Robin Durnford was born in St. John's Newfoundland and grew up
on the west coast of the island. She is the author of five books of poetry,
including A Lovely Gutting (2012), Fog of the Outport (2013), Half Rock (2016), Gaptoothed (2020), and most
recently, At Beckett's Grave (2025). She currently lives in Montreal
(Tiohtià:ke) where she teaches poetry and memoir at John Abbott College. She is
currently working on a poetry collection called Aspirations for my Enemy
and a novel called Thaw.
1 - How did your
first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your
previous? How does it feel different?
A Lovely Gutting (McGill-Queen’s 2012) changed my life in a myriad of ways. It came out
six months after my son was born (there’s a photo of him somewhere in his baby
swing with a copy placed somewhat inappropriately in his lap for PR purposes).
This was a couple of months after I had taken up my first academic post at
Grenfell Campus, Memorial University and a year after I had eloped to Savannah,
Georgia with my husband. In that very small part of the world—western Newfoundland—it
made a bit of a splash. We had a fancy launch with so many people we had to
change venues at the last minute. I went on tour. We sent the book to Seamus
Heaney on the Strand in Dublin (this was just a year before he died) and he
immediately wrote back to me with some encouraging and now very precious words.
I felt like I had the world by the tail and in a way I did. I had finally
published a book—a book of poetry no less.
At Beckett’s Grave
(McGill-Queen’s 2025) came thirteen years and four
books later. I now live in Montreal. People are still getting to know me here,
to know my story, but I feel like in some ways the release of Beckett’s
Grave is even more special. This time my teenage son could actually come to
the intimate launch I had with friends, true believers, and poetry lovers at
Librairie Pulp Books & Café in Verdun. I felt at home. I realized on that
night that poetry has become my home.
2 - How did you
come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
The story I always
tell is about doing poetry readings into a hairbrush like a pop star as I read
out loud from the old Norton Anthology that had been lying around the
house since I was a child or my mom finding bits of poetry on scraps of paper
around my bedroom—or under the bed or under the pillow or in a shoe—after some
boy broke up with me when I was a teenager. But the real story (although
these other stories are also true) is a little more tragic. My dad died
suddenly one day in 2004. I started working through the trauma rather
poetically in a notebook I kept with me all that first summer on the island
after he died. This became the basis for my first book, but I threw out the
first 100 poems. It took that long for me to start writing anything good—poems
that anyone else would want to read. My first ‘publication’ was some lines I
wrote for my father’s grave:
Once again you dwell beneath the waves/
On the other side of surfaces we hear you laughing still…
(These words now
form the inscription for a memoir I have written called Breach: A Story of
Grief in Five Whales.)
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?
My process has
changed a lot over the years, but then in some ways it hasn’t changed at all. I
usually start with an idea for a book—a controlling metaphor or emotional
current, if you will, and go from there. With A Lovely Gutting, the
metaphor was—rather stereotypically—fish, specifically the gutted fish; Half
Rock (Gaspereau 2016) was into ideas of cleavage, hybridity, and mixedness
of identity as I played with the image of the sedimentary rock I grew up with
and became fascinated by; the fog of grief in Fog of the Outport
(Jackpine 2013); the gaps in time and identity as I worked through my
relationship with my own gap tooth in Gaptoothed (Gaspereau 2020); and
Beckett’s existentialism and my rather foolishly getting lost trying to find
his grave at a cemetery in Paris for At Beckett’s Grave.
My one rule is
that I never stick too tightly to the focus and even let myself wander off a
bit because I never want the poetry to feel contrived or forced. For it to
work, for me, the metaphor should emerge naturally from my life as helpful and
poignant in some way—as a spine for the collection rather than a cudgel.
In general, I
write discreet poetic drafts that I call little poetic slabs that I then carve
and sculpt and refine into shape. I’ve gotten better and better at it over the
years, and I find these days the poems sometimes come nearly fully formed, but
I also think it feels that way because I trust myself more. I know what I am
looking for, and I am better at recognizing a poem when it comes.
4 - Where does a
poem or work of prose 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 usually
begins with… honestly? I have no idea. An emotion. An image. A trace of memory.
A voice. It can be anything. I just sit within my own quietness, if I can get
it, and see what comes up. Sometimes a spark will come from reading. Certain
poets and writers can be quite generative for me, others not so much. It feels
a bit random.
The answer to the
second part of this question is both: I start with short pieces that I stitch
together into a book, but I usually end up throwing a bunch away in a reality
TV show-like elimination game of poetry survivor.
5 - Are public
readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of
writer who enjoys doing readings?
