Alta Ifland, Voix de Glace / Voice of Ice

 

My language

My language lies buried in the center of the earth. When night comes, dreams open time’s gates at the black ravens with rustling wings take off, leaving behind a long, leaden sleep. Language’s guardians, mute mummies draped in shrouds, float at the four cardinal points, their faces stiff, lips crimson, eyes painted blue. At dawn, they sink back into memory’s cracks.
            My language doesn’t belong to me. All that belongs to me is a long, flower absence at whose edges roses are growing alongside my legs, encircling them, climbing and covering my body like a tomb. Deep in the absence, my language unearths its words of fog, dead like me, and holds them for an instant above the tomb, then lets them fall like rose petals.

I’m absolutely fascinated by the reissue of Romanian poet Alta Ifland’s Voix de Glace / Voice of Ice (Punctum Books/Les Figues, 2026), included with a hefty critical introduction by John Taylor. Originally published by Les Figues in 2007, the reissue comes from the Les Figues imprint of Punctum Books, who appears to have absorbed the press and backlist, working to keep titles in print as best as possible. A bilingual edition, the work has been translated by the author (the introduction, also, in both English and French), a process that Taylor articulates as part of his introduction, writing that these pieces (resting quite comfortably between prose and the prose poem) were “[…] first written in French, the author’s second language, and then self-translated into English, her third. Moreover, there are indications that “Ifland” is a pseudonym, even perhaps a heteronym in Fernando Pessoa’s sense, with its imaginable literal meaning of an “if-land,” a “place of conjecture,” and a lofty one at that.” Through fifty-three short prose pieces, each in French and English, no more than a page per piece, Ifland offers a kind of counterpoint, a call-and-response; not simply a text composed in one direction and translated, but one that suggests, in large part through the author’s own translation, more of a conversation between the two. “Like everyone else,” Ifland writes, to open the poem “My double’s double,” “I have a double.” By referencing the doppelgänger, Ifland hints (one might infer) at the dual nature of translation itself, her own translation, and the heteronym, as suggested by the introduction, as Taylor offers:

If taken at her word as an author, not as a mask mostly implying artifice, Ifland is focused much less on geography, European history, and personal history (in its ordinary sense) than on the ontological rootlessness in our human condition. The French writer Pascal Quignard has suggested that our anxiety vis-à-vis our origins results from our absence at the sexual act that procreated us; we can never get back to it. in Voix de Glace / Voice of Ice, Ifland associates the insoluble enigma of our being-in-the-world with a mother whom she cannot really “attain,” at least in the state in which she was when she gave birth to her.

Through a suite of sharp and nuanced prose poems, Ifland’s collection invokes comparisons not only with Pessoa’s heteronym work, but that of Montreal poet and translator Erín Moure, working her own Pessoaesque through multiple projects, an early example of which is Sheep’s Vigil by a Fervent Person (Toronto ON: House of Anansi, 2001). The element of Ifland’s composition and translation worked as counterpoint, as well, offer comparisons to works such as Franco-Canadian poet Patrice Desbiens’ classic L’homme invisible / The Invisible Man (Penumbra Press, 1981) and J.R. Carpenter’s Le plaisir de la côte /The Pleasure of the Coast (Pamenar Press, 2023) [see my review of such here], holding the translation not as separate texts, but interconnected, twirled together akin to a strand of DNA. Through two threads of language, beyond her own mother tongue, Ifland writes out and through the differences between and amid language, slipping back and forth across a line in the introspective sand.

 

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Jay Quint

Jay Quint is one of those people who has long gaps in their resumes that aren’t easily accounted for. In ditching the standardized paths in both his writing, and his life, Jay kept himself free to leap at opportunities for deeper explorations. He spent his twenties living in different cities, including Sydney, Paris, Miami, Los Angeles, and Toronto. After another one of his “grand failures”—so he calls those creative projects that he threw his whole self into before they crashed and burned—he returned to his hometown, Montreal, with the single-minded objective of writing something that would have to be taken seriously. He rejected the idea of going through the academic pipeline, choosing independent studies instead. This led him into a six-year long period of hungry, intensive reading from across a broad range of philosophy, literature, and criticism—a period that was marked by existential thought, and isolation. During this time, inspired by Susan Sontag, he immersed himself in film—specifically New Wave cinema—and began incorporated it into his writing. But, believing that everything important has already been said (a point that many people disagree with, he knows), Jay struggled to find a new way to discuss the cultural history he was most interested in. The result of all his toils is Village Dreams: a critical view from the’60s and ‘70s, which he describes as a work of “creative cultural criticism 

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 book was only recently published, so life hasn’t changed much—and who knows if it will? I’m working on it though ... Once the book was accepted for publication, I did, however, find I was able to get my foot into doors that would’ve otherwise been much harder to crack open. I’m not one of those writers who built their career brick by brick, publishing articles, or essays, in smaller newspapers and presses over the years. I also steered clear of academia, and even avoided literary scenes, so I didn’t have any contacts to help me get published. Being able to tell more established writers than yourself that you’ve placed your book with a publisher, gives a degree of legitimization that most other unknowns don’t have; It was how I was able to get so many people to read my book, and write blurbs for its back cover. Of course, it also had something to do with interesting aspects of the book itself. The gatekeeping of the publishing industry is off-putting to those who aren’t on the inside, but the reality is that all industries are structures that end up producing similar issues. Even great writers often need to play the game to get on the inside.

