Jody Chan, Madness Belongs to the People

 

Don don ko doko doko. Don don ko doko doko! Taiko repertoire is often taught orally, relying on repetition. I learnt to drum through kuchi shōga, a system of call-and-response phonetic notation. The body learns first, then the mind follows. Vibrations felt in our feet, in our instruments’ round faces. In the streets, too, I’ll follow any megaphone. I believe that we will win, I chant obediently, even when I don’t. Without context, can language be trusted? Can sound? (“ECHOLALIA”)

Toronto-based “poet, multidisciplinary artist, care worker, and community organizer” Jody Chan’s third full-length collection, and the first I’ve seen, is Madness Belongs to the People (Prince Edward County ON: Brick Books, 2026), following sick (Black Lawrence Press, 2020) and impact statement (Kingston ON: Brick Books, 2024). Madness Belongs to the People offers itself as a book-length suite of first-person narrative fragments, prose poems and more traditional lyrics that deceptively hold a kind of accumulative through-line, propulsive through language of dense prose and lyric gymnastics. “where once you heard the cymbal / sing, dream house inside out, what luck when the performance // does not take place on this page,” Chan writes, as part of the poem “(audio score:,” “when the poem contacts not // a square of sanity, not one. madness describes / an energetic state.” Moving through all three of her book-titles alone, the notion of illness is a thread that connects the three titles, and the poems of Madness Belongs to the People work to articulate and document. As the back cover offers, this collection “mobilizes the intimate, the historical, the revolutionary, and the mundane to investigate madness as resistance and political strategy,” a curious element for the larger tapestry of the book’s structure. Chan’s poems articulate how mental illness marginalizes and stigmatizes, as well as reduces, erasing the possibility of how anyone gets seen beyond their illness. Instead, Chan offers a way through destigmatizing through democracizing, “for the people,” as it were, seeing how not so far apart we all might be, comparable to other recent titles such as Roxanna Bennett’s We Gladly Feast on Those Who Would Subdue Us (Guelph ON: Gordon Hill Press, 2026) [see my review of such here], Steffi Tad-y’s Notes from the Ward (Gordon Hill Press, 2025) [see my review of such here], AJ Dolman’s Crazy/Mad (Gordon Hill Press, 2024) [see my review of such here] or Concetta Principe’s DISORDER (Gordon Hill Press, 2024) [see my review of such here]. Set itself as an accumulation of fragments, Chan’s title sequence includes: “I want to take care of the parts of myself I can’t change.” Or a bit further, as the poem “MADNESS IS A STRATEGY” includes:

Madness disturbs the book. Anger bubbles the page, blooms a
gathering. A red breach I tend to boil over. The place my
madness knows as home: a low-pressure front, a reservoir of
panic. A muscular humidity, threatening heat. 

 

 

To the state, mass murder is a matter of economy. Years into a
pandemic, masking becomes an uncommon accommodation.
Words interrupt, but they cannot solve. Not anger alone,
translated into bodies in the street. A call-and-response of
strategy and pragmatism is not sufficient. Language cannot
replace movement, only approximate it.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Marissa Lingen

Marissa Lingen is a freelance writer who lives in the Minneapolis suburbs with her family. She is the author of over three hundred works of short science fiction and fantasy and has no intention of stopping any time soon. She also writes essays, poetry, and whatever comes to her next. Her debut novella, A Dubious Clamor, is out today from Horned Lark Press.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
Well, this is my first book-length piece of fiction to be published, so that's pretty exciting! The other books I've written have either been collections of shorter, previously published pieces of fiction or, back in the mists of time, work for hire nonfiction textbooks. It feels very different indeed because with a collection, you have some idea of which pieces people have liked or how they've responded. There are at least some previews of reader reaction. Whereas with a novella or novel, here it is for the very first time! Fun but scary. I got to put all kinds of things I really like in this book, so while there is serious theme, there is also quite a lot of me riffing on fun things I like.
 
2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?
I started having my mom take dictation of my stories when I was a preschooler, because I didn't write fast enough to suit my own needs. Fiction is very literally one of the first things I've ever loved. Everything I've done in poetry and nonfiction came later. I come from a family of storytellers, and that strain came out particularly strong in me.
 
