: “In the operation of post-industrial / smock oblivion, I always seem to be eating / something wrapped inside of something else.” For a sneak peek at Life Savings, check out Mat’s poems in Brooklyn Rail.

[Odourless Press participates in the spring 2013 edition of the ottawa small press book fair on Saturday, June 15, and Sinaee reads as part of the pre-fair reading on Friday, June 14]

12 or 20 (small press) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Kate Cayley

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Kate Cayley lives in Toronto. Her first collection of poetry, When This World Comes to an End, was recently published by Brick Books. She is a playwright-in-residence at Tarragon Theatre, and her play After Akhmatova was produced at Tarragon in 2011. She has also written a young adult novel, The Hangman in the Mirror (Annick Press). Her poems and short stories have appeared in various places including CV2, Descant, Event, The Fiddlehead, The New Quarterly and The Literary Review of Canada. Her first collection of short stories will be published next fall.

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 first book was a young adult novel called The Hangman in the Mirror, which was published in 2011. Before that I was a playwright who’d published some stuff in literary magazines. It changed my life in the sense that I had my name on the spine of a book—something I’d wanted for years. Having my first book be a novel, and a novel for younger readers, was not something I’d ever planned, and it happened somewhat by accident—it grew out of a play and used the same source (a woman in 18th century Montreal who’d been sentenced to hang for stealing, and saved her life by persuading the soldier in the next cell, who’d never set eyes on her, to become the hangman and marry her). I’d always imagined that my first book would be poetry. So it felt different as an interesting and enjoyable side-step. But I suppose it’s all riddled with the same preoccupations—history, the unbelievable accidents of history, storytelling as a kind of life-saving measure, the storyteller with their back to the wall.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I found it easier to conceive of poetry. Poetry could happen in this state of excitement and clarity—fiction is a much longer road, and while of course there’s craft in poetry, I find the craft more subjective. As for non-fiction, I would love to write essays if I had any idea how, but it never even occurred to me as an ambition originally—and besides, non-fiction needs a certain level of personal exposure, you don’t have the excuse of a “voice” which is easily understood as not your own. I was always interested in poetry that took on a character separate from the character of the author—which of course isn’t really possible, but you can pretend it is.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular 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 usually begin a project with a different project which turns out to be the wrong one. On a grand scale, I spent ten years focusing on being a theatre director before it dawned on me with anything like finality that I wanted to be a writer, even though I was writing as much as I could manage. Scares me a bit that I’m that slow on the uptake—what’s going to dawn on me next? Similarly, I get very excited about something and spend a lot of time working on it, before eventually realizing that there’s a kernel of an idea there that is meant to be something else. And then the real project becomes clear.

My initial writing comes very quickly. If I can’t finish a first draft of a poem at a sitting, or maybe two, it’s unlikely to get finished at all. But the rewriting is a much longer process. The shape of the first draft—that depends. Some things have only a word here and there altered, others are tinkered with for years until they are something else. Though the more I write, the more likely it is that the first draft will be closer to the last one. This is heartening.

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 at random—I have trouble sitting down with the idea of writing poems because it all flies away when you look at it straight on. So I often end up writing poetry when I’m supposed to be working on something else. This collection wasn’t conceived of as a collection. But that might change—I’d love to work on something with an overall theme, poems that had a kind of narrative arc to them the way a novel would, poems that culminated like a story.

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 have a lot of experience with readings. When I do them, I hate the idea of them and everything about them and dread them for days—and then I have a really good time and wish I could do more, because it’s so lovely to feel that someone is out there listening.

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?
Oh boy. Yes. And no. I suppose the concerns of history, of our place in time, not just of our own moment and our own life but in relation to the past, personal and political past, the sense of history as a tragic condition, and the forms of mythology. I would like to pose some questions about time and death and memory, I don’t know about answers. I’m not sure what the current questions are. There are too many and I’m not educated enough or attentive enough at the moment to know what is most pressing and what is just headlines from the culture war.

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 used to want art to be political in some obvious way. Now I’m afraid it’s not, and this makes me very nervous. But I think the role of the writer is to express, to the best of their ability, the absolute specificity of where they are placed—to be most fully and purely an individual voice. Context makes this a political act or a trivial one—everything ranging from totalitarian states in which the “voice” of the writer is a stance against the monolith, to, more immediately, our own glib relationship to language in a culture in which language is cheap and plentiful. Writing can be a serious encounter with words when we bleed words out of our eyes. We’re drowning in wordiness, so writing is particularly problematic right now—why say more? But on the other hand, maybe good writing can rescue the sacredness of words, just a little bit.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I am just starting to gain more experience working closely with editors, as I publish more. And I love it very much. Even when I disagree, it makes me think about why I’m doing a thing.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

“Do not hurry. Do not rest.” –Goethe.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to plays)? What do you see as the appeal?
It’s been fairly easy, or at least one protects the other. As in, the poetry has a place to live, so it doesn’t screw up the plays (hopefully) and also the other way round, though I think poetry can accommodate more, is more flexible. Plays are (to me) probably the least flexible form of writing—the rules of classic dramaturgy are really pretty good and to deviate very far from them you have to be wildly and boldly original, which I’m not. I find poems much more forgiving.

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 write in set hours, very scheduled. I have two young children and my incredibly helpful and supportive partner also works so writing happens in specific times. If anything the pressure of having a family has been very good for me—there’s nothing like a school pickup to get something finished in time. I impose deadlines on myself and I love deadlines, possibly to a fault. I feel like I’ve won if I “finish” something early, even if it isn’t really finished just hurriedly patched up, and besides I’m the only person in the world who cares I’ve finished.

On a typical day I sit down in the morning with an idea of what I will work on and hope for the best until around mid-afternoon. I have a certain number of pages or words or a certain amount of revising to do, decided the previous day. On a good day I do it. The internet is the major enemy, and my own anxieties. Post-it notes above the desk are helpful.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I walk around. I buy groceries. I give up in disgust. I read—it’s better than giving up in disgust.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Ground coffee. Herbs. A slightly musty smell our house has, coming up from the basement.

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 agree with McFadden. Yes, there are some other inspirations, but if I was honest I’d have to say that for me books only come from books. There’s an element of one-upmanship to writing too—you read something perfect, you want to measure yourself against it, to try it yourself.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Alice Munro, W. H. Auden, The T. E. Lawrence Poems by Gwendolyn MacEwen, Possession by A. S. Byatt, Angela Carter, Chekhov, The Broken Estate by James Wood, William Trevor, Jhumpa Lahiri, Yiyun Li, The Waves and Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf, Joseph Brodsky’s essays, Anna Akhmatova, Robertson Davies’ Deptford Trilogy, The Anatomy of Keys by Steven Price, White Stone by Stephanie Bolster, The Invention of Love by Tom Stoppard, Philip Larkin, Austerlitz by W. G. Sebald, Lion in the Streets by Judith Thompson, White Teethby Zadie Smith, Anne Sexton, Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law by Adrienne Rich, very recently the poetry of Wendell Berry, who is a voice crying in the wilderness.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Write a novel in fragments that appears to be isolated stories and yet forms a coherent narrative. Write novels generally.

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 have no idea. Probably a professor of literature. I would have hated it though. I’m not rigorous or systematic enough to be a good academic.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Not being good at very much else. I was a decent theatre director but the life is too absorbing and obsessive—aside from wanting to write, I also wanted to have a life that was concerned with more than the black box.

19 – What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank by Nathan Englander. Lifted the top of my head off—you think you know what he’s doing, and then he changes the rules completely. Amazing. I haven’t stayed awake for a whole good movie in a while. Probably The Lives of Others.

20 - What are you currently working on?
A play about art forgery and war crimes. A book of short stories. Some poetry that I hope will be the start of a new collection.

[Kate Cayley reads in Ottawa with Paul Vermeersch as part of The TREE Reading Series on Tuesday, June 25, 2013]

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

The Capilano Review 3.20

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LC: Is that a poetry credo emerging in a couple pages of In Flux where you step out of your critic’s role and explicitly write “as a poet” (In Flux 203)? It starts for me with “somatic markers” that when articulated in language, “we associate,” you say, “with the becoming of subjectivity” (203).

RM: Your question is not an easy one for me to unravel. You’re citing from an essay on Rita Wong where I focus on the body as a living organism. The body generates a complex of affects in our daily lives, and these often go unnoticed because it is treated as an object to be appropriated, glaringly so in violent confrontations, rather than as a complex life network of somatic processes.
            I’m approaching some very tricky areas of poetic thought here, but as a poet my understanding is that the normalized discursive frames through which the world makes sense to us, as well as for us—in other words, again, what-goes-with-out-saying—are enabled in the exclusion of somatic contingencies, including the finitude of organic processes. In our corporate capitalist culture of commodities the body becomes the target of so many discursive operations from seemingly benign advertising to the extreme violence of warfare, and in between these huge corporate interest in biotechnological knowledge.
            Language plays a crucial yet mostly transparent role in sustaining the normalization of dominant representations, but when language is rendered opaque or made otherwise non-transparent as a channel of communication, for instance in poetic texts, we begin to apprehend the processes of becoming that have the potential not only to expose the limits of normalization but to transform them, we hope progressively, so that they are more inclusive than they were before.
            Here I’m talking about the creative process in general, but in some instances the “becoming of subjectivity” emerges in a more shared sense when dominant representations are seemingly spontaneously exceeded or undermined by what is then a newly identified group. The term “redress,” for instance, constituted a Japanese Canadian group in creating a movement to seek justice for the past injustices related to mass uprooting, dispossession, and internment. Perhaps this is a way of thinking about the current Idle No More movement that has emerged through the coalitional action of young aboriginal activists who are motivated by the words Idle No More. By responding to the call for action in the phrase they have exposed the dominant representations of aboriginality as extensions of a colonial system with a history as long as the Canadian state’s existence. But then again, the shift from writing a poem to a social movement may be too far-fetched a move.