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

Writing starts with reading for me, and it was modernist novels and philosophy that really engaged me from the very start of my career as a serious reader (Yes, reading was essentially my career—though unpaid and unsung—for nearly 6 years.)  I spent time toying with the idea of writing something Kafkaesque transposed on contemporary city-apartment life, a blend of fiction and nonfiction. But it was really with criticism that I found the sweet spot matching my own sensibilities. I became passionate about Walter Benjamin, and Susan Sontag, and I ended up anchoring myself at their crossroads (pre-war and post-war; Europe and America; modernism and post-modernism; creative and critical intellectualism). I love good prose and a degree of creativity in nonfiction. My favourite thing is to recover overlooked and forgotten tidbits that offer historical insights into the present, which is very much part of Walter Benjamin’s influence and legacy. I’m also inspired by the personal playfulness of the “new-journalism” writings of Mailer, Didion, and Tom Wolfe, on one hand, and the more dense politically-historical analysis of figures like Arendt, on the other.

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?

As you may be able to tell already, relatively simple questions often require me to take a step backward before I can go forward. To answer this question, I’m suspicious about the value of writing today. I don’t believe in extolling all writers as necessary, all writing as worthwhile, and all expression as inherently good. In the tradition of Critical Theory and cultural criticism, the negative has value in life. Hegel had put it simply: all perception involves negation. Thinking is always dialectical. And isn’t it also true, generally speaking, that there’s an inverse relationship between the quality and quantity of all types of output, including writing? I think there’s already far too much of it today—it can be argued that there was already far too much if it 150 years ago—and that the bulk of it isn’t very good. How much of the “content” is just plain bad? How much of it is unoriginal rubbish masquerading as something brilliant, and new? Whole industries exist with an interest in telling us how wonderful new writing is, but even most of those at the top of the “literary” and “intellectual” worlds are shadows, I think, of the older generations of writers who inspired them. Naturally, I get lots of pushback when I say these things because it offends the personal sense of value of writers, and readers, alike—and because I don’t let myself weasel out of my own judgements, the question for me becomes, how can I, as someone who wants to write (and wants to say things that have already been said countless times before, really), do so without being entirely hypocritical? Why do I even want to write? Is there a new, creative angle I can use to approach cultural history, to say something that really demands consideration? The long path to what would eventually become Village Dreams was philosophical and slow-going because it began with these overriding concerns about the act of writing itself. I grappled with them for a long time before I was even able to put pen to paper. Ultimately, I did arrive at a solution—or a workaround, let’s call it. Once I had the idea, things went fairly smoothly. I did about fifteen drafts in the end, but that’s because I was crafting my own unique form that required the balancing various creative and intellectual considerations. My next book may follow an entirely different process, however. I might even be inspired to write something that isn’t so serious, and doesn’t need to justify itself.

4 - Where does a 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?

My sensibility is attuned to longer forms because I like clustering thoughts of various writer-thinkers together and spinning off onto interesting tangents. Essays appeal to me though, but getting them published typically requires contacts that I haven’t put in the time to cultivate. I would love to write essays knowing they’d be published in a quality newspaper, or magazine, as soon as I was ready to release them to the world— but that’s a rare position to be in as a writer. I also have some difficulty knowing where a subject should begin and end since everything’s connected in my mind. There’s always another link, I think, that can advance the discourse.

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

I had my first reading last month in Toronto. The event was put together by my publisher, and it included the six or so other writers they’d published this season. I’ve always hated public speaking, but I was excited to get a firsthand reaction to the section I planned on reading. And I really ended up getting the most enthusiastic reaction. The audience really felt what I wanted them to feel. It was quite powerful, to be honest. Having said that, I wouldn’t organize my own readings. The performative aspect of these events feels unnatural to me. It may just be that I don’t consider myself important enough for people to come see, and that I myself have no interest in going to see other writers reading from their own books. The idea of having discussions, or debates, is a bit more interesting to me than a reading.

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?

