Tuesday, October 29, 2024

Geoffrey Olsen, Nerves Between Song

 

the fur is dream and gelatinous
I can’t speak or present can’t speak
life within mouth of leaves
dream mouth

arrayed around the bleak opening
I do not have ownership over blade and all the
things of a blade on the edge of
climactic or feral

and the edge reproducing the dream in
a now of disaster songs
after songs and I’m also
the cat and the imbued indirect
that waits, waiting

unordered, unwindowed (“THE DEER HAVENS”)

Following a pair of chapbooks produced so far is the full-length debut by Brooklyn poet Geoffrey Olsen, his Nerves Between Song (Brooklyn NY: Beautiful Days Press, 2024), a collection set as a suite of five sections of poem-clusters: “THE DEER HAVENS” (which appeared previously as an above/ground press chapbook), “nerves between song,” “LUSH INTERFERENCE,” “THE RADIANT MOSS” and “CONGLOMERATE.” Nerves Between Song offers a quintet of poem structures that collage and accumulate, articulating a poetics of voice and ecological concerns, animals and language, gesture and cascade, fragment and lyric sweep. “to smell the light // the plural of animals / the other worlds ended / with this one,” he writes, to close the poem “THERE ARE SACRED CONTOURS AND FRAGMENTS,” as part of the opening section.

His lyrics twist, twirl, accumulate and experiment with form. Across five poem-sections, lines and fragments overlap, bleed, accumulate; he writes a kind of field notes for witness, attending both landscape and wildlife. “I could be doing dialogues for our / experience recessed shadow,” he writes, as part of the poem “THERE TRANSLUCENCE,” set in the fourth section, “felt declension / light shakes in the liquid [.]” There’s an ongoingness to Olsen’s lyrics, one that provides less of a sense of individual poems or poem-fragments, but a larger, full-length structure of ebbs and flows, gesture and nuance. This collection, this book-length poem, is a complex, lovely thing.

for Brandon Shimoda

heat. little circular. embrace ash. voice entangles
shadow prison. little figure stretch against land-
scape. that stolen. that invaded. that incarcerated.
wood surface. sweats alone. built. the noise is piano
dissolves piano. current, what is gray eye? cat length
sinuous wrap self with tile. curling inward. heat clips
sentence. want of meaningful. the reserve is heat. a
leather patch. it dissolves bit by bit. fading shade.
evaporation. we lick each other, the rock for rock salt.
permission for ecstasy. impossibly weighs. a continu-
ous turning down. “what’s the word for this ongoing?”


Monday, October 28, 2024

new from above/ground press: carisse, Landers, Logan, Benedict, Strath, Levy, Shirley, FitzGerald, Jaeger, fitzpatrick, Inniss + Touch the Donkey #43,

poetry and labour / is concrete, russell carisse $5 ; SIDEWALK NATURALIST, Sue Landers $5 ; THERE’S NOTHING OUT THERE, Nate Logan $5 ; Touch the Donkey [a small poetry journal] #43, with new poems by Lisa Samuels, Tom Jenks, Nate Logan, Henry Gould, Sandra Doller, Kit Roffey, Leesa Dean and Scott Inniss $8 ; Fragments of a Mirrored-Voice For a Friend, Alexander Hammond Benedict $5 ; Inconsistent Cemeteries, Mckenzie Strath $5 ; To Assemble an Absence, John Levy $5 ; CASSETTE POEMS, factory practice-room cassette-recording responses, Vik Shirley $5 ; Each Mouthful Dripping… poems from slogans, Ian FitzGerald $5 ; SELECTED MEMOIRS, Peter Jaeger $5 ; Spectral Arcs, ryan fitzpatrick $5 ; Back Shelve, Scott Inniss $5 ;

keep an eye on the above/ground press blog for author interviews, new writing, reviews, upcoming readings and tons of other material; oh, and you heard that 2025 subscriptions are now available, yes?

published in Ottawa by above/ground press
August-October 2024
a/g subscribers receive a complimentary copy of each


To order, send cheques (add $1 for postage; in US, add $2; outside North America, add $5) to: rob mclennan, 2423 Alta Vista Drive, Ottawa ON K1H 7M9. E-transfer or PayPal at at rob_mclennan (at) hotmail.com or the PayPal button (above). Scroll down here to see various backlist titles, or click on any of the extensive list of names on the sidebar (many, many things are still in print).