The Capilano Review 3.20 (spring 2013) opens with a small section on the Vancouver poet, critic, bibliographer, teacher and activist Roy Miki, including a new poem, “Please,” an interview conducted by poet and critic Louis Cabri, as well as a review essay by Cabri on Miki’s Mannequin Rising(New Star, 2011). Miki’s contributions to literature and culture have been explored and celebrated on more than a few occasions over the past few years, including through the recent anthology Tracing theLines: Reflections on Contemporary Poetics and Cultural Politics in Honour ofRoy Miki (eds. Maia Joseph, Christine Kim, Larissa Lai and Christopher Lee; Vancouver BC: Talonbooks, 2012). Where the anthology focused on where Miki was and has been throughout his work as writer, critic, teacher and activist, this small feature in The Capilano Review focuses more on Miki’s current work, and what lies ahead. Cabri writes in his essay:















Levelling and redundancy-in-abundance, being dimensions of a capitalist economy, are qualities of consumer culture that emerge in MR. Levelling arises when a thing or process acquires exchange or market value. Redundancy-in-abundance, the way I’m using this phrase, refers to conditions of labour (“surplus” labour, a structural feature of capitalism) and products of labour (overproduction; planned obsolescence). In the second line, leveling and redundancy-in-abundance emerge through a structural homology between economics and language, and elsewhere in MRin the figure of the mannequin.

The issue also includes a small section edited/translated/compiled by Montreal poet and translator Erín Moure, “A New Regard (Quebec and Acadia),” with pieces by Chantel Neveu(translated by Angela Carr), Steve Savage (translated by Erín Moure), Suzanne Leblanc (translated by Bronwyn Haslam), Daniel Canty (translated by Oana Avasilichioaei), Jean A. Baudot (translated by Angela Carr) and France Daigle(translated by Robert Majzels), as well as Angela Carr and Kate Eichhorn’s revealing piece, “A Gloss on The Writing Machine.” Moure’s explorations in translation over the years have been well documented, and her more recent writings on translation on Jacket2 are a must-read for anyone interested in the conversation between texts, and between languages. As Moure’s introduction writes:

Pre-eminent experimental writer Nicole Brossard has recently remarked in interviews (e.g. The Gazette, February 26, 2013) that, following a heyday in the 70s and 80s, experimental writing had left French-language poetry in Quebec in favour of “what was called The New Readability.” For a while, I and other translators felt this dearth in Quebec poetry of the type of experiments with forms, sounds, effects, meanings that writers such as Brossard had introduced into the culture. There were still experiments, of course, but they were much quieter in their torquings.
            In the last ten years, though, publishers such as the pioneering Le Quartanier, La Peuplade, and others have provided national (Quebec) and transnational forums for young writers who not only produce amazing risk-taking writing in French but collaborate across boundaries with Europeans, US Americans, and Canadians in English to produce further works, flows, excitements. Meanwhile, in L’Acadie in New Brunswick, across the Quebec border to the east, established writer France Daigle will soon see her monumental novel Pour Sûrappear in the English translation of Robert Majzels. I include her because what Quebec-Alberta writer Majzels chooses to translate is part of the endeavor of opening new possibilities in French, and thus in English. And one contributor, yes, is a ghost from where the past and future overlap: in the machine itself.
            The writers and translators (and one commentator) in this section are all worth watching, the writers in their own right and as translators, and the translators for their own writing as well. I feel privileged to work among them, and to lend my hand as translator in their midst. I hope you enjoy these foments and new directions in words from Acadia and Quebec—not the avant-garde but a New Regard.

Much of the work included in the section is quite spectacular, and breathes a new kind of life into the form of the Canadian prose poem, such as Suzanne Leblanc’s sequence, “P.’s House for Thinking,” that includes:

Choral V

It was an abstract house, a construction of the mind. I ordered my memory there by an ancient process of remembrance. My tongue sought its speech. My will was oratorical. I would be no less abstract than the discourse of the philosopher, whose oeuvre had convinced me, whose life I admired. I would be no less constructed than this memorization of my singular voice, where I had chosen to stay.

West servant’s room

First floor

Outside the features in the issue also includes new work by Toronto poet Lise Downe, “from Propositions.” New work by Downe is a rare occurence, and something worth noting, reading and almost celebrating. Another highlight is the collaboration by Ted Byrne and Christine Stewart, “from St Paul.” The second in her collaborations with Byrne, she has also published a recent title in collaboration with Toronto poet David Dowker, Virtualis: topologies of the unreal(Toronto ON: BookThug, 2013). The cover to the new issue features a stunning Alutiiq mask, One of the Old Men (2003), by Alaskan artist Perry Eaton, and the issue includes a folio of photographs of others of his masks, as well as an interview conducted by Colin Browne:

Colin Browne: “Yellow Singer” has a very beautiful, quizzical look on his face, which, I confess, makes me see him as a poet.

Perry Eaton: I think I can understand that. “Yellow Singer” is a type of mask made to be danced, with a whistle that sends sound between the worlds.

CB: Please say more.

PE: I can only tell you so much. I’d heard stories about the wooden whistle that you hold in your mouth when you dance, but I didn’t appreciate how important the sound quality was. When you look at the masks in the Chateau Musée, in the Pinart collection, and when you turn them over, the back of the mask can reveal as much as the front. The insides of the round-holed singing masks are finished very smoothly in the mouth area, which suggests that the audio tone was very important. I think in a way these were tuned instruments, and the whistle used was a very controlled sound, but we’ve never found one so we don’t know. We’ve gone through the literature. You’ll read two hundred pages to glean a line. There’ll be one line that’ll give you a clue. You accumulate these single lines; you start to put them together and you get images.


Lisa Jarnot, Joie De Vivre: Selected Poems 1992-2012

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JOIE DE VIVRE

Of all people of all time in any category james joyce, of all fears of thunder and of dogs, of irregulantcy, of punctuation and of pigeons, of this of a water-window of eyesight, of figures in the night, of the addition of numbers in dreams, of the addition of numbers in waking ten times three, of dots and spheres and the satisfaction of bright tourism, of wormwood and wormweed, of miles, kilometres, and spectacles, of world markets on transversals of the feets of all the birds, of the fantasy of renovated words, of the fact of material barreling nowhere, of horse hooves ebbed and square.

Produced as the ninth in the “City Lights Spotlight Series” is American poet Lisa Jarnot’s volume of selected poems, Joie De Vivre: Selected Poems 1992-2012(San Francisco CA: City Lights, 2013). Selecting work from her four trade poetry collections—Some Other King of Mission (Providence RI: Burning Deck, 1996), Ring of Fire(Zoland Books, 2001; Salt Publishers, 2003), Black Dog Songs (Chicago Il: Flood Editions, 2003) and Night Scenes (Chicago Il: Flood Editions, 2008)—as well as four newer poems, Joie De Vivre: Selected Poems 1992-2012 presents one hundred pages compiled from a selection of a decade’s worth of her published work. Certainly, a decade isn’t a terribly long time, and this collection has an impressive cohesion, given the stretch of work she had produced during that period, progressing to a series of tighter, more compact lines. The “Spotlight Series” through City Lights is exactly what it claims to be, and not attempting to be any kind of all-inclusive selected, or critical volume of Jarnot’s work, especially with the lack of introduction to provide context to the author and her work (something I always find frustrating when absent from a selected or collected poems).

Jarnot is very much a poet of sentences [see the piece I did on her recently in Jacket2), exploring variations on the line through an appreciation of older forms through the filter of “post-language,” twisting and turning the possibilities of what might be said through what should otherwise be straight. Through a variety of forms, the collection shows the tensile strength of Jarnot’s writing over an extended period, and the mutability of what can be done with the line. A number of the earlier pieces are submerged in southern California, and eventually spread further out, from the remarkable “Hockey Night in Canada” to “Greyhound Ode,” to “The Oldest Door in Britain,” which includes, “O rare Ben Johnson, do you / not know strife?”

SONG OF THE CHINCHILLA

You chinchilla in the marketplace in france
you international chinchilla, chinchilla of the
plains and mountains all in fur you fur of the
chinchilla of the pont neuf, selling wrist
watches, on the oldest bridge of evolution that
you are, you, chinchilla, going roadside towards
the cars, the dark arabian chinchilla of the
neutral zone with pears, you still life of
chinchilla, abstractions of chinchilla, aperitif
chinchilla, lowing in the headlands in my mind,
dark, the cliffs of dover, dark chinchilla, tractor
of chinchilla, chili of chinchilla, chill of the
chinchilla, crosswalk of chinchilla of the dawn,
facilitator you, chinchilla, foodstuffs for the
food chain dressed in light.

12 or 20 (small press) questions with Guy Bennett on Mindmade Books

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Founded in 1997, Mindmade Books (formerly Seeing Eye Books) is a small press publishing chapbooks of modern and contemporary poetry. Among the more than sixty titles that have appeared to date are works by internationally renowned poets, several “first collections,” and occasional reprints of little-known or long-out-of-print texts.

While there is no single editorial vision, many Mindmade Books have explored the virtuality of the short lyric; the asemantic sign as a medium for poetry; and/or self-reflexivity, seriality, and constraint as compositional strategies. They have also tended to reflect an interest in coherent, chapbook-length works as opposed to groups of otherwise unrelated poems.