As I mentioned, I’m concerned about the value of all writing. It’s more than the absurd quantity and declining quality of output; I’m haunted by the idea that everything has been said already, and that we bury older writing that’s valuable under the endless landslide of new … crap. Applying old thoughts to supposedly new situations doesn’t cut it for me. A lot of people don’t understand this because they think so much today is new. When a person cultivates a more historical view that gives a broader, sort of overhead, vantage point from which to survey the entire field of action, things look quite different. Those who are caught up in the action on the ground can’t perceive the situation with the same understanding. This may sound pretentious, but it’s really a basic metaphor. I find it funny that, in my experience, many people who agree with the general claim that understanding the past is important for understanding the present—and most people agree with this, I think—will disagree about the worth of historical insights when applied in particular instances, and when it goes beyond the level—and conclusions—they’re comfortable with. Kierkegaard spoke of the proscribed level of knowledge that mass society refused to let any individuals surpass without penalty. The proliferation of mass media clearly had a lot to do with this, as religion did before it. It’s the difference between people who are consumed by presentness, by the news media, entertainment, and technology, versus those who’ve stepped outside of the spectacle to see how forces interacted to get us to this point, and to understand the cyclical nature of life amid all the supposed “newness.” Technology may deliver new products, but understanding the place of technology itself within the whole, reveals as much.

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?

It’s not easy for people to resist flowing along within the accelerated rhythm of the world we live in. Everyone needs to make a living, to sell themselves, or some product, and this requires adapting to life as it is (and I think much of historically leftist critique of capitalism is right when it comes to points like this one). I’m an ardent believer that writers and artists are the ones who have the vision, courage, strength—and often the resources—to stand alone, and maintain a certain distance from the events of the day, with all of its little excitements. A big part of it is about being able to slow down, I think, and learning to think independently, which involves reading broadly, and across ideological lines. Writers—and here we can draw a distinction between those whose aim is to write bestsellers catering to mass tastes, and those who want to craft something that’s essentially different, something fuller, whole, suffused with the real complexities of life, rather than simplistic narratives. The latter kind of writer, who deserves the name “artist,” should have just a few toes in the present; they should see what’s happening in the world, while also embracing a degree of remove that allows them to perceive life more “objectively”—and let’s leave aside the question of objectivity here. In the past, this distance was referred to in a number of other ways. Proust often refers to the “disinterested” perspective in relation to the arts. The word shouldn’t be misinterpreted, though: “disinterested” means cultivating an impartial point of view, rather than coming at art with pre-existing biases that are based on self-interest. It’s not about limiting one’s sense of the world—rather the opposite, in a way. It’s about being more open, receptive, and understanding. I realize that this opinion—like most of my opinions—isn’t the popular one today. Progressives usually demand a more socially-engaged art, and they assert that anything that doesn’t call for full-throttle self-expression, and unbridled emotional reaction, is dispassionate, anti-social, and conservative. But the hyper-passionate approach puts the narrative, and conclusion, ahead of itself, and is therefore biased, and self-interested in its desire for affirmation. Being “disinterested” is more subtle. This is a version of the old debate about art for art’s sake, versus an engaged art, which returned in the ‘60s (especially in France), with the call for art to be in the streets. I’m sure many people who are reading my answer here won’t be convinced, so, characteristically, I’ll end by offering a long quote that I think is worth considering. This, from Italo Calvino, an essay called Why Read the Classics (1981): “‘Why read the classics rather than concentrate on books that enable us to understand our times more deeply?’ or ‘Where shall we find the time and peace of mind to read the classics, overwhelmed as we are by the avalanche of current events?’ We can of course, imagine some blessed soul who devotes his reading time exclusively to Lucretius, Lucian, Montaigne … Ruskin, Proust, and Valéry … To keep up such a diet without any contamination, this blessed soul would have to abstain from reading the newspapers, and never be tempted by the latest novel, or sociological investigation. But we have to see how far such rigor would be either justifying or profitable. The latest news may well be banal or mortifying, but it nonetheless remains a point at which to stand and look both backward and forward. To be able to read the classics you have to know “from where” you are reading them; otherwise both the book and the reader will be lost in a timeless cloud. This, then, is the reason why the greatest ‘yield’ from reading the classics will be obtained by someone who knows how to alternate them with the proper dose of current affairs. And this does not imply a state of unperturbable inner calm. It can also be the fruit of nervous impatience, of a huffing-and-puffing discontent of mind. Maybe the ideal thing would be to hearken to current events as we do to the din outside the window that informs us about traffic jams and sudden changes of weather, while we listen to the voice of the classics sounding clear and articulate inside the room. But it is already a lot for most people if the presence of the classics is perceived as a distant rumble far outside a room that is swamped by the trivia of the moment, as by a television on full blast.”