I love doing
readings. From the very beginning I loved reading poetry to an audience and
can’t get enough of it really. I would read to one person or a room of
thousands. I just love the sound of words and the way words make music on the
tongue, and I think I am good at this very elemental thing—connecting humans to
the vital sound of words rolling or roaring off the page. I also love hearing
other poets read whether it be my friends in Montreal or recordings of Dylan
Thomas, Sylvia Plath, Seamus Heaney. For some reason I think it’s very
important that humans get up to this—especially now.
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 the
theoretical concern behind my poetry these days is to have no theoretical
concerns—to let the poems feel and to help others feel what it means to be
human and alive and complicated and lovely, to really speak to and connect to
other humans in a way that lets them know it’s okay—it’s okay to be us and to
not know and to just experience ourselves and the world as it is—not as you are
told things ‘should’ be. (I have rather pretentiously thought of this recent stance
of mine—this letting go—as a sort of New Humanism).
On the other hand,
I started out with a lot of theoretical ‘chips’ on my shoulder—class,
marginalized linguistic identity (in terms of my Newfoundland accent/dialect),
feminism, giving voice to grief and trauma at a time (twenty years ago) when
Canadians seemed scared of being real about all that.
I still feel
strongly about the Newfoundland accent. I want to be able to read and write in
my own distinctive voice. I feel that my voice should not be flattened into
Canadian conformity and blandness either (as I was pressured to do early in my
career). I feel the vibrancy of the accent can sometimes make the poems come
alive on and off the page, and this should be celebrated.
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?
At Banff in 2025 I
was lucky enough to workshop a new prose manuscript (a memoir called Breach)
with the incredible Omar El Akkad (American War; One Day, Everyone
Will Have Always Been Against This). I admire him so much and the way he
carries himself as a writer in the world. He tells the truth as he sees it. He
responds passionately to the moment even at some risk to himself. I want to
follow that model in my own small way. This is nothing new, of course, but I
think writers should be truth-tellers. Anti-propagandists, if you will. I think
they should be on the side of the human—the ordinary human against the powerful
systems that oppress and harm them, the forces of violence, etc. I teach
Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis every year and I have thought of that book
every day since the Iran War started. Her little human story is the story of
that whole country now—and I grieved for her on the first day when the girl’s
school got bombed in Minab.
It’s our job to be
human, to remind people what it means to be human, to express that humanity, to
tell stories, turn emotions into words that can be articulated and responded
to.
This is crucial
work in the world. It is more crucial than ever right now.
8 - Do you find
the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I love editors. I
wish there were more of them and they got paid better. I think writers NEED
editors especially now. Yes, I love working with editors especially when they
share your vision and believe in your work. I had only one bad experience with
an editor, and I think it was because they didn’t share my vision. They wanted
to make my work more ‘accessible’ which is a word I actually hate (when it
comes to writing) and there aren’t many words I hate.
9 - What is the
best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
The best piece of
advice I’ve ever heard as a writer comes from Seamus Heaney: Don’t listen to
anybody who has not produced good work. The second piece of advice comes
from Doris Lessing: The conditions for writing will always be impossible
(so don’t let that stop you). And the third piece of advice comes from me (she
says arrogantly): Even when it comes to our precious writing—and we can be
precious about it!—actual humans come first but so does the truth, and
that’s a delicate balance sometimes. Also, be nice. There’s really no need to
be a dick in this life. (Another piece of advice was said to me directly from
the former poet laureate of Wales: There are assholes everywhere.)
10 - How easy has
it been for you to move between genres (poetry to prose)? What do you see as
the appeal?
It is pretty easy
for me although almost everything comes out first (or best) as poetry. Still, I
started out as a journalist. I come from a storytelling culture. Sometimes you
just have to tell the story.
That’s what
happened to me a few years ago. I got a little tired of ‘telling my story’ in
fragments or bits and pieces of poetry and just wanted the whole narrative laid
out there plainly for everyone to see: death of my father, ‘scandalous’
marriage, birth of my son, becoming a poet and this became Breach (see
above), a work of creative non-fiction. I’m working on a novel now (called Thaw)
that goes over some of the same events but from a different angle.
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?
These days I can’t
keep much of a routine as I work full-time at the college (John Abbott College
in Montreal). I am one of those people, I’m afraid, who people make fun of for
getting up a 5 am, but I have to. I live on the Plateau Mont Royal, so I feel
the need to get up before the city does in order to get some quiet and even
then! I try to get between one and four hours of writing time in during the
mornings depending on my schedule and the day and who needs what and when. It
doesn’t always work. I often work weekends to make up for lost time during the
week. I barely ever work in the evenings because I am too tired and my brain
generally stops functioning after supper. I got my work ethic from my late father
who grew up in poverty, had three kids, and built a business from the ground
up.
