Lemonade (August 21, 2011 – December 5, 2024)

Our beloved cat, Lemonade, who turned thirteen this past August, collapsed the other night in clear distress. I rushed him to the Emergency Vet Clinic not ten minutes away, but he passed within five or six minutes of landing. What the hell happened? I was still filling out paperwork. At home and throughout the car ride he was howling, howled, in a way that seemed frightening; collapsed on our bedroom floor and drooling, unable to move.

Not even enough time for the Veterinary assistant to bring me into the room. It was the suddenness, more than anything else. An emotional whiplash. He’s actively dying, they said. His heart or a clot, although they were able to medicate him for a bit of relief. Do you want to go in with him, even as a further interrupted, saying it was already too late. I signed my name to a form. Christine, still at home, attempted to comfort our distraught children, upending their bedtime. Aoife, who chose to remain home from school the next day, as she couldn’t stop crying. Rose, who chose to go, so she could talk it out with her friends.

It was somewhere in the fall of 2011 that Christine told me that she wanted either a baby or a dog or a cat or a flower. It was a list I found startling, as we were neither married nor engaged at that point (nor had any of that been discussed), a year into living together in a third-storey walk-up in Centretown. God sakes: a baby? In that moment, I had no idea if she was serious. A cat, I thought, seemed easy enough. A flower might be the wrong answer, although she did list it. Heading over to the Humane Society off Hunt Club Road, we chanced upon a kitten on a high perch, amusing himself by startling his peers by dropping down on them. This is the one. We selected this rakish black-and-white bundle known to the staff as “Pepe,” so named as he reminded the staff of the cartoon skunk from Warner Bros. cartoons. Beyond the cultural implications, we didn’t think he looked like a Pepé.

Lemonade. He looked, I thought, like a Lemonade. Four months old, we officially fostered for a bit until he had run through some medication for a stomach issue, before we could fully adopt him. His stomach issue persisted, providing a variety of medicated food attempts before one would settle, and then, re-settle. Lemonade: the kitten who pounced on us in the middle of the night, later scratch at the closed bedroom door at all hours, pulling up carpet. We eventually placed a plastic car liner underneath the door, to protect the floor of our McLeod Street apartment. He was an indoor cat, unable to be out without leash (which he barely tolerated). We watched him fall off the couch, we certainly weren’t about to let him roam around outside by himself. We allowed him to wander (accompanied) a bit at Sainte-Adèle, preferring the comfort of bushes than the open space of the yard.

He was a polydactyl, attending extra toes on every foot, the way his paws attempting flies looked like two catcher’s mitts on either side of any errant black speck. He caught the rare fly that snuck into the house, which we appreciated, but he ate them, which we thought was quite gross. You’re gross, Lemonade. Soon after he arrived, I composed a short sequence of poems that appeared in my Centretown collection, A halt, which is empty (2019): “Lemonade, polydactyl (or, / the cat with twenty-two toes,),” a title that played off Michael Ondaatje’s classic The Man with Seven Toes (1971). They told us that to declaw a cat would be inhumane, and it eventually meant we had to take him to the vet for trimming, otherwise his nails would catch on our carpet, and we were too likely to be scratched. As my piece begins:

this new kitten;                        bone-cleave,
            hindrance; to de-claw

 

is to pick out bone; inhumane,

they tell us,

                        [see the full poem here]

Can one of you feed your brother, I would ask our young ladies. With three daughters, he was my only boy. Aoife used to argue, pointing out that he wasn’t really their brother, and he was adopted. I would point out that I, too, was adopted. Does that make me any less family to my parents, my sister? The idea eventually took root, Aoife announcing to teachers and classmates that she had three siblings, including a brother, who was actually a cat. It counts, certainly. Aoife, who would lay her head on Lemonade’s back as he rested on our bed. Rose would regularly come through and pet him, attempting to get him to pay her attention as well.