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 have written things that took me one afternoon, start to finish, while other pieces have taken multiple decades. It really does depend on the project. My first drafts seem pretty drafty to me (lots of holes for the wind to blow through!), but they also come out of copious notes. The notes are crucial, but they don't stop my habit of revision!
 
4 - Where 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?
I have a lot of short story experience, so I can usually tell the difference between short pieces and a novel-shaped project. I have one exception, a mosaic novel I'm still working on. Otherwise, if I can write it as a short story, I do. Everything I write is as short as I can possibly make it.

As for the beginning, it can be literally anything: an article, a fragment of lyrics, a chance remark. This particular book started with a friend of mine protesting that he didn't have a murderous bone in his body, and my brain just ran off with that in a very 19th century fantasy direction.
 
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I do like a good reading! I don't find them to be either part of or counter to the creative process, though, since I only read finished work at readings. I want my readers to hear something polished and enjoyable.
 
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'm not sure there are questions that are the current questions. Fiction writers can bring their own takes to "how do we live," "what do we owe each other," "justice: ???," "what would it be like if we lived in a spaceship for a super-long time," questions people have been exploring for a long time. "What would this previous story look like now instead" is a big one. One of my friends claims that "I found something really weird, let's see if we can be friends" is a common thread in my work, and he is. Uh. Not wrong. But one of the great things about writing a lot is that I don't have to have just one theoretical concern or question, I can play in a lot of different pools.
 
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I think the role is as varied as the writer. We can provide comfort and escape or ask the difficult questions and skewer the powerful--and both are valid and useful. Just as I don't always want to read the same kind of book, I don't think we should all be the same kind of writer. Some writers take the role of making us laugh, some of making us flinch, some both or neither, in a beautiful rainbow of prose.
 
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Oh, definitely essential. "How much of what was in my head actually came across on the page" is a question that requires another brain to answer! I've been very lucky in the editors I've worked with.
 
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
"Eyes on your own paper." Everyone works differently, and I've seen a lot of writers tie themselves in knots trying to fit someone else's process, someone else's timeline, someone else's audience. We have to do the work that's ours to do, not some generalized version of it.
 
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (short stories to novellas)? What do you see as the appeal?
I regularly switch from long to short and back again, and I also switch from science fiction to fantasy and whatever the fuzzy middle is between. I also write for both adults and young people. Basically I want every story to fit what that story needs and what that reader needs, rather than only doing one thing. Human beings vary so much--I don't want anybody to feel like I'm not talking to them.
 
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 wake up around 5, make myself oatmeal, and read my messages and the news. I do better when I'm having regular workouts, so I tend to fit in a little writing, then a workout and shower, then more writing. Because I'm a writer full time, I have some flexibility if a family member needs something, which was really convenient in the last years of my grandmother's life, but right now--and long may it last--I mostly get to have pretty normal writing days.
 
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
One of my friends talks about "filling up our word buckets," which I think is great. I read a lot. No, more than that. I read a lot. That helps me when my writing stalls out. Honestly, once I learned to ask, "What's wrong with you?" as a kind and genuine question, for which real answers might exist, rather than a scolding rhetorical question, I got through my stalled periods much better. It helps me to identify whether I'm genuinely exhausted or distressed by something in my non-writing life or whether I just need to think through the next section of writing more clearly, and if so in what ways.
 
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Cardamom. Many people associate this with the MENA region or South Asia, but the Nordic countries also use a lot of cardamom in baking.
 
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'm a passionate fan of museums, particularly of sculpture. I need to listen to music when I'm not writing, but I like to work in quiet. It's good for the inspiration phase more than the composition phase.
 
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Oh, too many to name! I'm fortunate to exist in a really vibrant community of writers who lift each other up personally and professionally. Just glancing at my list of preorders that are out soon as I'm writing this, I'm looking forward to upcoming books from Naomi Kritzer, CL Polk, John Wiswell, and Premee Mohamed, among others--but I'm also lucky to get to celebrate their successes as their friend.
 