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

I wanted a lot more input from my editor when it came to Village Dreams. The book is unconventional in many respects, it bounces with stream-of-consciousness ideas, and digressions. When it came to the editing process, I expected lively discussions about what to include and what to cut, about the book’s real purpose, and meaning. But my editor approved everything so easily, which left me without the bouncing board I really wanted at that point. I realized that I’d have to go back and self-edit the manuscript. To do so effectively also meant understanding it so fully that I could grab it by the horns. Most readers probably think this is something most writers automatically do, but I think it’s rarely the case. Writers and artists often create without knowing all of the keys to their own work. In the 19^th century, the task of decoding the innerworkings of a work of art became the territory of the critic, more than the creators themselves. Understanding the ins and outs of one’s own writing, tightening it properly, typically requires a few more drafts than one has the mental energy for (It makes me think there may be something to the stereotype of the pretentious painter who refuses to explain their own work.) It’s a daunting prospect to think about digging back into your own writing when your head is already so saturated with the content, and you believed you were nearly done with it. It’s even difficult to step away from it when you know it’s there waiting for you, and that you’re going to have to figure out how to give it a final shape, and polish it off, as best as you can possibly do. In my experience, these extra pushes are worth the dissonance they cause. Again, it’s usually one step back, two forward, for me. Putting in those extra few months of work led to a final version of Village Dreams that really exceeded my own vision for it. A good editor ca be invaluable, though. I have a writer friend who always came away from meetings with her editor feeling that the editor’s advice was wrong, and that she was being pushed too far. But after a few days sitting with the advice, my friend always came to see her editor’s point. This is just one example, of course. There isn’t a single model for these relationships, which are sometimes complex, and touchy. Listening to one another and having mutual respect is crucial, but it’s also true that the visions of a writer and editor can diverge too much, in which case it’s best for them to part ways.

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

I’ve never received a good piece of advice. I also think that advice, like wisdom, can point people in one direction just as easily as the opposite. For example, advice could be, “You have to take the leap—no risk, no reward! Quit your job and start writing if that’s what’s really in your heart!” Alternatively, it can be, “Caution—slow and steady wins the race! Everything comes in its own time.” Advice should always be contingent on the particular set of circumstances and character of the individual who asks for it. One of my pet peeves is when people couch their own ideas and experiences in universal terms—especially when they do so with pseudo-intellectual, or pseudo-spiritual, pretenses. Roland Barthes has a hilarious essay in his book Mythologies about how the masses who make up bourgeois-liberal society try to cast everyone and everything in their own mold to the extent that they imagine extraterrestrials (which became a popular subject in the ‘50s) as having bourgeois-humanist mindsets just like themselves.

10 - 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 like to do a couple of 3-4-hour sessions each day because my brain gives out after that length of time. I’ll wake up and walk to my favourite café to read, or write. Then I’ll usually have a workout because I need a break, and switching from the mental to the physical is healthy for both dimensions, I think. It’s difficult to let go when you’re deep in the creative process, but you have to try. In the afternoon or evening, I’ll do a few more hours of reading, or writing, at home. I might also watch a film, often something slightly philosophical, or something that offers some interesting historical context related to whatever I’m writing, or researching. I love incorporating film into my writing.

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

I always go back to books, especially since my writing is mainly about cultural history. Sometimes intense readers need breaks from reading, though. Even Sontag, who was addicted to reading, needed to clear her mind of books at times. Sometimes our brains need a reset, and it’s always a good idea to try looking somewhere new for inspiration. I’ve gotten back into watching sports as an outlet—hockey and tennis, in particular—though I can get into the playoffs of most sports.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

My first thought is whether “home” here is really just a stand in for childhood? or do you mean where I live now? I prefer the former because it triggers my Proustian sensibilities, yet I don’t really have an answer other than some vague thoughts about warm grass in the summer, and a faint sense of perfumes worn by my mom when I was a kid. I wouldn’t be able to describe the scent though because I can hardly even evoke it in my mind. I’d have to smell it. Admittedly, this answer is somewhat of a poetic cliché, but it’s what comes to my mind. I once had a friend who told me that the sound of a vacuum always made him tired because his mother would vacuum the house when he was put down for his naps as a child. I thought that was interesting.

13 - 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. Books do come from books, which is part of the reason I find most things so regressive today. Books from books from books that are third-rate knockoffs of the original work. But there’s also film, for me. It was reading Sontag’s essays on New Wave cinema of the ‘60s and ‘70s (Godard, Bergman, Fassbinder, Varda, etc.) that popularized the idea that film could be part of intellectual discourse. Of course, the New Wave contained this idea in-itself because it was heavily imbued with cultural-political and artistic commentary (re. Cahiers du Cinéma), and experiments with the medium itself. The New Wave often tried to overcome the medium, which is something I’m both interested, and critical of.