During pandemic, as he required tooth extraction, I sat in a parking lot in Ottawa’s east end awaiting the results of his follow-up appointment. He and I were the same age, then. His extraction cost enough that we began to refer to him as our second car, and the poem I sketched out in that parking lot became “Summer, pandemic,” a piece forthcoming in the book of sentences (2025): “This body as a means // to dialogue, and his teeth held / in synaptic space. From this lone parking lot // in Ottawa’s east end, veterinarian staff report his outbursts, frustrated // at their prodding. He is such / a mood.” [see the full poem here]

He was temperamental, skittish. Always acting as though, if we were both walking within the same room, I was clearly there to murder him, somehow. He’d scatter. He wished to remain in our orbit, but often too far for us to reach or to pet. Kitten Lemonade, who would jump up and set his head and front paws on my shoulder whenever I sat down, something he outgrew by the time we were on Alta Vista, but he was never a lap-cat. He would sit near, often on his own blanket-space on the couch, or, eventually, in the bedroom with Christine, held there through two different maternity leaves, or through her recovery stretch since her 2019 stroke. He kept good company. Lemonade attended her days, often complaining when she wasn’t home, attempting to herd anyone else into that empty space. “I know a little language of my cat,” Robert Duncan wrote, to open “A little language,” a poem that rests in Ground Work: Before the War (1984), “though Dante says / that animals have no need of speech and Nature / abhors the superfluous.” He communicated what he needed, the past few years more vocal in his requirements for attention, food. Cats, they say, who predominantly speak aloud to communicate with humans, and less so with each other.

He was our constant, between Christine and I; one of our first marks or measures of permanence, more important to our household than I could have first imagined. Our young ladies had known him their whole lives, this meandering cat who sniffed around during their baby and toddler stretches, remaining just out of reach. Marge Piercy, as part of her poem “The cat’s song” from Mars & Her Children (1992), wrote: “My emotions are pure as salt crystals and as hard.” Lemonade, on his part, required us, but he required his distance, offering our young ladies a patience far more than with us, although there was the rare time he would snap if they crossed him. Never a scratch but a warning. He understood, it would seem, their difference.

Responding to my social media notification on his passing, someone offered the poem “from Jubilate Agno” by English poet Christopher Smart (1722-1771), a link from the Poetry Foundation website. The excerpt, at least, composed for his “Cat Jeoffry,” filled with reverence and Christian ardor, and this small couplet that makes the point perfectly:

For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.

 

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Ivy Grimes

Ivy Grimes lives in Georgia, and her writing has appeared in The Baffler, Maudlin House, hex, ergot., Vastarien, and elsewhere. Her collection Glass Stories is available from Grimscribe Press. For more, please visit www.ivyivyivyivy.com.

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?

I just started it all! I had a fiction chapbook out last year: Grime Time. I had a lot of fun working with the editor, Matthew Stott, and I enjoyed my online conversations with everyone who read it. My current collection, Glass Stories, was also a lot of fun to edit, and I also loved working with editor Jon Padgett. 

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

I actually started writing poetry first. It was quicker! I transferred my energies to fiction once I realized how much more time I spent reading fiction than poetry. I love both, but fiction is the truer love of my writing life. 

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 tend to either do things quickly or not at all. I also have many more ideas for projects than I actually start. My first drafts are often rather close to their final shape, but I feel uneasy about that. I’d like to experiment with more radical revisions. On the other hand, too much editing is dangerous for me since I want to be led by my unconscious mind rather than my analytical mind. I suppose I can’t win!

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?

With Glass Stories, I wrote a couple before I realized I wanted to keep going. I got really excited by the idea of having a different glass element in each story, and having a number of “Glass ____” stories. The concept came before the story for most of these, as it often does for me. Again, it’s the initial idea that excites me, and that excitement pushes me through the sometimes-slog of finishing a project. 

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

Heck no, I don’t enjoy giving readings…I don’t want to feel the gruesome weight of everyone’s eyeballs on me!

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 very interested in ideas about spirituality. I often explore various kinds of anxiety as well. Often existential anxiety, which I suppose goes hand-in-hand with spirituality. My hope is that when someone reads a story I’ve written, they leave with their own questions. 

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 hate performing. I know that’s not what you’re talking about, but I can’t help but think of “roles” that way. I think ideally, any person (regardless of hobby or profession) cares about the world at large and tries to live with empathy and improve matters. I don’t think writers have a special call in this way, though, and I don’t think this care has to be expressed in one’s writing. Ultimately, I think the role of the writer will be different for each writer. 

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

To be perfectly honest, neither! Working with an editor is wonderful because it helps me see my words from another perspective, and many editors have great ideas and a more thorough sense of the literary landscape than I do. I don’t feel like I’ll die without an editor, though. 