With forthcoming chapbooks by: Brook Houglum (two!), Nathanael O'Reilly, Orchid Tierney, Andy Weaver, Catriona Strang, Penn Kemp, Jason Heroux and Dag T. Straumsvag, Alice Burdick, Susan Gevirtz, Carter Mckenzie, Maxwell Gontarek, Conal Smiley, Noah Berlatsky, JoAnna Novak, Julia Cohen, Ryan Skrabalak, Terri Witek and David Phillips; and probably others! (yes: others,

Sunday, October 27, 2024

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Trisia Eddy Woods

Trisia Eddy Woods is the author of A Road Map for Finding Wild Horses (Turnstone Press, 2024.) A former editor for Red Nettle Press, Trisia’s writing has appeared in a variety of literary journals and chapbooks across North America including Contemporary Verse 2, The Garneau Review, and New American Writing. Her artwork has been exhibited both close to home and internationally, and is held in the special collection of the Herron Art Library. Currently she lives in Edmonton / amiskwaciywâskahikan with her family, which includes an array of four-legged companions. Her photography, including wild horses, can be found online at prairiedarkroom.com or IG: @prairiedarkroom

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

My first chapbook was a long form poem published with dancing girl press, over ten years ago now. I really loved it, it felt special and the poem still holds a lot of meaning for me. Although the setting is quite different, this current book is similar in the sense that I am exploring different layers of connection. However, I definitely see and feel where I have grown as a writer, and I feel more confident in my voice. This being my first full-length collection, I’m incredibly excited to see it out in the world.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

I was encouraged when I was still in junior high school by my English teacher, Mrs. Leppard. I remember her putting together a compilation of pieces written by students, and when one of my poems was chosen I felt incredibly proud. I continued writing poetry throughout university, and after my kids were born. It wasn’t very accomplished or well edited, but poetry was a way for me to write in the brief spells of time I had in between working and mothering. As they have grown I have been able to spend more focused time, be more thoughtful and consistent. I’d definitely like to write essays or fiction; perhaps that is on the horizon.

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 am constantly writing things that come to mind, and collect them in notebooks or on my phone if I don’t have a pen and paper. I also often make voice memos to myself, and  transcribe them every couple of months. This particular project was done over several years, so I had a lot of disorganized pieces to go through and make sense of!

Lately as I have been dealing with the effects of long covid I find myself coming across snippets of writing, and I cannot remember when they are from, or the context under which I wrote them. So I am accumulating a collection of verses that are simply phrases I like the sound of, or evoke certain feelings, which is proving to be an interesting way to put together a project.

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 think that my ideas grow out of what I happen to be obsessing over at the time. I don’t purposefully create a book, but I do like to deeply explore concepts and get lost in research, so that seems to organically take shape as a larger body of work. Sometimes it feels as though the idea of putting together a collection is intimidating, as I have a few half-formed manuscripts that were supposed to be ‘books.’ In the last several years, though, I have become more comfortable with taking things apart and letting them go, whether it is individual poems or a collection.

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

Having helped organized readings in the past, I found them really quite inspiring and important in terms of hearing the work of others, as well as sharing my own. Poetry in particular has always seemed to me a kind of art form that enjoys being read aloud. I love hearing writers interpret their work in their own voice, I think you hear things that you might miss just reading from the page. With this book I have had a few opportunities already to read at different events, and it seems to bring a life to the project that is invigorating on a different level.

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?