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

Sontag’s collection of essays in On Photography are a focal point for me. I think the critiques she gave in the early ‘70s have only grown in relevance since images proliferate and dominate contemporary life more and more. Her own work picked up threads from Walter Benjamin, who’s also a major influence on my writing. These two critics are quite mainstream within intellectual milieus, but I think I’ve dug deeper and understand them and their thought more than most professional academics who like to talk about them. I’m most concerned about how their thought is being distorted to fit evolving narratives. More than anything, I want to reassert the critical elements of their thought that’s being purposefully ignored. This is also happening with other writers and thinkers who influence me: Camus, Arendt, Adorno, to name a few. The work of everyone I’ve mentioned affects my perspective on nearly everything. I don’t compartmentalize my writing from the rest of my life because I’m always concerned with the same thing: revealing contradictions.

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

I’ve prioritized travel over a settled life of comfort for over a decade now. I’ve spent a lot of time in London, and whenever I’m there, I get excited about the idea of setting up shop in Chelsea for a year or so to write a novel.

16 - 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 did my undergraduate degree in accounting—a field that couldn’t be more opposed to my natural inclination. I was a very perplexed, disoriented kid. I wasn’t really encouraged to explore my creative side, and the “do-whatever-makes-you-happy” ethos wasn’t something I grew up with. The professions were the most sensible option given my lack of direction. In my early teens, I developed an interest in old film (Hitchcock in particular), which was part of an escape from real life, and my sexual confusion, I think. I remember wanting to study film, to become a director, or maybe a screenwriter. But now that I’ve become a writer, I find myself drawn to less intellectual work. I like the idea of making things with my hands, like a carpenter, a furniture designer, or perhaps something to do with plants, like a gardener, or landscape designer. I think it’s common for writers—existential ones in particular—to reach a point where they begin to fetishize more manual labour. Wittgenstein comes to mind.

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

I’ve always enjoyed writing, but I didn’t pursue it until my mid-twenties. I have a very active imagination, but it’s tied to reality. I don’t have the capacity for purely inventive storytelling. I needed to have more real-life learning experiences to give content and form to my passions. I don’t believe people are really destined to do one thing or another, to be honest. It’s like when people talk about meeting their soulmate; I don’t buy the idea that one person is meant for us. It’s yet another narrative that makes people feel comfortable, and gives their lives meaning. In reality, I think everything we end up doing is a combination of nature and nurture, chance and choice. I could’ve easily ended up as an accountant, or hotel manager—things I was at one time on track to become. But I’m glad I became a writer because I do think it suits my nature more—which isn’t quite the same thing as saying “I was meant to be a writer.”

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

I’m rereading Proust, which is more than a “great” book. Swann’s Way, the first section, is a masterpiece—and I wouldn’t use such a word lightly. Otherwise, I’d say The Man Without Qualities by Robert Musil. It’s 1300 pages of the smoothest, cleverest, and yet unaffected writing I’ve ever read. I was shocked by it. As for film, I recently rewatched the German film, The Lives Of Others, which I think is one of the best films of this century so far. I also saw the Norwegian film Sex, part of the “Sex Dreams Love” trilogy by Dag Johan Haugerud. It’s complex, funny, psychologically revealing. Like many Scandinavian films—Joachim Trier’s Oslo trilogy, for instance—there’s a Bergmanesque quality in the characters’ existentialism and their chattiness.  A lot of interesting thoughts are revealed in conversations that try to resolve strange situations. Being selective about the contemporary books and films I engage with is also a control mechanism, or an ecology, as Sontag put it. It’s a way of giving myself an artificial sense of having some control over the overwhelming tide of output.

19 - What are you currently working on?

Now that Village Dreams has been published, I’ve had to make the transition to the “publicity” phase. It wasn’t easy for me to make the switch, but now that I’ve done it, I’m excited about chances to discuss and debate the ideas I put into the book. After all, that’s what I really wanted from the start. My drive was more about ideas, than about storytelling, or writing as a craft. I’ll likely spend the next six months or so doing my best to keep that ball rolling. I’m not good at juggling multiple projects, so I can’t really think too much about what comes next. (Buy my book! Thanks.)

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

rob participates in Tupelo Press' 30/30 (fundraiser) marathon!

 , a new daily (September) writing project, to support small publishing,

I've decided to take on the challenge of composing new poems for daily posting via Tupelo Press throughout the month of September, all as a fundraiser for Tupelo Press' ongoing literary publishing. Check out the poems by myself and others over here at this link, and check out my fundraising page! My poems will begin appearing on September 1st. Can I produce a whole month's worth in time?

After spending much of the past few months pushing to complete a novel and some other prose projects, I'm basically launching into a new prose poem manuscript specifically around this Tupelo Press prompt. Support me by supporting Tupelo Press! Apparently there might be a cool prize or something for me if I raise enough money. Who knows?