Brief bio:

Guy Bennett is the author of several collections of poetry, various works of non-poetry, and numerous translations. Recent publications include Self-Evident Poemsand a translation of Mohammed Dib’s Tlemcen or Places of Writing. His writing has been featured in magazines and anthologies in the U.S. and abroad, and presented in poetry and arts festivals internationally. Publisher of Mindmade Books and co-editor of Seismicity Editions, he lives in Los Angeles and teaches at Otis College of Art and Design.


Questions:

1 – When did Mindmade Books first start? How have your original goals as a publisher shifted since you started, if at all? And what have you learned through the process?

Mindmade Books started in 1997 under the name Seeing Eye Books, which I had to change in 2008 when The Seeing Eye, Inc. – the folks that train dogs for the blind – threatened to sue me if I continued to publish under that imprint. I bring out four titles a year and am at this writing preparing my 66th chapbook (Guy Pettit’s My Life’s Work).

My original goals were pretty straightforward: promote writers whose work I found interesting and, if possible, bring it to the attention of readers who might not otherwise be aware of it. Ideally this would be a mix of well-known, lesser-known, and for all intents and purposes unknown poets, include at least one translation a year, and regularly feature L.A.-based writers. Those goals haven’t changed much since I started out.

As for what I’ve learned in the process – I honestly don’t know. Maybe the fact that I’m still doing it shows that I haven’t learned a thing…

2 – What first brought you to publishing?

Chance, and a translation I’d done of an early “freeword” poem (“Dune”) by Marinetti, which I proposed to Douglas Messerli of Sun & Moon Press when we met at a conference on Italian Futurism at UCLA in 1993. He wound up offering me work designing and typesetting his books, which I did for eight or nine years; later he also published my first collection of poetry and several of my translations. During that time I worked for a number of other small literary presses and magazines (Agincourt Press, Aufgabe,Green Integer, Littoral Books, Marsilio Editions, O Books, Potes & Poets Press, Rhizome, and a few others), mostly designing and typesetting their publications, but also occasionally doing editorial work and translations. I have been working in small press publishing in one capacity or another ever since.

3 – What do you consider the role and responsibilities, if any, of small publishing?

The very same I would ascribe to publishing endeavors of any size. As for its role: bring out works you find compelling by writers you would like to promote and that you sense people would/should like to read/know. As for responsibilities: try to do so ethically and in a timely fashion, respecting the work, author, and reader (and probably in that order).

4 – What do you see your press doing that no one else is?

I’m not sure it isdoing anything that no one else is, aside from publishing the particular works I do, the chapbooks having the particular look and feel they do, etc., but these things are no less true of any other press.

5 – What do you see as the most effective way to get new chapbooks out into the world?

I don’t know what the most effective way would be; if I did I’d be doing it. What I do do with Mindmade Books is send out publication announcements via email, one at the beginning of each year indicating forthcoming authors/titles, and one as each new title is published. These messages go out to between 500–600 people, some of whom share them on list serves and blogs. There is also a website (www.mindmadebooks.com) containing this information and which also includes a descriptive catalog of all Mindmade titles, reviews of selected works, information on ordering, etc., and that’s it. I’m not on Facebook, I don’t tweet or social mediate in any way. I’d like to believe (and do secretly hope) that readers interested in the writers and/or types of work I’m publishing will find their way to me.

6 – How involved an editor are you? Do you dig deep into line edits, or do you prefer more of a light touch?

I tend to request texts from writers and translators whose work I know and admire, or which I have stumbled across and am curious about. Without exception have published whatever they’ve sent me. On occasion I have made editorial suggestions ranging from corrections and alternate renderings in the case of translations, to minor grammatical tinkering in the case of original English-language texts. I have also occasionally suggested that a line or passage or poem or two be dropped. In all cases I consider these mere suggestions and have always deferred to the author/translator. I suppose that would make me more of a “light touch” editor, as you put it.

7 – How do your chapbooks get distributed? What are your usual print runs?

Mindmade Books are distributed uniquely by me. (Well, nearly uniquely: Berl’s Brooklyn Poetry Shophas titles up through 2011 and sells them at the Brooklyn Flea, from what I understand, and I have seen a few for sale via abebooks.com…) Early on I had discussed with Small Press Distribution the possibility of their distributing my chapbooks, which they were kind enough to consider doing, but it wouldn’t have been cost effective for me so I’ve gone it alone.

My print runs are generally double the number of subscribers I have at the moment in question (and by “subscribers” I mean folks who purchase the year’s run of four chapbooks in advance), with additional copies being produced as ordered. Printing the chapbooks “on demand” has saved me money and space, since I wasn’t having to pay to produce and store runs of chapbooks that might not sell, and that has helped make the project sustainable.

8 – How many other people are involved with editing or production? Do you work with other editors, and if so, how effective do you find it? What are the benefits, drawbacks?

For better or worse, Mindmade Books is a one-man operation: I request the work, do any necessary editing, layout the pages and covers, print, trim, and fold them, assemble the chapbooks, address and stuff the envelopes, then carry the lot off to the post office. I’ve been able to maintain a rhythm of 4 chapbooks per year for the past 17 years while working full-time, having a family, and pursuing my own writing, translating, and other activities, so obviously it works for me.

I have worked and am currently working in other publishing projects involving co-editors and production assistants. I enjoy working in that way as well, it’s just an entirely different thing. With Mindmade Books, I’m in charge of all aspects of every step of the selection, editorial, and production processes, which take place on my schedule in my rhythm. As soon as you’ve got an editorial or production team, you’re adding that many other schedules and rhythms to the mix, and as we’re talking about small press publishing here, and thus everyone most likely has another “day job,” as it were, it can be challenging, not to mention time consuming, to coordinate tasks with everyone’s respective schedules and the time they can devote to the process, and see to it that things get done properly and in a timely fashion, that they don’t fall though the cracks, etc.

So I suppose that the benefit of working alone is that you get to do it all yourself and avoid the complications that arise when working in a team, and the drawback is that you have to do it all yourself and get none of the benefits that come with working in a team.

9 – How has being an editor/publisher changed the way you think about your own writing?

I think it has made me more humble about it, and (I’d like to believe) a bit more discriminating.

10 – How do you approach the idea of publishing your own writing? Some, such as Gary Geddes when he still ran Cormorant, refused such, yet various Coach House Press’ editors had titles during their tenures as editors for the press, including Victor Coleman and bpNichol. What do you think of the arguments for or against, or do you see the whole question as irrelevant?

I don’t have a strong feeling about it one way or the other. Over the years I’ve been involved with projects that as a matter of principle did not publish their editors’ work (Paul Vangelisti’s New Review of Literature, for example), and with others whose contributors were the de facto editors (namely Lowghost,a monthly, work-in-progress journal, also edited by Paul, and which knew two separate, year-long runs). Of the 60+ Mindmade Books published thus far, only one is a work of my own poetry, though I have published several of my own translations.

I suppose it’s worth recalling that Blake, Whitman, Lorca, and undoubtedly many other “greats” published their own work, as did many not-so-greats. Whoever brings it out, in the end it floats or sinks on its own merits or lack thereof, so the issue is perhaps not quite as important as it may seem.

11 – How do you see Mindmade Books evolving?

Very little, in fact, and maybe I should be concerned or embarrassed about that. The basic vision I outlined above has remained the same, as have the method of production, the format, papers I use, the approach to layout and design…even the price of the chapbooks hasn’t changed since I started the press in ’97. At this point I don’t see any reason to do anything any differently.

12 – What, as a publisher, are you most proud of accomplishing? What do you think people have overlooked about your publications? What is your biggest frustration?

1) Having had the good fortune to publish the writers and texts I have; sustaining the press as long as I have; publishing every work I ever committed to; bringing every title out on schedule.

2) That they exist; how wonderful they are.

3) I don’t know that I really have any frustrations, strictly speaking. That said, I am surprised that more of them have not been reviewed.

13 – Who were your early publishing models when starting out?

The immediate model was a chapbook collection Douglas Messerli was publishing in the early ‘90s: “20 pages,” it was called. As the name implied, the works were twenty pages long. I can recall titles by Aaron Shurin, Ray DiPalma, Charles Bernstein, and Adriano Spatola. I remember thinking, “I’d like to do something like that,” when I first saw them. Douglas was having these printed off-set, and thus they cost quite a bit to produce – more than $1,000 for a few hundred copies. When I learned the cost I thought I could never afford to do it. Later I realized that, since some Sun & Moon Press titles were actually being printed from my laser-printed pages and the quality was fine, I could forego the idea of off-set printing and produce the chapbooks myself using my laser printer, and that’s what I’ve done. I knew that I would probably never get distribution and so decided to sell the chapbooks myself in yearly series by subscription, which I still do to this day (though I now also sell current titles – and of course all previously published titles – individually).

I also remember being impressed with Lyn Hejinian’s Tuumba Books. She printed them letterpress on relatively thick paper, something I knew I was not going to be able to do, but I did like their format and their clear layout and typesetting. I had been in touch with Lyn before starting the press, and she was kind enough to send me a selection of Tuumba chapbooks to look at and learn from. In fact the first title I published was a work of hers: one part of her Books from a Border Comedy, which she was then working on.

Finally, I’m attracted to printed ephemera of all types, particularly brochures and other book-like forms and have undoubtedly been inspired by the inherent smallness and unpretentiousness of such things. I have saved a number of booklets over the years and occasionally look them over. I dream of using them as models for future publications.

14 – How does Mindmade Books work to engage with your immediate literary community, and community at large? What journals or presses do you see Mindmade Books in dialogue with? How important do you see those dialogues, those conversations?