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

When lecturing about storytelling, Kurt Vonnegut said - “The truth is, we know so little about life, we don't really know what the good news is and what the bad news is.” He was giving the example of Hamlet, how many of the events in the play aren’t obviously good or bad, but simply things that happen to Hamlet. I think this advice favors storytelling that allows the reader to wonder rather than telling them what to think. It also encourages someone to retain a sense of humility and mystery about writing as well as life, which for me is essential to survival.  

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

Shorter and longer fictions each have their challenges for me. Short fictions are easier to tackle, but longer fictions give me more space to play around. I enjoy the thrill of a quick short story, of course, and I appreciate that its world can be much more sparsely decorated. On the other hand, I also enjoy telling longer stories without having to create a new world every few pages. 

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 don’t adhere to a writing schedule. On days when I write, sometimes I like to keep hammering away, and other times I come and go. I add a little here, subtract a little there, and in between, I look up a bunch of stuff online. 

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

Fun facts, history, new films, old films, art museums, poetry, surrealism, memories of childhood landscapes, favorite authors, fairy tales….

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Magnolia blossoms, with their hot lemon breath. 

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?

Other than books, I’m most conscious of the fact that films influence me. For example, David Lynch was an important influence for me in writing eerie, strange fiction. 

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

Too many, with more to come! Every writer I’ve encountered has been important in some sense. Some writers who’ve especially influenced my writing include Kafka, Beckett, Murakami, James Joyce, Flannery O’Connor, Barbara Comyns, Lorrie Moore, Dostoevsky, Toni Morrison, Kurt Vonnegut, Evelyn Waugh, Kazuo Ishiguro, Barbara Pym, Tana French, Raymond Chandler, Maya Angelou, Donna Tartt, Richard Brautigan, Ralph Ellison, Tove Jansson, Tolkien, the Victorians, Sayaka Murata, Iris Murdoch, Paul Auster, etc., etc.   

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

Reach enlightenment!

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

I have a lot of half-baked pastoral dreams of farming or shepherding. I’m not crazy about getting my hands dirty, though, truth be told. 

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

I’ve always loved to read so much. It’s one of my very favorite things in life. That’s the only reason. 

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

I really enjoyed the memoir Work by Bud Smith, which is about his experiences working heavy construction and growing up in New Jersey. He’s very funny and finds poetry in unusual places. 

I’ve been going through the Japanese Horror section of the Criterion Channel, and I especially enjoyed a film called Cure by Kiyoshi Kurosawa. I haven’t even watched half of these movies yet, though, so I have more to go!

20 - What are you currently working on?

I’m doing secret experiments in the semi-darkness. 

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

some calgary, amid the foothills, snow;

Christine and I and our wee two monsters were in Calgary not that long back, I'm sure you might have known. You probably saw my prior notes on our Toronto and Kingston readings and adventures [or my notes from reading in London, Ontario in January; or my notes on reading in Toronto last December]. We were in town to read as part of the single onion reading series over at Shelf Life Books, but more on that in a moment. We were a few days in Calgary for the sake of a reading, but flying out on Rose's eleventh birthday, so we certainly couldn't leave them behind, taking them along for the trip, and staying with Christine's aunt and uncle who live there, somewhere.

Our first day was a bit of a wander, heading over to a mall to catch lunch (as much of Calgary does seem designated "mall space," it would seem) and see what options our young ladies might have for clothes-shopping. After begging for months, we booked Rose (and Aoife) for iFLY, an indoor skydiving place. They were booked two rounds each, and Rose really had been begging for this for months; of course, she hated it. Aoife took three rounds, instead, and completely loved it. Rose appreciated the experience, but basically never wishes to ever do that again.

[above: me (left) and a bear statue (right)] It did look rather fun, but I'm not sure I'd be open to such, either. From there, we headed over to the University of Calgary Press offices, quickly, where I got to meet my publisher, Brian Scrivener [his ABC Bookworld profile is wildly out-of-date, I'd say] for the first time, and found out that my next collection through the press, the book of sentences, has a scheduled release date of October 15, 2025, so that was pretty exciting (I should probably be thinking about tour plans, possibly). And I was given a copy of my pal Andy Weaver's new poetry collection, The Loom [which I've already reviewed over here]. The young ladies were bored out of their minds at the visit to the office, to the campus, quietly writhing around on the carpeted floor (we didn't stay long).