Daily poems by myself and others: https://tupelopress.org/the-3030-project
rob's fundraising page: https://tupelopress.networkforgood.com/projects/304110-rob-mclennan-s-fundraiser

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Máighréad Medbh

Máighréad Medbh is an Irish poet, prose writer and performer with ten published books and a reputation for poetry performance since the 1990s. Her books are mostly conceptual and narrative explorations, and Dwelling (2026), is what she calls an ‘autopoetic essay’, a term she proposes instead of ‘mixed genre’ for a poetic exploration with research and discussion. Dwelling is pivoted on a damaged photograph of the poet’s great-grandmother and explores consequences of colonisation, conversing with contemporary events across time and location through this personal avatar.

Imbolg (2020) is a double collection with poems of relationship change, doubt, place, guilt, and a Lockdown Diary of fifty poems. The verse fantasy, Parvit of Agelast (2016), was one of three books shortlisted for Ireland’s Pigott Prize 2017. An allegory of social control and ecological collapse, it is informed by the art of Pauline Bewick. Savage Solitude (2013) is a prose work drawing on multiple disciplines to sound the solitary psyche, and Tenant (1999) is a historical fiction of the Irish Famine.

Máighréad has three novels and a series of blogs online, and has collaborated on several award-winning art films, as well as writing for radio. She has a pedagogical life with workshops and mentoring, and holds a creative-critical PhD from DCU, which gave rise to her term ‘autopoetic essay’.

www.maighreadmedbh.com

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 written while my first child was developing in my womb, three hours most nights, for about a year (or nine months). It was published by a well-established publisher who had the resources for publicity. It made me public, and aroused interpretations and perceptions that included me in the poetry world. It also aroused a little controversy. But really, I was only interested in trying to communicate experience in the best poetic form, and in the discipline of the work itself. The Making of a Pagan gave me the impetus to continue with that, and segued into my performance practice. Current work is attempting the same formal co-relations, but I think has more layers and textures, and more discursiveness. Many poems have a tendency toward the dramatic or performative, but I have new concepts of rhythm, and I also write essays.

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

I like them all, and have written them all, but poetry arose because I tended to take poems into my body. They stayed in my chest, I sometimes learned them off and recited them, if only to myself. Shakespeare’s plays also, and I was interested in theatre. So, I think it was the structure of poetry, and the way in which you could use it to delve into coherent moments, events and perceptions in a deeply memorable way.

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?

Some poems arise spontaneously, but I am always planning or in the process of longer works, which I usually structure conceptually. A moment gives rise to a poetic desire, or a sentence sounds in the head. The process involves psychic immersion and research; then work on the best structure, the unifying principle/s, the lexicon. The journey from first draft to final varies, and can take some time, with radical alterations. With some poems the first line rules and guides. I do compile notes, but the extent and process varies according to whether the poem is personal, narrative, discursive, documentary, or whatever else I want to achieve with it.

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?

As I said in 3., it varies. My books are mostly long-form conceptual works. A few books contain ‘collections’ of single poems, but I find that there are conceptual and experiential phases, so that single poems produced, say, in the duration of a year or two, seem to be concerned with similar matter.

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

My performances were intrinsic to my poetry in the early years. I wrote novels and essays as well as poetry, but I have always performed my readings to some degree. Between my first book and my second, performance was what I did. Many poems were written for performing; I sang them, used backing tracks, etc. I then began to just recite, rather than sing or provide sound, and performed less, concentrating on writing and the book. However, I always welcome the opportunity to present my work. The body is inseparable from the book and I like to move with my words. I find that I’m back performing with my recent book. So maybe I enjoy . . .

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?

In the course of my creative-critical PhD, I invented a term, ‘autopoetic essay’, for a methodology and the kind of writing that currently interests me. The text is organised poetically around an event or experience, but includes research and analysis. It is often given the terms ‘mixed genre’, ‘auto-theory’ and many others, but my idea is that we try to represent an environment in text—a textual living system. Think Anne Carson, Maggie Nelson, Claudia Rankine, Kazim Ali. I’m very engaged by this kind of writing as it has coherence and perspective, and if truly poetic, will be equally structured and playful. It allows for exploration and discovery in many ways. Poet as non-aligned investigator, interpreter, medium, crafter.

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 don’t like making prescriptions. I think a writer generally attempts to find the linguistic co-relatives of experience and event. Reportage in itself is important, making manifest. Writers are observers, and creative writers investigate the layers of reality. Seamus Heaney said he wrote to ‘set the darkness echoing’—to touch the unsayable. Entertainment is also a valid role, and for some of us that might be a function of how a piece is structured, how liberating that can be.

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

Editors are essential, because they are also much-experienced readers and can highlight issues that really shouldn’t pass. Ideally, they discuss rather than impose, and I have had only helpful experiences. 

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

Write the kind of book you like to read.

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

As Shelley said, the distinction is not exact. Poetry exists in prose in various ways, and I think the opposite is also true. I sometimes experience prose written by poets as hesitant and self-conscious—reviews and essays—but then, there is the poetic novel, and the autopoetic essay I refer to above. I have written novels in fairly typical novel-style, and enjoyed writing them. I also enjoy writing essays for the release of my analytical faculty—though sometimes they are also poetic! I suppose we might hold different modes in our brain and seek different sounds and structures depending on the material.