I don’t really seek to engage the literary community in any way other than by publishing these chapbooks. I realize that that may sound sacrilegious in this age of hypernetworking, but that’s how it is. Nor do I feel that I am dialoging with other presses or journals (though I may well be, unconsciously and unintentionally, perhaps it’s unavoidable). What I am working to do is create the possibility of a dialog, broadly understood, or at the very least an encounter between a reader and a writer, via these publications. Honestly, and perhaps to my discredit, I don’t hope for much beyond that.

15 – Do you hold regular or occasional readings or launches? How important do you see public readings and other events?

Though I enjoy readings – both giving and attending them – I do not organize Mindmade Book launches or public readings because I simply couldn’t afford to regularly bring writers to Los Angeles or travel to wherever they might be in order to publicly present their work and/or promote the press. To this day there has never been a Mindmade Book event (at least, none that I’m aware of).

16 – How do you utilize the internet, if at all, to further your goals?

See question 5 above.

17 – Do you take submissions? If so, what aren’t you looking for?

Officially, I don’t take submissions. Being the one-man operation I described, I feared I might not have the time to give them the attention they deserved. Unofficially, I have accepted a submission or two following an unsolicited query, but have declined a great many more.

18 – Tell me about three of your most recent titles, and why they’re special.

Peter Schmidt, The Thoughts Behind the Thoughts
Schmidt was an artist who long fascinated me, especially his water colors, which often depict plain views of mundane things. I first encountered his work on the back cover of Brian Eno’s Before and After Science LP, and later learned that he had also designed the sleeves of Eno’s Taking Tiger Mountain (by Strategy)and Eno and Fripp’s Evening Star. More importantly perhaps, he and Eno collaborated on the Oblique Strategies, which have subsequently become quite well-known. Well, the precursor to the “Strategies” was Schmidt’s The Thoughts Behind the Thoughts, a mixed-media work whose heart is a series of aphoristic statements most of which comment on the thinking that precedes the creative process. This chapbook contains those aphorisms, which collectively constitute a kind of ante-ars poetica.

Terry Dernbach, Filmic Scenes
Terry is an old friend – we played together in a couple of bands in the 1980s and ’90s – who always impressed me with his imagination and creativity. Over the years we worked together he was active in music, painting, photography, and writing. He was also interested in film, and in the mid-80s showed me some “ideas for films” – brief, enigmatic texts that he was writing at the time. In the mid-90s sent me a typescript of some 17 of these pieces, collectively titled “Filmic Scenes,” which I fell in love with. I read and reread often over the intervening years, and last year I asked him if I could publish them – I don’t know why I waited that long to do so! Describing Filmic Scenes, I wrote that they “suggest films that might have been made by Max Jacob or Taruho Inagaki, had either of them worked in this medium.” And they do!

Giovanna Sandri, Hourglass: The Rhythm of Traces
Well, to be honest this is not a recent title (it came out in 1998), but I hope you’ll forgive me for highlighting it all the same. Sandri is a poet whose work truly deserves to be better known than it is. She began as a visual poet – her first book, Capitolo zero [“Chapter Zero”] from 1969, contains not a single verbal text – but over time created a personal, hybrid poetic language that fuses the verbal and visual. The poems that make up Hourglass exemplify her mature style: minimal verse texts paired with equally minimal abstract graphic compositions derived from basic written forms and suggestive of some unknown writing system. Writing is in fact the subject matter – whether implicit or explicit – of her work, and not writing as activity, but as trace: the material graphic sign representing language and thought. Though we never met, I was fortunate enough to correspond with Sandri in the years preceding her death, and to discuss with her the translation of this work, whose Italian original won the Lorenzo Montano prize in 1992. Later this year Seismicity Editions will publish an edition of her selected poems.

Lorine Niedecker, Lake Superior

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The journey of the rock is never ended. In every tiny part of any living thing are materials that once were rock that turned to soil. These minerals are drawn out of the soil by plant roots and the plant used them to build leaves, stems, flowers and fruits. Plants are eaten by animals. In our blood is iron from plants that draw it out of the soil. Your teeth and bones were once coral. The water you drink has been in clouds over the mountains of Asia and in waterfalls of Africa. The air you breathe has swirled thru places of the earth that no one has ever seen. Every bit of you is a bit of the earth and has been on many strange and wonderful journeys over countless millions of years. (Lorine Niedecker, “Lake Superior Country, Vacation Trip ‘66”)

I’m absolutely fascinated by the new collection-study Lake Superior (Seattle WA/New York NY: Wave Books, 2013), wrapped around the six-page poem of the same name by the late American poet Lorine Niedecker (1903-1970). Perfectly built for study (Hoa Nguyen recently organized a course around the book) Lake Superiorincludes Niedecker’s poem, as well as her “Lake Superior Country, a journal,” a piece that was written during the same period, even to the point that trace echoes, as well as more obvious connections, can be found between the two works.

In every part of every living thing
is stuff that once was rock

In blood the minerals
of the rock

With the addition of an essay by Douglas Crase, “Niedecker and the Evolutional Sublime,” the remainder of the collection exists nearly as an exploration of the time, influences and considerations of the composition of the poem, whether directly or possibly indirectly, including “Three Letters from Lorine Niedecker to CidCorman,” “Excerpts from Back Roads to Far Towns” by Bashō, “’Tour 14A’ from Wisconsin, A Guide to the Badger State” (the note at the end of the piece: “Niedecker worked on this guide for the WPA”), “On a Monument to the Pigeon” by AldoLeopold, “Excerpt from the writings of Pierre Esprit Radisson” and “Excerpt from the writings of Henry Rowe Schoolcraft.” There are some elements of Crase’s piece that are quite stunning, but also just a tad precious in tone, as he opens his “Niedecker and the Evolutional Sublime” with:

Poetry is words. Yet when I think of the Whitman who found he incorporates gneiss, the Stein who says anybody is as their land and air is, the Stevens who locates mythology in stone out of our fields or from under our mountains, then I have to admit that the sublimest American poetry has always read to me as if it would rather restore, or even realize its desire for a wealth outside words, a wealth that is wild outside the human voice. That is what I always liked about it. It is what I liked at once about Lorine Niedecker’s “Lake Superior,” that spare ferropastoral of a poem in honor of the rock and mineral wealth

                                    Iron the common element of earth

for which the human species is just another mode of transport.

Over some ninety pages of material surrounding a six page poem, this is an exceptional study of an important poem by an important American poet. Why can’t more studies such as these exist? The only frustration comes from the fact that Vancouver critic Jenny Penberthy’s (a noted Niedecker scholar) essay on the poem, “Writing Lake Superior,” isn’t included in the selection, a piece that actually introduced me to the short piece by Niedecker, although the acknowledgments do include this: “We would like to thank Jenny Penberthy for all of her work, and for Lorine Niedecker: Woman and Poet, which was an inspiration for this book.” To read through Penberthy’s original essay (which, fortunately, is available online), many of the components of the book are referenced. As Penberthy’s piece opens:

Lorine Niedecker’s “Lake Superior”—the first long poem she would see into print—occupies five pages with a total of 395 words. Her research and preparation for the poem, the punning and aptly named “millenium1 of notes for my magma opus” (Niedecker to Corman, August 20, 1966), numbers 260 mostly typed, single—spaced pages. Tens of thousands of words.

In late July 1966 Lorine Niedecker and Al Millen set off in their Buick on a week-long journey around Lake Superior, “by way of L. Michigan shore to Mackinaw Country and Sault Ste. Marie…along the Ontario shore and down the Minn. side” (Niedecker to Corman, July 12, 1966). The impulse to research the “magma opus,” her epic of rocks and minerals (Davie 73), can be traced most directly to the previous summer’s road trip through the Black Hills of South Dakota. Niedecker remarked to Corman on the “[r]eddish gravel beside the paved roads and in a couple of places a pale gold driveway—covering with gold bits or yellow diamond sparkles all thru it!” and “[t]he big rock structures in the hills…merely greyish or pinkish or yellowish depending on the time of day” (July 28, 1965).

Still, the one thing I wondered: why is an editor not credited for such a collection? Lake Superior provides a rare glimpse on how a poem might have been made, and the works surrounding such a piece. Niedecker clearly had clear knowledge of geology, ecology and other natural studies, something she researched vigorously, a research that appears far deeper, ongoing and direct than, say, Don McKay’s poetic studies over the past decade in stone and geologic time. What this collection provides through the collage of pieces is the “story” of the short poem. We get to see the influences, the conversations, notes and journals, tracking what might otherwise be too ephemeral to follow.


Sally Ito, Alert to Glory

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Robert Swereda

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Author of re: verbs (Bareback editions) and a chapbook ionlylikeitwhenitrhymes, Robert Swereda is a member of the Filling Station collective. He studied creative writing at Capilano University in Vancouver. Other work has been published by The Puritan, ditch, West Coast Line, The Incongruous Quarterly, steel bananas, The Capilano Review, Enpipe Line and Poetry Is Dead.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
Change my life? Although the recognition feels nice and maybe my ego got a boost, I didn`t exactly win the lottery. My work has been getting more and more visual. I`ve been experimenting with forming sculptures with text, collages, investigating dead languages such as Latin and Futhark and playing with translation. These new adventures don`t feel so different than what I`ve done in the past, I`m just expanding my palette.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
From my late teens and on I`ve been interested in metaphysics and through that I found Robin Skelton, who published a few volumes on Paganism and many books of poetry. Fiction I have dabbled in a little but never felt confident enough to try to publish it yet. I find there is so much more room for experimentation with poetry.