Once back to the house, Christine's aunt Nancy had some dinner for the young ladies and a birthday cake and gifts for Rose, as well as the neighbour teen to babysit; our quartet of grown-ups went out for pre-reading dinner, meeting up with a cousin of Christine's I hadn't met yet (who lives in Calgary, and was delightful).

The Calgary crowd at our reading was energized, lively. What a fine crowd! Christine and I both noticed that the audience were reacting to elements of our readings we weren't used to hearing responses to, so that was pretty interesting. There was even a live-stream for those unable to attend in-person, although I can't seem to figure out if that same recording is available archivally online anywhere. Hm.

It was grand to see Colin Martin, Nikki Sheppy, Weyman Chan [see my review of his latest], Adrienne Adams and Monica Kidd (new novel out next year, you know)! It was grand to meet Ben Berman Ghan (I bought his new book, as I've heard very good things about it) and Ian FitzGerald! There was another event the same night in Calgary as ours, which did mean a couple of folk were unable to attend (an enviable-sounding talk by Anna Veprinska that sounded pretty cool; did you know she was there now?). The bookstore also held a remarkable selection of books, more than a few titles I had to pick up while there. Calgary, you have a very good bookstore. The store even sold out of the stack of my new short story collection, which provided me the opportunity for me (I checked with the store first, of course) to even sell a couple of copies out of my bag.

[Weyman, above] After the reading, Christine's energy was run out, but we discovered (randomly) that the reading host lives four houses away from Christine's aunt, so it allowed me to head out for drinks, which was rather fortunate. It was good to hang out with Weyman again; it had been a few years, since a ridiculous story of hanging out post-reading with one of Monty Reid's stepsons (who was still living in Calgary at the time), and Weyman insisting we call Monty on the phone (we did; um, remember there's a time-zone thing between 10pm Calgary and Ottawa, eh Weyman?). Apparently Weyman had been part of a group of students that travelled with Robert Kroetsch and Aritha Van Herk out to Drumheller many moons ago (Kroetsch describes the outing in his updated Alberta, which I do recommend).

The following morning, we managed to make up the trip for Rose (she didn't want to come along; and the flying thing made her grumpy) with a visit to their science centre, which was enormously cool. We could have spent the whole day there, and the young ladies (as well as us, and Aunt Nancy) were delighted. There were plenty of extremely cool exhibits, including a room of particle-light I can't even begin to describe, a device that flung them around in the air (Rose and Aoife each went at least twice), a bed of nails everyone (sans myself) tried, a board where one can write and affix their birth stories (I was tempted, but my story is rather sordid, honestly, with some sadnesses within). Aoife wrote a sad one also: "I gave my mom toxemia." God sakes (we had a wee chat about that after, to clarify that Christine's illnesses weren't "their fault" or anything as such).

Next, Christine's aunt Nancy dropped us at Christine's former (retired) work-colleage/work-mom Sheri's place, where we had dinner with her and her husband, and the young ladies played happily with Sheri's grandson, a trio that worked far better than we could have hoped.

[left: Kevin, Ben, Ken] From there? Nancy returned to collect us, and dropped Christine and I at a pub downtown, where I had organized a pub night at Tubby's with Kevin Stebner (new book with Assembly Press!), since he couldn't make the event the night prior. Nancy took the kids back to her place, and we got to hang out with a flurry of Calgary writers (the venue recommended by Kevin himself), including Ben Berman Ghan (that guy again), Samantha Jones, Ken Hunt (he still exists!), Ethan Vilu (who was good enough to hand out a couple of copies of the latest filling Station) and even Nikki Sheppy, who floated through briefly across the mighty snow.

[Kevin bein' awesome and Samantha being coy] It was a second glorious night across an array of glorious nights. Samantha had been to visit a few months prior in Ottawa, and I can't even recall the last time I saw Ken Hunt, but the rest I was meeting for the first time on this trip, so that was very, very nice. I had envelopes of chapbooks for various folk, as I tend to do, especially during these dark days of another Canada Post strike (give the workers what they want, I say; do it now!).