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?

Currently I write in the morning, maybe until mid-afternoon, and then again in the evening. When I had a full-time day job, at least three hours a day, maybe more.

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

I always have ideas, so it’s a question of deciding which one to pursue. I go to my notes and plans and force myself to something!

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

I have no concept of home. I live in myself. But I love the scent of jasmine. It was a bright eternal moment in Morocco.

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?

Oh yes. I wrote a prose work that was a series of internal conversations, using quotations—the voices of the world—taken from a range of disciplines. I read science, I’m greatly inspired by visual art, I look at psychology, history. Some musicians have influenced my performance style, and I’m interested in movement—forms of dance and energy practices such as (currently) Contact Improvisation, Tao Yin and Qigong.

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

I always read Anthony Vahni Capildeo and Anne Carson. Adrienne Rich has been a huge influence and her work is still a touchstone. I return to some of the more formal Irish poets every so often, to remind myself of their method. I like Jorie Graham and lately, Louise Glück. Novelists that engage me: Michel Houellebecq, Ian McEwan, Dave Eggers.

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

In writing—a series of novels. In experience—perhaps visit southern Argentina.

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?

What I might have done, given the opportunity and support, would be to study anthropology, biology, music, visual art or/and dance. Or work in theatre.

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

It was there.

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

Evelyn Araluen’s The Rot is beautifully wrought and an intimate experience. I recently discovered Elif Shafak’s kaleidoscopic novel, There are Rivers in the Sky. The film Sirāt is still in my body, with its sublime soundtrack by Kangding Ray.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I’m writing a couple of essays with poetic underscores; thinking about a grammar of the body and how to work it into a writing methodology; writing a series of ekphrastic poems; hearing a novel in my head.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Nova Scotia thrift, New Brunswick stone, (part one,

Did you know we were east last week? Christine, myself and our young ladies flew into a late-night Halifax to immediately drive out the following morning across Nova Scotia and into New Brunswick, towards the Confederation Bridge, and destination: Prince Edward Island. There was a certain amount of (our usual) chaos, given a late afternoon cab to Ottawa's train station, train from Ottawa to Dorval (Montreal) for a flight that managed a bit of a delay, only landing into our near-airport Halifax hotel and our beds well after 2am (the children bickered for at least half an hour before settling, not wishing to share a bed). Did we have these problems with our young ladies in Winnipeg? Parc Oméga? Picton? Calgary? No. Certainly not in Ireland, as they didn't even share a room. Perhaps they were overtired. I mean, I know we were (but we're way old).

Tuesday, August 18, 2026: First thing in the morning (well, eventually), we managed our 11am rental car and noon check-out (grudgingly, achingly, slow) and began heading out, catching two different locations for Guy's Frenchys, an infamous clothing thrift store chain [we'd been through prior, but I seem not to have mentioned it]. I mean, we had to make the trip bearable for our young ladies, didn't we? Rose loves her thrifting. Bins upon bins upon bins of second-hand clothes, as our young ladies took turns clogging the stores' dressing rooms. 

I didn't find much interesting for myself in either location, but I did pick up a book that intrigued (the books were spare, random, but there was this one, at least), especially given my genealogical links (recently realized, via birth mother) to some of those locations [I wrote about some of that here and here]. What else might there be to discover? Probably lots. Anything relevant? Impossible to know, as of yet. It was good, at least, to begin to catch a better flavour of this American trail that links, somehow, to my individual self. Our young ladies filled bags of thrifting, and were pleased enough.

Driving. There were rolling hills and clouds, train tracks and highways, a smattering of rain. Perpetual rain. Perhaps there was always rain. Perhaps there had never been a point where there wasn't rain. I can only see rain. En route to the bridge (with a coffee/donut run in there somewhere, also), at Christine's further suggestion, we ended up at the Joggins Fossil Cliffs, managing the gift shop fifteen minutes prior to closing (postcards, stones, other items), and the water already at high tide. I'd wondered about gathering a fossil, perhaps, for J.R. Carpenter, referencing their recent (second) above/ground press title, but between the water level and the fact that one wasn't allowed to leave with anything, it just wasn't possible. Not even a photograph of a fossil to hold onto, although the view, the space itself, set along the Bay of Fundy, was remarkable.