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?
When I first started writing, everything spewed out of me rapidly. As some years have gone by, the process has really slowed down. I guess when I was new to writing I wanted to try any type of writing prompt that was available to me. Each piece takes a different amount of time to be realized. I`ll have an idea in my head, but it may need time to brew in my brain before it`s ready to transfer to paper. Maybe I don`t try to edit and revise as much as I should, I like my writing to have a rawness to it.

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?
Sometimes they`re like “ AH-HA!!” moments, when I`m not even thinking of writing and some new idea will spark. Other times I see an idea I want to try out just to see what happens. That`s how my Flarf chapbook I only like it when it rhymes happened. Other times I want to use techniques from other mediums and figure out a way to use it poetically like, "Arpeggios on Leo Brouwer" in my book re: verbs. My attention span is quite short, so my pieces are also. Though I feel that the section of my book "b)rainstorms" could have been something book length.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

I`m a terrible performer. I get too nervous, I hate using microphones and hearing myself through the speakers. Since my work is more visual, I think that performance is more a way to promote myself it doesn`t really aid my writing. I do feel public readings are important though. There have been a few books I read through and the text alone didn`t do it for me. Then I got to see the author live and I came out with a better understanding of how they wanted their work to be interpreted.

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?
Answering questions, no. Raising questions, yes. I`m just here to make a big mess.

I`m interested in the flexibility of language, especially English. How nouns can flip to verbs and back again, how one word can have several meanings. I demonstrate this in "Arpeggios on Leo Brouwer" in my book, and in a piece called "signature move" http://horselesspress.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/hlr12.pdf

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 wish writers, especially poets were more celebrated in North America. I spend Canadian winters in Latin America, When I tell people I meet in Canada that I write poetry, I get responses like “uh, that`s....interesting” or they assume I`m writing traditional poetry, or they might know something of the Beat Generation. When I tell people from Latin countries the same thing, it`s like I`m some rock star. They`re more curious and excited and ask a billion questions.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Honestly, I don`t have much experience. When Bareback Press was putting my book together, the editing was only for space and layout, which didn`t affect the pieces so much.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
I had the opportunity to interview the Peruvian poet Tulio Mora, and I asked if he had any advice for younger writers: I would tell them to be intransigent, rebellious, self-demanding, to avoid lying to themselves, to take any feedback with disbelief, especially if they start receiving praise. Those who care about the comments and reviews that appear in newspapers are not poets. A poet is the one who transcribes how the world shivers at our survival.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to photography to visual art)? What do you see as the appeal?
Poetry is actually the last medium I`ve attempted. In my mid 20`s I was really into painting. I`ve played guitar and wrote music for a long while now. http://soundcloud.com/burntumber Also photography and video collage. Usually I focus my attention on just one of these for a short time until I change direction on to the next. But really they`re no different from each other. A paintbrush, a guitar, a pen, a laptop, a camera – they`re just tools for one humungous job I`m getting done.

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 can`t say I have one. When I have an idea, I either plough away at it right then and there, or let it steep in my head for awhile. I used to keep a writing book, now I do most of my writing on my laptop. I`ll have scraps of paper for a few notes. I find it useful to try writing in different places, cafes, laundromats, malls, buses. In my house, or outside.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I just try to forget about it. And that never works. I distract myself with other things, and then something will eventually pop in my head. I`ve tried to force myself to write on a few occasions and didn`t care for the outcome. In my case, writing just needs to happen.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Alfalfa and cough syrup.

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 mentioned music before. Some other pieces, their layouts were stolen from patterns in abstract visual art, geometry, architecture.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Probably like most 20-something males I went through the Beat phase. I was more into WSB and Brion Gysins practice of majik through the arts. I found the San Fransisco Beats getting entwined with hippies and Buddhism to be kind of flakey. The paintings of Cy Twobly always fascinated me, and I stole from him for my more visual work for sure.

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

Tell you about the last time I ate a pear. Paragliding.

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?
Most likely visual arts.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I do plenty of other things, as mentioned before. I just found the writing community a little more welcoming. So my energies have been focused in that direction for the past few years.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

On Seeing and NoticingAlain de Botton. Not the last film I saw but, Gummo ( Harmony Korine) reminds me of my growing up in rural Alberta.

20 - What are you currently working on?
A manuscript of visual poetry and Flarf, as well as a gluten free cook book.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

four new poems at the avatar review

Ongoing notes: the ottawa small press book fair, spring 2013 (part one)

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[photo of jwcurry, sewing more copies of bpNichol's HOLIDAY] Another fair, come and gone. In the fall, we celebrate nineteen years of our semi-annual ottawa small press book fair. How did we get here? How did I get here? My thanks to everyone who participated!


Toronto ON:Former Ottawa poet Suzannah Showler has been getting a lot of attention lately, between being announced as a finalist for the 2013 RBC Bronwen Wallace Award for Emerging Writers from the Writers’ Trust of Canada, and being included in The Walruslist of “the six best writers you’ve never heard of,” as well as the fact that she has a first trade poetry collection out next year with ECW Press. Bardia Sinaee’s Odourless Press [see his recent 12 or 20 (small press) questions here] has just released her small chapbook, Sucks To Be You and other true taunts (May 2013) [see Michael Dennis’ recent review of same here], a five-poem collection of short, polished lyrics. Conversational in tone, these short pieces have taunt-titles such as “I know you are, but what am I?,” “takes one to know one” and “stop hitting yourself.” The taunting-aggression is appealing and bring an intriguing punch to the writing.

why don’t you go home and cry about it?

I have a feeling about a very slow
apocalypse where we are all drawn
back to our hometowns by something
like a magnet that attracts whatever
inside us is most mediocre and true.
So, when the world begins to end,
if you have a minute, please promise
to tell me more about all the other
people you’ve fucked, how they
had skin almost too firm to register
touch, how their pussies were basically
luminescent, and, in particular, I’d like
to know in what order their clothes
came off when they undressed,
because I’ll need something
to think about when I am caught,
post-apocalyptically, in Ottawa,
Ontario, the capital of Canada,
where my parents still live.

Their other spring title is Matthew Walsh’sCLOUDPEOPLE (May 2013). Another former Ottawa poet, Walsh’s CLOUDPEOPLE contains a lyric looseness that occasionally falters, and could use a bit of tightening, although the poem “I’m Condoleezza Rice” contains a playfulness and humour that makes up for the occasional awkward tweak. As he writes in his rhythmic-tone, “I’m Condoleezza Rice / but I can’t play piano / I can’t play the blues but I can / tell a good riddle.” The leaps between lines and their disconnect, when done well, are impressive, yet he loses control when poems are stretched too far, too long. One gets the impression that Walsh is still working through an apprenticeship of what works in his writing, and how best to compose each piece. One of the strongest pieces in this collection is the nine-poem sequence “Cloud Grape,” which manages to contain the disconnect in a way that brings a spark to each leap. The first section of the poem reads:

Just ignore me. I’m feeling
better now. It’s just been a while
  since I turned your ear. I’m Lying
    in Sorauren Park watching a woman
count the rings
  on a tree stump. I want
to lean in
and make an inquiry. How long
    it was married to the earth?
I see her again in Mimico contemplating
a pair of XXL Scooby Doo underwear
  writing in her notepad. Talking to a pigeon. People
can be a real menace.

Ottawa ON: Between his chapbook through The Olive Reading Series, and two chapbooks (one, two) with above/ground press, Excerpts from Impossible Books: The Apt. 9 Installment (June 2013) is the fourth published section of Ottawa poet Stephen Brockwell’swork-in-progress, scheduled for trade publication sometime over the next year from Toronto’s Mansfield Press. Edited, published and hand-sewn by Cameron Anstee, Apt. 9 Press has become one of the more engaged micro presses in the country, producing some of the most enviable books I’ve seen in a long time. Launched with two further spring titles by Apt. 9 Press—by Jeff Blackman and Christine McNair—to a packed house at Raw Sugar Café in Ottawa’s Chinatown, the eight poems in Excerpts from Impossible Books: The Apt. 9 Installment have a slightly different feel from previously-published works in the same series, not just for the difference in poem-length (ranging from the short quirk to the longer lyric). Engaging with an ongoing exploration of voice, science, mathematics and the formal lyric, the poems in this collection seem less a series of fragments of a larger project than a handful of poems that encapsulate the project as a whole. Is this a shift in his writing generally, or simply the focused-end of a lengthy project? Either way, I eagerly await the finished collection.

from The Lightning Harvest
Designs for a Practical Capacitor

A Leyden jar the size of the moon
on the horizon in Arizona, or

a capacitor of concrete
from all the floors of Abraj Al Bait.

A paper condenser of the recycled
pages of every printed book, or

the Library of Congress, each page
of 29 million volumes taking a small charge.




Michelle Taransky, Sorry Was In The Woods

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HOW TO PICTURE THIS PLACE WHERE

Ash is strong and looks
Like chestnut—A tree is like a steer.
There are many kinds of cuts. Gentle polishing
Exposing the figure of the wood.
You will be surprised when you place
Light wood in hot sand. Watch the wood
Slowly burn. Refinish a found chair
To appear new.

Michelle Taransky’s second trade poetry collection, Sorry Was In The Woods (Richmond CA: Omnidawn, 2013) takes its title from an altered phrase, “Sorry, I was in the woods,” altered previously for the chapbook No, I Will Be In The Woods (Boston MA: Brave Men Press, 2011) [see my review of such here], a title that included a number of the poems in this current collection. As she responds in the interview accompanying the press release, “The title drops off the ‘I’ expected in ‘Sorry, I Was In the Woods’ to question who, or what, should be blamed. ‘Sorry Was In The Woods’ suggests Sorry as a character, suggests being sorry or feeling sorry as a part of being in the woods, suggests an effort to work without the perspective of the ‘I’ or my ‘I’ as anchor.” The author of the previous trade poetry collection, Barn Burned, Then(Omnidawn, 2009), the poems in Sorry Was In The Woodswrap around the abstract of an idea of being lost in the woods, and not seeing the forest, so to speak, for the sake of the trees.