The typical day
begins with coffee—exactly three cups—and going over my schedule and then a
poem or two and some sort of lefty political podcast.
12 - When your
writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better
word) inspiration?
When my writing
gets stalled, I return to my desk or notebook and keep going. I re-read, I
remember, I try not to judge (oh, but I judge), I try to believe if a book is
supposed to be it will be. I follow my intuition, annoying I know, but if a
project is really stuck, I just move on to a new project at least for a
while and hope for the best. I often have multiple projects going at once.
Reading also helps.
13 - What
fragrance reminds you of home?
Cedar. I grew up
in a cedar house. Plaster and glue. My father was a prosthetist and built legs
for people. The sea.
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?
All of the above
really, with perhaps some particular affection for visual art. I’ve
collaborated with visual artists, dancers, and musicians and I love it. I would
also add fashion and gossip. Yellow journalism. Tabloids. Scandal.
Also: the ocean
and its rhythms + moods—mainly the North Atlantic but also the Pacific; whales,
fish, lately cats. Glenn Gould.
15 - What other
writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of
your work?
Some poems come to
mind: Sylvia Plath’s “Point Shirley”; Seamus Heaney’s “Mossbawn: Sunlight” and
“Casualty”; Elizabeth Bishop’s “At the Fishhouses,” Frank O’Hara’s “Having aCoke with You” (the most romantic poem ever written); and Dylan Thomas’s, “In my craft or sullen art.” Louise Glück’s collected works. e.e. cummings’s “my father moved through dooms of love.” Eden Robinson’s Monkey Beach (this
is a novel) and Traplines (short stories). Louise Erdrich’s short story “The Shawl” (this one is actually magic). Marilyn Dumont’s “The Devil’s Language.” The Picture of Dorian Gray because it still feels dangerous. Anything
by Louise Bernice Halfe. Mahmoud Darwish. The careers of Michael Crummey and
Lisa Moore and Mary Dalton (bless them). Omar El Akkad. Danez Smith. Octavia Butler. Salman Rushdie. James Baldwin. Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge.
Ursula K LeGuin. Haruki Murakami. Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Kafka. Shakespeare’s The
Tempest. Joyce. Freud. Lacan. The psychoanalyst Jamieson Webster (On
Breathing: Care in a Time of Catastrophe). Now looking into Bachelard (The Psychoanalysis of Fire).
And well, my last
collection of poetry was an homage to Samuel Beckett, so definitely that
wonderful anti-fascist Samuel Beckett.
16 - What would
you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Travel to the
middle east (as we say in the west). One day, hopefully soon (I’m a little too
chicken right now), when the dust settles and the world is different, I would
like to go to Egypt and do the tourist thing. I want to take my son to the
pyramids as I promised him when he was little, but I would also like to travel
beyond that. Anywhere it’s safe. Oman. I would definitely like to see Oman. I
would like to go to Japan and sing karaoke with my brother-in-law who has lived
there for decades. I would like to attend a fancy ball (maybe a fancy writer’s prize!)
in a designer dress. I would like to go to the islands of St. Pierre et
Miquelon (and maybe the Îles de la Madeleine and Anticosti Island) and visit
the Torngat Mountains in Labrador. I would like to do a poetry reading in the
cathedral at the very top of Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy. I would like to own
a corgi, a dachshund, or an Irish setter. I would like to go to Jean Talon
market and buy flowers with a toy dog in my purse.
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?
It says in my high
school yearbook that I wanted to be a war correspondent, so I’ll go with that.
18 - What made you
write, as opposed to doing something else?
Boring answer: I
had to. There was no something else for me. I am obsessed and have been
obsessed with the written word my entire life except for a brief moment when I
was a teenager and became obsessed with boys.
19 - What was the
last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Books: Omar El
Akkad, One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This; Lucy
Grealy’s amazing Autobiography of a Face
Film: No Other Land
20 - What are you
currently working on?
As mentioned, a
novel called Thaw: The Unfreezing of a Family in which three siblings
look back on the traumatic death of their father—and the image of their living
father—with different eyes. The story starts with a family crisis that brings
them together rather reluctantly. In this horrible moment, they finally realize
that healing will only come when they melt the freeze that has come between
them in order to put a coherent story together that will help them make their
peace with each other, with the family, with their father.
12 or 20 (second series) questions;