That’s a difficult one. I don’t know that I have contemplated much in the way of theoretical concerns, aside from my own emotional processes. In the past I was often mired in wanting to say something ‘important,’ and I struggled with feeling reluctant to share my writing. Now I appreciate the fact that all of us have important experiences and perspectives to share, so perhaps I might say that one current consideration is to be generous with our reading and writing, and to make space for embracing a variety of questions and answers, especially from voices that are not traditionally heard.

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 work in a library, so I see first hand the influence of writers in people’s lives. It’s quite amazing, really, how many books circulate, and how attached people get to certain authors. How excited they are when their holds arrive, how disappointed they are when we don’t have something they are looking for on the shelf. How much they love to talk about a book they really enjoyed, with staff and with strangers. I think if writers could see the interactions we have with the public they would feel quite proud of the pivotal role they play in creating community.

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

A Road Map for Finding Wild Horses was my first opportunity to work closely with an editor, and it was a transformative experience. I was very fortunate to work with Di Brandt, and she asked a lot of questions that helped me clarify what I was wanting to convey in the manuscript. So in that sense, it was definitely both; difficult because I was confronted with the potential weaknesses in my writing, and at the same time essential, because I was able to dig deep to answer those questions.

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

When I was working with Di, at one point she told me ‘you need to trust your writing more,’ and I was really struck by that. I think there are a lot of moments (for myself, at least!) where second-guessing the words on the page becomes a habit, and the idea of giving ourselves permission to believe in what we write can be very liberating.

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

In many ways I see both my visual art practice and my writing practice as a conversation—there are times when I don’t have much to say in writing, and I turn to photography or printmaking to express what I am processing at the moment. Other days writing takes over, and I will spend weeks without picking up my camera. There is a certain amount of comfort in knowing that if the words aren’t at my fingertips, I still have ways of finding a creative outlet. It also means I am looking at the world in a multi-faceted way: sometimes I see or experience a moment and words come to mind, while other times I am struck by the particular way the light is just so, and feel the need to create a photograph.

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?

It is really only in the past couple of years that I’ve been able to develop any kind of writing routine. In the past I always just found bits of time here and there, late at night when everyone had gone to bed, or perhaps during the odd retreat away from home. Now I am able to sit and focus more consistently, but it is definitely a practice I am still working on.

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

I had to kind of laugh at this question, because my writing has been a constant sort of journey of starts and stops. I’ve learned to find inspiration in little things, as that is often what life is composed of; unfolding moments that make you pause. Sunsets that take your breath away, music that makes you teary. Really appreciating small accomplishments, or even the ability to have the time to rest and breathe in between the bustle.

13 - What was your last Hallowe'en costume?

A witch, I think? I still have this fabulous witch hat I used to wear on Hallowe’en when I did library story times.

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?

Yes, all of it! Especially since much of what I write about is the interconnectedness of life, how loss of that connection spurs grief, how rediscovery of it can open us up in so many ways. All of these modes of expression are avenues for exploring our relationships with one another and the world around us.

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

I have always been buoyed by friends who are fellow writers. I think it has been that encouragement and support that kept me on the path, because there were many moments when I felt discouraged or ready to shove ideas in the drawer. Dear friends like Jenna Butler, Shawna Lemay, Marita Dachsel… reading their writing has been sustaining in some dark moments because it feels like having a conversation with them.

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

Oh gosh, so many things. Before I became ill, I was actually booked on a trip to Sable Island, to photograph the wild horses there. I still plan on doing that. I also dream of photographing Polar bears in the north; that trip definitely requires more planning, but the time I have to actually make it there feels pressing as our climate radically shifts. I also look forward to the day I go to Montreal to see one of my sons perform; he’s studying jazz at university and will be doing his final recital soon. That will be a proud day.

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 often think I would have liked to have been a teacher; my husband is a teacher and the stories he brings home have become a part of our family mythology now. I was always struck by what a difference he made in many of his student’s lives. But now my oldest son is also becoming a teacher, so I will live vicariously!