A THOUGHT THE SAME AS THE BOUGH

The rules our tree has found are already
A story that is about trees carved from houses
This rain will not worry the housekeeper
The rules are a stairwell and a series of revolving doors
Do not look towards the staring neighbor
Plan for figuring for facing echo of later
Overstating the work. Where
It’s the piece of the tree growing symbolic, if you let them
Expect woodpeckers to be plastic and panicking from
Sorry, the carpenter is not a painter of the forest.

Accompanied by artwork (including on the cover) by her father, the artist Richard Taransky, the poems in Sorry Was In The Woodsecho off each other, repeat without being repetitive, connecting as a forest would, growing in and up, around each other, impossible to separate. Part of this is seen in the thread of poems that run through the entire book, each titled “THE PLANS CAUTION,” writing “Was should, was a foundling was the truth was it found as they found it to hold their gaze in place of a sanctuary,” to “Too many trees wanting to be like bodies” to “Won’t be examples or failures, won’t be / Where when we finish them [.]” Shifting between the perspective of the forest and who might be lost within, the poems map out an increasingly large canvas, a collage of perspectives confusing and conflicting at times, and even disappearing in the darkness of the trees.

SORRY WAITING FOR THE

Permission to consider the view
They left me in their house

Looking like a false alarm. It was then
A fire went unnoticed. I call to see

If the woods is not the world.
Tell me, We cannot picture any worse

Fall. A hundred and four
Years ago, the woodcutter met

A description of how much they can
Tolerate. Sentences that are not told

Apart from those including: Do you know the author?
This is a known picture of that tree.

Worry. The injury was hard on me,
Too, it was. Far too quiet to ask

Questions. They have the whole book
Or nothing. We are counting

Against the grain. We are addicted
To evidence.


12 or 20 (second series) questions with Mark Scroggins

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Mark Scroggins is a poet, biographer, and literary critic. His books of poetry are Red Arcadia (Shearsman, 2012), Torture Garden: Naked City Pastorelles (The Cultural Society, 2011), and Anarchy (Spuyten Duyvil, 2002). He is the author of Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge (U of Alabama P, 1998) and The Poem of a Life: A Biography of Louis Zukofsky (Shoemaker & Hoard, 2007). He has edited Upper Limit Music: The Writing of Louis Zukofsky (U of Alabama P, 1997) and a selection of uncollected prose for Prepositions+: The Collected Critical Essays of Louis Zukofsky (Wesleyan UP, 2000). His graduate degrees in creative writing and literature were from Cornell University.

He has published poetry and poetry reviews in a wide range of venues, including The Rumpus, Golden Handcuffs Review, Epoch, Parnassus: Poetry in Review, African American Review, Chicago Review, American Letters & Commentary; and Facture, as well as the anthology The Gertrude Stein Awards In Innovative American Poetry. His critical essays and reviews have appeared in among other places Twentieth Century Literature, American Literature, Shofar, Studies in American Jewish Literature, Sagetrieb, The Cambridge Companion to Modernist Poetry, and The Blackwell Companion to Poetic Genres.

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

I don't know how much Anarchy, that first book, "changed" anything. Aside from the inevitable thrill of having a slim, beautifully-designed volume with my own name on it, it gave me a kind of confirmation that there might be a place for my work in the economy (or "society") of book-publishing poets. But it certainly didn't give me a swelled head; nor, if it hadn't come out, would I have stopped writing.

There are poems in Anarchy, which came out in 2003, which date back a decade and a half before. Looking back over that book, I can see some elements – a sense of line-breaks, an overall lyrical movement – that are still present in what I'm writing today. But much of it feels like juvenilia. I like to think that my work has grown harsher, more abrupt, less sentimental over the years; I may be fooling myself.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I'd read poetry as long as I can remember, though somehow I managed to bypass the whole genre of "poetry for young people" – I went straight, that is, from Dr. Seuss to William Blake, without any time in Shel Silverstein-land. But it never really ocurred to me to write the stuff, even though I knew from fairly early on that whatever I ended up doing when I grew up, I wanted to "be" a writer.

When I was in junior high and high school, I wrote short stories under the influence of some truly dreadful fantasy authors; when I was an undergraduate, I tried to write a novel under the influence of some truly dreadful "serious" writers (big "ideas," you know). I got impatient with the "furniture-moving" (as John Taggart calls it somewhere) demands of the fiction I was reading: describe a character's features, get her from one place to another, and so forth. When I was 19 or 20 I decided that what I really wanted to do when I wrote was to concentrate on the things I'd always loved in poetry – the sounds of words in combination, the shocks of diction.

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’m very slow getting started. I make copious notes, though I often have no idea what I’m making them for. Once I get started on a piece, however, I tend to work really fast, raiding my notes relentlessly. And then it gets slow again: I draft quickly, but revise slowly and repeatedly.

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?

I’ve found myself over the last decade and a half working both in shorter and in longer (but modular) forms. The short poems just sort of “come,” they spring out of an image or a phrase or a rhythm in my head. The longer projects – “Anarchy for the U.K.,” Torture Garden– get pretty ferociously planned out before I start writing. Not that I know what will be in the next segment, necessarily, or what direction the whole thing will turn in the next poem, but I’ve plotted out the formal and conceptual constraints of the sequence as a whole more or less from the beginning.

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 give a lot of readings, though I enjoy them very much when I do. They don’t really play a role in the compositional process per se.

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 think poems are there more to ask than to answer questions. Most of the questions I brood on are old ones, from before “theory” was “theory”; is there a word for “theodicy” that doesn’t necessarily imply deity?

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’ll take a pass on this one.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

In poetry, I’ve found editors useful but not intrusive. Tod Thilleman (Spuyten Duyvil) and Tony Frazer (Shearsman) made useful interventions in the overall shapes of Anarchy and Red Arcadia. As for prose, Herb Leibowitz and Ben Downing, editors at Parnassus: Poetry in Review, pretty much taught me – by dint of merciless cuts, blue-pencilling, sarcastic remarks, and general ruthlessness – how to write prose. I can hardly bear to re-read Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge, the book that came out of my dissertation; The Poem of a Life, on the other hand, is a pretty readable piece of biography.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Pass. As no one will be surprised to learn, I never remember advice.


10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to biography to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?

The three kinds of writing seem to me very different things (though there are inevitable bleed-throughs). My critical writing is usually a matter of trying to figure out how things work, and then setting them within larger conceptual contexts: a lot of it is back-engineering, and has that same kind of “tinkering” fascination for me. Biography involves gathering and endlessly assessing great masses of “data,” then trying to weave them into a narrative – which is an altogether different task from criticism. I haven’t had a lot of trouble switching between genres, and the opportunity to do different kinds of writing has always been a real godsend – stuck on one thing, I can try another.

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?

A typical day for me begins with a pot of coffee and an hour of reading something that isn’t directly related either to what I’m teaching or what I’m writing. (For the past couple of years, the AM wake-up text has been Ruskin.) Days, alas, end up getting eaten by teaching responsibilities and critical commitments. I tend to get most of my poetry written in the evening and over the summer, when I don’t have to worry about grading papers and answering endless e-mails.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?


When my writing stalls, I don’t try to jump-start it, but just set it aside for a while and do something else – I draw, paint, make some music, hang out with my family, read a novel. Then I got back to it, and pick up the momentum again usually pretty easily.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Catfish frying. (Tennessee.)

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've always listened to a lot of music. "Bodhrán Song" from Anarchy attempts to capture something about Irish traditional music; the Torture Garden sequence, though there's very little explicitly about music in there, relies very heavily on the compressed, genre-switching forms of John Zorn's Naked City "miniatures." (I simply can't write to music, however – it keeps me from hearing the sounds of my own words.)

I spend a lot of time looking at paintings and drawings, from the high modernist to the lowest Victorian kitsch. I imagine various pictures have made their way into my work with or without me knowing it, but I don't think I have a strong ekphrastic impulse.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

That could be a long list. A short list of more or less contemporaries would include Basil Bunting, Robert Duncan, Charles Olson, Ronald Johnson, Michael Palmer, Gertrude Stein, Susan Howe, Louis Zukofsky, Nathaniel Mackey, Lorine Niedecker, Robert Creeley, Ian Hamilton Finlay, J. H. Prynne, Geoffrey Hill.

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

There are a lot of countries I’d like to visit. I’d like to learn to play one instrument well (right now I play about five badly). I’d like to learn to paint well in oils – undercoats, glazing, etc. I’m modest: most of my aspirations are simply things that I need to find the time to tackle properly.

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 very much wanted to be an artist when I was young. I sometimes still have dreams about my life as a B-level rock musician.

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

Manipulating words was something I did well and very much enjoyed doing, from quite early on. It’s hard to change directions when you’ve found something that works.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

One of the lovely things about teaching literature full-time is that you get paid to re-read (and talk about) truly great books. I closed last semester by re-reading Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse, which for me stands on a novelistic pinnacle that almost no-one else's ever reached, and John Ruskin's Praeterita, a dotty autobiography which includes some of the most beautiful passages of English prose ever written.

As for poetry, I've found myself recently (once again) humbled and blown away by Prynne's Triodes.

Hitchcock's Notorious.