I even managed a panorama, and was quite amused that Aoife, without realizing, moved a bit during capture and managed to get into the same photograph twice. Aoife ran up and down the steps, Rose more meditative, distracted; requested Christine take pictures of her with the water backdrop [she has requested to not have her photographs included in these notes], and the plentiful flower bushes were populated by an army of bees. There was a spot on the beach we could see further down but not access (some folk wandering through, their car parked well above), but hadn't the time ourselves to walk back up, drive over, and walk down the other side (we were aiming for a 4pm landing at where we'd be staying on Prince Edward Island, and this was already well after 5pm). Once back out on our way, we even drove by Parrsboro [where we stayed with a very wee Rose, moons back]. Christine couldn't remember, so I looked it up.

And then to the open road again, which led us to a small gas station for the sake of a pit stop. By the washrooms, this particular display case of vintage items, most likely the same vintage of my late parents.

We'd originally hoped that this trip could have been a drive from home, but we hadn't the time for such a thing, and even what drive we had was rather condensed, having to pack in as much as we could in short spaces, skipping over whole swaths (and a handful of potential social visits with writers along the way). We crossed the Confederation Bridge and kept driving, driving. It was 9pm or so before we were safe in our space in North Rustico, overlooking the water. The young ladies, settling down into their (individual beds) as Christine and I sat on the front porch, local wine at the ready.

next up: the potato museum, Prince Edward Island + Cows,

Yongyu Chen, Perennial Counterpart

 

M, it turns out, is thirty-three. At our age they lived in Paris selling feminine hygiene products. They had short hair in winter. In nightclubs they saw

Virginie Despentes, with her then-girlfriend, leaving, clothes trailing behind in macerating trails of light. Open door framing dawn air, welcoming the vinegar dryness.

This gap of ten years is unimaginable. The tart M baked tonight is oily, wonderfully sour.

When I am thirty-three I will be crystal, root systems vulcanized. I will be missed. Woven into the brittle surroundings.

At the party I keep leaving, I sit in the stairwell—what is vivid is the distance. Until I pull out this droplet inside me like violence. Until I harden into the building’s impersonal structure.

G keeps finding me, keeps sitting with me, until I want to return. (“Macerations”)

I was intrigued to see the full-length poetry debut by London-based poet Yongyu Chen, Perennial Counterpart (New York NY: Nightboat Books, 2026), a collection assembled into five clusters of expansive and intimately gestural lyric monologues. “Unintelligible to the end. To the end,” begins the opening poem, “unintelligible. // You will not always write. Or, you will always write. // But when I’m dead I will write? Then? // You will not always write. // At some point / some point // at some point the poems will get / better. Then // it will be your expectations, not the poems / that are lacking. Then // you will not write.” Chen’s poems thread across meditative distances, both cinematic and philosophical, and writing on obsession and creative acts, gesture and gratitude, human connection and travel. Chen’s poems provide the sense of lyrics being written to, whether the self, as journal entry, or to another, via the epistolary form, perpetually articulating the dreams and adventures of youth that one might think can never be put away. As the poem “05.24.23,” a piece dedicated “for Gabby,” includes: “We sit with your friend, in early summer, at the blue / café, his face pale & transparent like a medusa. You lean // in. And recede in the eager waves of his speech. I recede, parallel to you. I / do not learn the essential things. I do not // move my hands in cirlces on the wet surface of the essential. I watch the / mark on his face, stable & changing.” Through the Nightboat Books,there’s such a charming interview with Chen on the collection, as conducted by Lucia Kan-Sperling, that begins:

There was no process in writing this book. For a long time I was just working on one poem, over many weeks, & it absorbed all the sentences I made, & felt like a totality—which would be replaced rather than added-to by the next poem. Only recently does it feel like I’m able to write something not total for me, & I enjoy that feeling.

Most of the work in this book is from 2021–2023. I missed my friends since it was the pandemic, & wrote letters to them. I liked the lettery feeling of friendship. Around that time, I read Michel Foucault’s “Friendship as a Way of Life” & felt very attached to it. I was reading many writers for the first time who felt immediately important to me.

The last poems I wrote in the book came from a very different place. During the editing process, I was reading a lot of Alice Notley & thinking of something she said about looking back on her poem “Dear Dark Continent”: “How honestly did I believe those last lines when I wrote them?” A lot of the work no longer felt true to me & the editing process tried to deal with that.

I did travel in the meantime & remembered other cities & imagined myself as other people in other places; the one time London is mentioned—that was not based on my own experience. All the poems were written while I lived in Cambridge.

There’s such a lovely interiority to Chen’s musings, counterpointed by an “I did this, I did that” quality eschewed by infamous New York School poet Frank O’Hara (1926-1966). Optimistic and populated with an array of friends, Chen’s poems are composed of such long lines, long thoughts, they become comparable in certain gestural ways to that of Ottawa poet Monty Reid—a thought-line long enough it might threaten to reach to the horizon. “Rain for four days. The dry dream. My phone glittering like hair,” writes the poem “Monarchy of the North,” “my / friend texts I wish we lived closer together, the shower steaming. // In the old quarters narrow medieval streets. Consent to look away from / the world.”