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

Writing was something I often turned to as a child. I had no siblings so spent a lot of time alone, immersed in creating other worlds, and writing became a sort of refuge. During the years of raising a family, writing was often the same kind of respite, but in the sense that I had a place to go and decompress, explore my thoughts while caught in the tangle of parenting and working and all the other things life entails.

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

Most recently I have been reading and thoroughly enjoying Jasmine Odor’s newest novel, The Harvesters. We just watched American Fiction which was based on the novel Erasure, it was really well done.

20 - What are you currently working on?

Lately I have had to focus on health and recovery, which has meant finding new ways to incorporate writing and creative expression, as it is difficult to sustain any kind of activity, mental or physical. I find being in natural spaces is one of the things that is truly healing, so a lot of what I am writing is based on my experience with trying to access those spaces while also being limited in my capacity. I also find myself writing about aging, the mother wound, and climate anxiety, capitalism and the politics of care, how to embrace beauty and love and being flawed.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Saturday, October 26, 2024

Jordan Windholz, The Sisters

 

The Sisters in the Night

Together, but they didn’t know how they arrived, in the center, or where they could imagine the center, of a dark forest, howls with teeth in them, a grey silence that ate their questions. They didn’t even know if they were the villains, the wayward, the weird, the witches cursed to conjure sprites and devilish curs, if they were an ancient magic feeding saplings into a heretic bonfire, its pillar of wet, white smoke rising like a spell. The sky was black above them, stuck with stars that seemed the pinpricks of a bloodletting, their hot light hissing and steaming in the mists snaking through the woods. The moon was a sister of what they didn’t know. They were not afraid. They had knives beneath their muslin, amethyst charms, a language that bent the world back into wishing. They imagined whatever was next was a perch with a nest of mottled eggs in its maw, a birthing of naked, flying forms or a tender meal for skulking cats.

I am intrigued by this second collection (and the first I’ve seen) by Carlisle, Pennsylvania poet Jordan Windholz, The Sisters (Black Ocean, 2024), following on the heels of his full-length debut, Other Psalms (Denton TX: University of North Texas, 2015). The Sisters is an assemblage of short prose poems interspersed with illustrations, and includes this brief caveat in the author’s “Notes & Acknowledgments”: “Written first as bedtime stories for my daughters, these poems were largely private affairs until they weren’t. I owe almost everything to Erin Ryan for her attentive reading and care, and for her urging me to put them out in the world.” Across fifty-four prose poems, Windholz offers such fanciful titles such as “The Sisters in the Emperor’s Gardens,” “The Sisters as Points of Infinite Regression,” “The Sisters as Two among the Many,” “The Sisters as the History of Blue” and “The Sisters in the Dream of a Giant.”

These are charming, even delightful story-poems that play with children’s storytelling, and a way of narrative and character unfolding through a sequence of self-contained prose poems reminiscent of Toronto poet Shannon Bramer’s full-length debut, scarf (Toronto ON: Exile Editions, 2001), or even Montreal poet Stephanie Bolster’s Three Bloody Words (Ottawa ON: above/ground press, 1996, 2016)—one might also be reminded of Berkeley, California poet Laura Walker’s story (Berkeley CA: Apogee Press, 2016) [see my review of such here], Victoria, British Columbia poet Eve Joseph’s Quarrels (Vancouver BC: Anvil Press, 2018) [see my review of such here] or New York poet Katie Fowley’s The Supposed Huntsman (Brooklyn NY: Ugly Duckling Presse, 2021) [see my review of such here]—through shared shades of fable, fairytale and the fantastical. As with any appropriate foray into fable, there are shadows that unfurl, unfold, through these pages, and hardly bloodless, echoing the best of what those Brothers Grimm might have salvaged. “It didn’t surprise them, exactly,” begins “The Sisters as Regicides,” “how cleanly the blade slipped between the bones of his neck, how, with just the slightest heft of their bodies on the hilt, his screaming—like a child’s, really—cratered into a singular whimper, then a wheeze. With his head off, the King—but was it right to call him that now?—was nothing more than what all corpses are: a heap of flesh, a sinewy mess, time’s ragged lace.”