20 - What are you currently working on?
Much of my imagination is taken up currently with inchoate plans for a vast critical book on John Ruskin and modernism, which will have precisely 8 readers. But I also have sheaves of notes for shorter critical books – a book on gardening poetics from Marvell to Finlay, a little theoretical book on literary biography.

In terms of poetry – which of course is what you meant by the question – I'm writing shorter poems at my usual glacial pace, and brooding over structural plans for a new sequence whose working title is "Rock Honeycomb."

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Seth Landman, Sign You Were Mistaken

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COFFIN

There is nothing. There is your city.
Right there, the streets out of sight.
Call me a little, pausing funeral; hats off
to the feet set going, the chief element of landscape.
There is nothing. There is the roasted river
when I go, a hand on the universal shoulder
in the face of invisible surveillance, secret dogs,
unaccountable influences. There is nothing
in not ignoring it. What is good? My curiosity
sways on an island with sounds. Things with seas.
Quick and still with wild, inmost, endless,
grand disguises. I am here exactly on this
stage, and there is nothing looming
in the world like snow on the hill in the air.

In his first trade poetry collection, Sign You Were Mistaken (Hadley, Massachusetts: Factory Hollow Press, 2013), Northampton, Massachusetts poet Seth Landman has constructed a series of dislocated lyrics, writing one line that does not necessarily follow the previous, and yet they blend together into something beyond the sums of their component parts. Landman’sis a surrealism based in statement and fact, composed out of a sequence of questions that sprinkle through the collection, such as in the poem “ZONE BY ZONE,” asking “Is the lie of the first part of life / apparent to the duration?” It’s as though Landman’s poems disconnect and connect in that space between the lines, somehow composing poems that exist almost entirely inside the mind of the reader, and nowhere near the page.

The title itself, Sign You Were Mistaken, lends itself to more than a couple of questions. Are we meant to read this as a chastisement, informing the sign that it, indeed, was incorrect? The deeper the reader enters the collection, the more it is obvious that it is impossible to know where you might end up, as Landman dismantles basic tenants to unfold a range of possibilities that might have existed otherwise. Landman is both explorer and guide, composing a certainty into the unknown. Through the prose poem and the sentence, Landman’s poems explore perception, referencing dreams, rifling through metaphor, statement, queries and a wide array of uncertainties. “This is my home town,” he writes, in “SOMETHING GOOD HOLIDAY HUMOR,” “and I am pretty much like it. Now that I exist / is true, I guess, but, anyway, I wish you were here.”

FOR YOU

Finally there is the map that continues larger than the folds and beyond shadows and hidden space. It is not enough to describe what is not yet rendered, as a brain fills in lines on the sky. It is not enough to lay the space out flat, to describe coastline as formula, as perfect math of impossible love. Home is oxygen: necessary, corrosive. When it feels terrible in the interior, maps call the outside into view. I pour over them for hours, never leaving my kitchen. Finally, I am unfamiliar with my own house. The routes possible from one spot to another increase geometrically. It is not enough to know inside that I might travel anywhere. Great forces are shifting us and there may be nothing we can do. Each day, if you are okay, if you can remain, you remain. Though you may be cold, you may be the cold water surrounding my continent.

Ongoing notes: the ottawa small press book fair, spring 2013 (part two)

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Kingston ON: Kingston poet and publisher Michael e. Casteels participated in the fair this year, bringing a number of publications through his Puddles of Sky Press, including his own work, and Jason Heroux’s recent chapbook In Defense of the Attacked Center Pawn (2013). Reading as part of the pre-fair event the night before the fair itself, he opened with pieces from his chapbook of prose poems, The Robot Dreams (Puddles of Sky Press, 2013):

A Brief History of the Ice Age

The primates spot-checked their harpsichords, spoon-fed the plesiosaur, and garrisoned the tax collectors. It was ravenous, living inside a sarcophagus where steam engines glaciated into place, where imperial moths televised the impasse: the rickety mammoth confronting the equatorial scarecrow. The sabre-toothed polarity of the breeze exempted each Neanderthal. The price war syncopated, the stellular vistas fallowed. Symphonies climaxed, entire marching bands faced extinction. Then, the great scraping—all the numbness of an ice cube, erasing the pyramids and the harpoonists, the lily pads, the approaching storm.

The poems in are tight, surreal pieces that show an obvious influence from Stuart Ross and Gary Barwin (both of whom are thanked at the back of the collection), and I’m very taken with what Casteels is doing with the sentence and the shape of the prose poem; there are some amazing things at play through these small pieces, from “Trimming the King’s Beard” to “Just Like Grandma Used to Bake” and “The Incredible Hulk Goes Bowling.” One can see the influences of Barwin and Ross through the titles themselves, from the humour and odd-surrealism, but there is something about how the surreal aspects in Casteel’s work is more subdued and subtle, not allowing it to overtake or distract, but as a soft, through-line. His other recent work from the same press is cemantics: minimalist & concrete poetry (Puddles of Sky Press, November 2012), a chapbook that is exactly what it describes, including explorations of the short poem, some of which are entirely Nelson Ball-like in their brevity, including one titled “Rain.” Is this another Stuart Ross influence at play?

Rain

There is only one sky
in the sky above our heads
and it is full of holes.

Ottawa ON: Always worth paying attention to is the In/Words Magazine and Press table [see my recent piece on In/Words at Open Book: Ontario here], from recent issues of their journal, recent broadsheets they hand out (which echo the above/ground press “poem” broadsides) and their chapbook series. Of their broadsides, they produced a small handful of new publications for the fair, including new poems by Maria Demare (#5, “Catullus 101”), Amanda Earl (#6, “Trieste”), Jeff Blackman (#7, “Song for David Currie”), JM Francheteau (#8, “The Gelding”), Michelle Duquette (#9, “Hello, Nice to Meet You”) and Selina Boan (#10, “Litany”).

Litany

You gather slips of laughter on a breakfast tray. Pestle jars of
seed. Under doorways, balanced atop kettles, stuffing hand
to mouth. Abrade your fingers. Busy yourself with home.

You make scarves, a hat, puffy sweaters. Gathered by years,
set to inaccurate frame after frame you bind hair to wool.
Weave them into one another. A reinvention. Ready Mercy.
We find our baby teeth. Look inside a black film canister.
Listen to it rattle: Remember tooth fairies. Remember when
the house filled with lemon zing, you cooking summer heat,
cherry marmalade and rambling chutney.

One after the other we find your missing parts: Dug up or
stuck under a pot, inside an old rice bag, stitched to a mint
green scarf. Absorbed by puffy garments while we try and fit
you. Maneuver limbs, lift soft arms to the sway of prayer as
you imagine glass elephants and elegant ladies lining
windowsills, tell stories about the queen, tuck self to penny
jars.
You crumble chutney, remove citrus, dissolve to laughter.

From In/Words poet Chris Johnson also came the chapbook Phyllis, I have never spoke your name (In/Words, March 2013), self-described as “one man’s interaction and internalization of months of reading Phyllis Webb and opening his eyes to the inequalities in the world.” This small chapbook, composed and produced for “Feminists and Feminism in Canada / CDNS 3400/WGST 3812 / Sophie Tomas” is an intriguing response, albeit a highly uneven work. I very much like that Johnson is reading the work of Phyllis Webb generally, and that he is responding to Webb’s work through the space of an extended sequence of poems, as a mix of response, homage and exploration:

Phyllis, I have never spoke your name, but
what kind of night am I to wish for?
When her white skin is locked
behind a door, unbloused yet
untouchable; what kind of night
am I to wish for?

Profile of Suzannah Showler, with a few questions,


today is my father's seventy-second birthday,

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and yet, he doesn't look much different now than he did then,

Marie Annharte Baker, Indigena Awry

Ongoing notes: late late June, 2013

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[evil sleepy Lemonade, sleeping upon his new perch, across on my black jacket]

I presume you’ve been properly checking out the above/ground press, Chaudiere Books, ottawa poetry newsletter and dusie blogs for their various updates? I don’t always have space to tell you everything here (I mean, really). But watch for an upcoming reading by Jessica Smith, Amanda Earl and Marilyn Irwin on July 13 as part of The Factory Reading Series, and another collaborative reading by myself and Christine McNair (our second annual, after last year’s appearance at The Dusty Owl Reading Series) at the In/Words Reading Series on July 31st.

Philadelphia PA: Some of the most attractive chapbooks I’ve seen out of the United States have to be Brian Teare’s Albion Books, the most recent of which, the first volume of the fifth series, is a double-binding, including Rachel Moritz’ “ELEMENTARY RITUALS” alongside Juliet Patterson’s “DIRGE.” There doesn’t seem to be any obvious reason why these two texts are paired, perhaps the authors are collaborators or close friends, writing poems in tandem? Or simply the editor/publisher has joined the two. 







The first bridges were probably made by nature—something as simple as a log fallen across a stream.

The original base of the word, bruw, or ‘log-road.’

Through the window you think of these words standing in the blunt arms of morning: stage, landing, gangway.

*

Your father was found hanging from a concrete footbridge
a few miles from your childhood home. The bridge

twenty-seven feet high, stretched over a busy thoroughfare, linking
a golf course and a wooded park. (“DIRGE”)

Juliet Patterson’s striking sequence “DIRGE” works through a meditation on the death of her father (or, the narrator’s father; since I know nothing about Patterson, one should never presume) from suicide. Her “DIRGE” scrapes out the heart in long, languid lines. Why haven’t I heard of Juliet Patterson before this? On the other side of the same chapbook, Rachel Moritz’s“ELEMENTARY RITUALS” is another small meditative work, composed out of six longer poems that stretch the loveliest lines that take up small spaces but a large attention. Her rituals, one might say, are startlingly precise, one that is the perfect blend of lyric language and absolute clarity:

In a clearing between loss and literal day-
light, his frame stood empty.