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I keep thinking that some year I'm going to drive the Trans-Canada Highway from Victoria to St. John's (yes, including the ferry bits). I'm not sure how I got this in my head, but it sure does sound like me.
 
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 started out thinking that writing would only be a side gig and my main profession would be nuclear physicist. Maybe if I was different enough not to be a writer, that would have suited me better than it did. I also interned for a summer at an actuarial firm. Math is very peaceful for me.
 
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I have a head full of stories, and if I write, it doesn't overflow. The stories have somewhere to go.
 
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Amal El-Mohtar's Seasons of Glass and Iron was so intense and lovely. It was so good to have those stories all under one cover. As for the last great film...I really, really loved what Wake Up Dead Man was doing with faith and characterization. Its many Golden Age mystery callouts didn't hurt either.
 
20 - What are you currently working on?
I went on vacation and accidentally wrote most of a fantasy novella. Oops! So now I have to get back to the science fiction novel I promised my agent, which I describe as being "like if Rebecca Solnit wrote Star Trek III." 

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Leigh Kotsilidis, Some of Us May Live

  

SCIENTIFIC PREDICTABILITY

Wolf believes science
can predict his fate 

As if distant phenomena
will tell him something pivotal: 

whether he’ll get the perfect job,
the exact moment she’ll pull away. 

He waits for specific parts of his brain to light up.
Listens for imperilled croaks in the night – 

Odobenus rosmarus, walrus, horse-whale,
shore giant, tooth-walking sea cow. 

Bear, too, sits heavy in his thoughts.
Bats hang on like heartbeats.. 

Clouds snag on mountain peaks.
Trees contort, palsy. 

Out there, in verity,
catastrophe.

The second full-length collection from Montreal-based poet and intermedia artist Leigh Kotsilidis, following Hypotheticals (Toronto ON: Coach House Books, 2011) [see my review of such here], is Some of Us May Live (Coach House Books, 2026), a collection some fifteen years, one might reason, in the making. I’m intrigued by the steady punch of Kotsilidis’ sharp and short-lined lyric sketchworks, offering accumulating phrases that thread together to form narrative shapes. Just listen to the opening of the three-page poem “FIRST PRINCIPLES,” that begins: “A theory exists / for each of us. // To stop motion, / something heavier must intervene. // There is nothing / that won’t crush you. // The more you suffer, / the more you remember. // A crisis churns / out opportunity. // Fame promises fun / until someone ODs. // We pay heed / only to what is useful.” Kotsilidis’ narrative shapes nearly form rings, from the phrase and the sentence to the poem, and into the collection itself, a book-length single moment of perpetual clarity. One might say that the sentences and phrases of Some of Us May Live extend and interplay with an ongoingness, almost as a book-length line, broken up into line breaks and individual poems, run almost continuous from the first page to the last. Or, as the poem “WHAT WE CAN’T SEE” begins: “We wade at the edge / of what is beyond us // There is nothing more / than delusion // Men mistake porch bulbs / for moons // A body drifts indeterminately / unnoticed // Every body leaves / over time [.]”

At nearly one hundred and thirty pages (albeit with thirty pages of endnotes, perhaps the most I’ve seen for an individual poetry title), there’s a heft to this collection, and a shift in an ecopoetic from focusing the impact of climate crisis upon the landscape to that of the world’s inhabitants, offering a kind of bestiary, one comparable to Vancouver poet Meghan Kemp-Gee’s own full-length poetry debut from the same publisher, The Animal in the Room (2023) [see my review of such here]. “How / to communicate that / which has no name // or why a name said / again and again and again / dissipates.” she writes, to close the short poem “SUBLIMATION,” “Lying / among such incessancy / our bodies // concede; / a thousand bees / devour us irretrievably.” Kotsilidis’ clear-eyed interiorities ripple across the lyric, the landscape, attempting to articulate the question of how one is able to live amid such self-created crises. “We raise stone / and concrete edifices. / The only sounds between walls / the ones we create.” she writes, as part of “SCALE PROBLEM,” “We dismiss birds that signal / heavy weather. / Wait out high winds / threatening the next resonance disaster.” From stardust to oceans, suburbia to glaciers, selfies to snow fences, the scale of these accumulated poems, these questions, observations and life-lessons, is enormously rich, varied and complex, managing to encapsulate everything there is and might be, fully aware it can never be contained. Or, as the three-page “ANIMAL SENSE” closes:

A roach without its head
can live for weeks 

You must flirt, be funny,
buy her a couple of drinks 

Naming a dead celestial body
after one date, don’t 

Too much stimuli
will trigger fight, or flight 

You can lead a horse
down any road 

But if you tell the horse
how to be a horse, it will buck 

You can’t keep snakes
and expect them to bite only the neighbour 

Be the ant
Become the spore

 

Patrick Kindig, Agape

 

MENELAUS

When Telemachus and Pisistratus arrive, Menelaus is overjoyed. They drink & drink & he tells war stories, talks about Odysseus. He leans against Telemachus’ shoulder & tells him he looks like his father. When Menelaus begins to compliment Telemachus’ arms, his wife looks away. By midnight Menelaus is very drunk & Telemachus & Pisistratus are tired so they excuse themselves & find their way to the guest room. Undressed, they fall asleep.

Pisistratus does not wake until morning. Telemachus wakes only once in the dark, a little drunk, something warm pressed against his thigh.

When the run rises Menelaus is still asleep & his wife serves them breakfast & does not look at them. Pisistratus recounts a dream in which his horse was stolen. Telemachus does not say anything. They pack their bags & leave without seeing Menelaus & soon they are home again. When Telemachus, days later, unpacks his bag, something unfamiliar falls out. It is a coin purse, red & full of money. Try as he might, he cannot close its mouth.

There is much to admire in the smart, sharp and tender poems of Maryland poet Patrick Kindig’s latest full-length collection, Agape (Broomall PA: Saturnalia Books, 2026), winner of the Saturnalia Books Alma Award. This is a collection that follows Kindig’s Dry Spell (Porkbelly Press, 2016), all the catholic gods (Seven Kitchens Press, 2019) and fascinations (Finishing Line Press, 2025), as well as the monograph Fascination: Trance, Enchantment, and American Modernity (LSU Press, 2022). There feels an element of New York School Frank O’Hara’s first-person declarations, tender gestures, cultural references and sharp observations through Kindig’s lyrics, but with an element of sly humour, one closer to the wry lyrics of Toronto poet Marcus McCann, especially through their shared lyric, one more overtly physical, erotic, queer and classical. As the poem “TENDERNESS FOR TRISTAN” begins: “there is a boy & a girl & another / boy. the two boys like to wrestle / & drink vodka after dark. they talk / about visiting amsterdam next summer / for the usual reasons. they have rules / for what will happen if they / are in a threesome. the girl // is sometimes ther but she is always / in the background. when the boys / wrestle, she watches.” Composing precise lines rippled with a musical flow and ease, Kindig’s humour is quiet, even unobtrusive, until something finally breaks through the surface, offering poems that return, once more, to the subject of the attraction between two men. Listen, for example, to the opening to the poem “ROBERT FROST SAYS NOTHING GOLD / CAN STAY,” as Kindig offers an alternate consideration upon the familiar, writing: “but Robert Frost clearly never tried / to clean dog piss out of carpet. // Which is to say: dog piss is / forever. It settles in, makes a home // for itself of whatever soft thing / it touches.”

Through an array of mythical and literary figures, Kindig writes origins and old gods; Biblical and classical tales told and retold, shaped from alternate perspectives. Kindig writes encounters with and through Adam, Daniel, Cain and Abel, Shakespeare’s Romeo, Dido and Aeneas, Tristan and Menelaus, offering alternate versions of familiar tales, and seeing what else might have occurred beneath the skin of what has long been told. “& he loved adam in ways to which adam / was unaccustomed,” begins the poem “& IN THE GARDEN, TOO, THERE WAS A / SECOND MAN, & HE WAS LONELY,” “raising, & re-raising the matter // of his groin, what grew there, drawing attention / to his nakedness & the way this nakedness // pleased him, & whenever eve found them together / he would tell her they were wrestling, & indeed // they were always wrestling, [.]”