Kudzu trailing the base foundation.
Gutters bedded in leaves.


We passed a threshold the key given
us at the funeral parlor            from his pocket, his wallet,
his coat.


Nevertheless, stirring lights how oddly they flared, as if
shy of inhabitants.

Then it was done, going through an event
so event became abstracted.

Further titles forthcoming in the fifth series include works by Frank Sherlock (5.2), Jean Valentine (5.3) and CA Conrad (5.4).

Mt Pleasant ON: From kemeny babineau’s Laurel Reed Books comes CHORTLING AMERICAN SHOW GOO: thirty three poems by Toronto poet, editor and small press publisher Daniel f. Bradley (2012). Bradley has been an active writer and small press enthusiast for years, author of numerous small press publications going back two decades, including publications by curvd h&z, BookThug, tapt, Outland, Produce Press, above/ground press and many, many others. Given his years of publication, it might be interesting to see someone attempt to wrestle with his years of output for the sake of either an essay on his ongoing work, or a selected poems, to get a sense of just what he has accomplished over the years, through dozens of small-run missives. The opening poem to the collection nearly gives a description of what follows, asking the question of what this might be, as though the author is learning through the same process as the potential reader:

i suppose i could hot wire this thing
flat bread their is no escape
perfect for your boneless
wings failed

your highness you were right
you were right about me
i love my loll pop separated
at the feet almost
empty ignition switch
light reflecting metallic

what’s this all about
everything in a bag
that feeds me a secret
life

The sequence of pieces that make up the untitled poems of CHORTLING AMERICAN SHOW GOO: thirty three poems feel akin to the poems of American poet Kate Greenstreet for their fragmented structure and collage-aspect that accumulate into something larger, yet difficult to articulate, as the form itself is less static than constantly shifting. As Nic Coivert writes in his review of the collection (included inside the back of the chapbook) from Canadian Poetry Previews Magazine, “These poems are like smashed dreams.” Bradley’s poems also have a dark edge of surrealism, perhaps one more abstract and less of the obvious humour than others in the informal “Toronto surrealists” group, whether Lillian Necakov, Stuart Ross or Gary Barwin. In some of the pieces, there’s something of the single line-breath, as though they’re meant to be read quickly, without break.

three thousand an hour upgrade your family
back into the vault the new death toll
in bad taste this is cronyism all the way
more comedy who grew my soup good bye

horse pills transformation my bathroom of
freedom scurrying people panic setting in
stories of survival washed away telling
the tale twisted areas scrap the idea more

more that not the bottom line two hundred
thousand homes and worth the cost who’s
ruining the economy he broke the door
good old fashion hard work all back
to back snow

Lincoln NE/Portland OR: To understand how much I enjoyed American poet Matthew Rohrer’s small chapbook A SHIP LOADED WITH SEQUINS HAS GONE DOWN(Dkembe Press, 2013), you have to experience the first poem I did in the collection:

He wrote amazing poems because he
was fucking a wizard. This perspective
mutilated all his expectations
and he was naked. The wizard threw him
a small thin towel to cover himself with.
I’m sitting in a small bar in Brooklyn
discussing his next move: surely his wife
will climb the pyramid and leap off it
because she is a butterfly. He is
everywhere down there, in the air. Inside
a tiny black bean. It’s not necessary
to live like this, we decide. We crumble
into our highballs, the city outside
consumes things like an enormous creature. (“SONNET”)

In Rohrer’s six-poem chapbook, four of which are three-sonnet pieces, each titled “SONNET,” that twist the language of the first piece into the second two section, re-working the lines of the first to create entirely different poems with the same language, as here, the second part of the three-part “SONNET” (the first part is quoted just above):

I’m sitting in a small bar in Brooklyn
because she is a butterfly. He is
into our highballs. The city outside
mutilated all his expectations
to live like this, we decide. We crumble
everywhere down there, in the air. Inside
he wrote amazing poems because he
will climb the pyramid & leap off it.
Discussing his next move: surely his wife
was fucking a wizard. This perspective
consumes things like an enormous creature.
And he was naked. The wizard threw him
A tiny black bean. It’s not necessary.
a small thin towel to cover himself with.

Bookending the collection are two longer poems, each composed with short phrases that complete a single, fragmented, seemingly-endless and confused sentence, endlessly continuing. Throughout the poems here, is Rohrer attempting to shock, startle or confound? These poems require a shift in perception and perspective, one that playfully pokes at expectation and collision.


12 or 20 (second series) by Jani Krulc

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Jani Krulc has an MA in English Literature and Creative Writing from Concordia University and a BA (Hons) in English from the University of Calgary. She lives with her partner and their animals in Calgary, where she writes and edits professionally. The Jesus Year is her first book.

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?
The book has made this – I mean writing – feel official.

How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?
I think in narrative – all my ideas appear in story form. Poets fascinate me, how they can avoid or explode narrative and play with language. I tend to lie too much for non-fiction.

How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does it 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 and rewrite many times until I feel I have a caught a part of the narrative. Then I usually realize I’m wrong and I have to rewrite until the story takes the shape it wants to. I began some of the stories in The Jesus Year four years ago. They look nothing like the stories in the book. Maybe the setting or a name or a singular event has survived. There’s one exception – the story just came and then it resisted my rewriting it.

When does a story 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?
Anything can ignite a story - a stranger's gesture on the train, a disaster on the news, my current fashion obsessions. But my stories usually start from something concrete in the world that I can't shake off, that keeps returning to me. For my next short story project, I plan to apply some organizing pressure. It took a while for The Jesus Year to come together as a book. But I never know until I start to write.

Are public readings part or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I read my work out loud all the time – it’s part of my writing/re-writing process. Eventually I imagine reading to an audience and I ask myself – does this sound terrible?  I’m always interested to see how an audience reacts, or what it finds funny, or doesn’t. I’m usually surprised.

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 am a feminist, and this position informs my writing. Is it perceptible in my writing? I’m not sure. I am interested in exploring my characters and their lives as fully as possible, and revealing the messy bits, the rot, as it were, that lies beneath. In the past, I’ve found writing towards theory has swayed my stories, or clouded the direction of my narrative. What I'm mostly interested in is motivation – why do people do what do they?

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?
One possible role of the fiction writer is to pay attention, to hone in on the particular and to rearticulate the “universal.” It is also to offer a story that requires compassion from the reader, and a reexamination of the reader’s subject position. And to break the reader’s heart, if possible.

Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential or both?
A good editor will highlight what you are taking for granted, and tell you when you can stop refining small details. At some point in the process, editing just makes the story different, not better. A good editor knows when that point is. So, yes, working with an editor is essential, and I’m very happy that Jon Paul Fiorentino was mine. He talked me down a couple times.

What is the best piece of advice you’ve heard?
Kill your babies. Or is it darlings? Either way, if I’m particularly attached to something in the story – a line, a scene, even a character – it’s usually the first thing that needs to go.

What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep? How does a typical day for you begin?
When I'm in the thick of it, I have to write every day. Because I work full time, I also have to fit my writing around my work day, so I usually write at night. I practice yoga most mornings, or I’d write then. I finished writing the book while I was in India. I would practice yoga for a couple hours in the morning and then write throughout the day; it was pretty ideal.

What other writers or writings are important for your work?
The writing community in Calgary is important to both my work and my life – I think it’s essential for writers to congregate and support each other, to commiserate and lament. Also, they’re fun people to hang out with. Reading short stories is very important as well –that’s another good piece of advice I’ve heard: read what you want to write (and if you want to write short stories, then…). I adore Mavis Gallant and Alice Munro, of course, and Sarah Selecky, Lydia Davis, Miranda July, Caroline Adderson, and so many other writers - I go back to short stories over and over to try to figure out how a story works, and to figure out why mine isn’t if I’m having problems. And also because it’s joyous to read short stories. It makes life better.

If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be?
An actor. What a terrifying job. More likely, a lawyer.

What made you write, as opposed to doing something else.
I think writing is a compulsion, something I have to do. There are few other reasons, maybe no other reason, to do it.

What was the last great book you read?
Drunk Mom by Jowita Bydlowska. The book is engrossing and terrifying; it asks for a reader’s understanding but never for pity. I’ll say Breaking Bad, even though it’s not a film. I had to take a break from the show, though, because I was becoming melancholic and somewhat paranoid.
 
What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Travel to China.

When your writing gets stalled…
I write the same scene over and over again until something shifts and breaks open and I can enter the story again. If that doesn’t work, I usually read a story, or I go for a walk, or I practice yoga. I try to shake myself up.

What fragrance…
The foothills where I grew up have a particular nippy, fresh smell in the Spring, like melting ice cubes infused with grass and lilac. Also, my mom is Greek and an excellent cook, so food: garlic, roasting meat (which I don’t eat anymore, much to her chagrin); fresh tomatoes with olive oil, that sort of thing. That’s home.
 
David W. McFadden once said that books come from books…

I tend to become obsessed with random activities, like finding rental properties on kijiji, researching the best vegan restaurants in cities I want to visit, or imagining the interiors of other people’s homes. These obsessions inform my writing, or sneak in and take over the narrative. I used to play classical piano, and I think my musical background influences the cadence of my prose.  My yoga practice also informs my writing. I treat my writing as a practice, and I try to detach from the results, good or bad. It’s all just play in the end.

What are you currently working on?
A novel.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

today would have been my mother's seventy-third birthday,

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my mother with her sister Patricia (and Pat's tongue),

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