[Ken Hunt and Christine looking thoughtful, listening intently to the wisdom of Ben Berman Ghan]

The next day, we'd been originally hoping to drive out to Banff, or, failing that, Drumheller, but Calgary managed a record amount of snowfall, so that didn't happen. We made for another mall, took the young ladies to see Wicked, part one (which they considered "mid," or at least all they were willing to offer). And then, an early morning flight back to Ottawa, nestled back into our corners by mid-afternoon. I did manage a ton of notes on both flights, but I'm still working my slow way through all of them. It will come, soon enough.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Moshe Zvi Marvit

Moshe Zvi Marvit's work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Nation, The New Republic, Dissent Magazine, In These Times, The American Prospect, The Bellevue Literary Review, and elsewhere. He has been awarded the Sidney Hillman Prize, The Ken May Media Award, a Mesa Refuge Writing Residency, and was shortlisted for the Studs Terkel Prize. Nothing Vast is his first novel.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
It's too soon to tell how and if my first novel, Nothing Vast, might change my life, but it's a departure from my previous work. Most of my writing until now has been non-fiction or journalism and about labor and work, often with a policy or legal bent. I found writing fiction much more difficult.

2 - How did you come to non-fiction first, as opposed to, say, fiction or poetry?
I have always been interested in issues surrounding work, and when I started publishing around 2010, there was a real dearth of people writing about these issues. I started pitching pieces and was surprised to see a real interest in the subject. Pretty soon, I was offered a fellowship at a think tank, which provided real institutional support to write about labor and employment.
 
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 feel like I sit with the idea for a long time before ever writing. Once I start in earnest, it seems to proceed quickly at first, then long periods of not looking at the project, before plodding along to the end. I almost never have an outline or organized notes, because the thing that keeps me going is wanting to know what will happen. As I write, I feel like I get boxed in and there are fewer paths I can choose or decisions I have to make, until it comes to a close.

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?
I used to write (though rarely sought publication) of short stories, and could not have imagined trying to write a novel. It felt like everything that was necessary for the story always fit easily in a 5,000 word arc. Now, after spending a lot of time in book form, I have tried to return to short stories, and find it incredibly difficult to be limited to so few pages. I'd like to be able to do both, but for the foreseeable future, I assume that every project I begin will be conceived as a book. Whether the whole book gets written is another matter.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I have largely avoided doing readings, because I assumed I would not enjoy them. Having said that, I have enjoyed the few I have done.
 
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?
The story in Nothing Vast is about families, and the stories they tell to form their identities. Beyond that, it's a story of migration and loss, and how people situate themselves in history. The form of the story tries to fit the substance in a manner that might prove difficult for some readers, but I hope will ultimately serve the purpose of making it more relatable.

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 of the fiction writer as someone who can capture our attentions and change our perceptions, either through their internal logic or the stories they choose to tell. Our attention is so dispersed by disparate streams of information, which we typically funnel into our predetermined paradigms. But a good story has the potential to challenge one's narrative and sit with a reader indefinitely.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Working with an outside editor is always difficult, always essential, and sometimes fantastic. I've been really lucky to have worked with fantastic editors at the nonfiction outlets I used to write for, and at Acre Books for Nothing Vast. I have also worked with some problematic editors, who view writing solely through the commercial lens, or try to temper the writing to reach a broader audience, or try to substitute their writing and vision for the writers. These experiences have made me thankful for the truly wonderful editors that I have worked with on so many occasions.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
At best, your first draft has the potential to be good.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (fiction to non-fiction)? What do you see as the appeal?
It has been extremely difficult to move between fiction and non-fiction and back to fiction. I know that some people do it easily, but for me, it feels next to impossible. Writing non-fiction for me is very routine based. I have to be steeped in the subject matter and have to constantly be working and putting things out. Once I slow down or stop, starting becomes a heavy lift. As opposed to that, writing fiction requires me to have space to take my time and not rush things. For that reason, fiction takes me much longer.

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?
My fiction writing routines center around travel. I write best on trains and planes and away from home.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I wish I had an answer for this. I hate the advice I've heard on how best to get past a period where I don't or can't write, and it never works for me.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
It's a unique blend of the Monongahela River meeting the nacho-cheese smell of rotting leaves meeting the faint exhaust of the Edgar Thomson Works.

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?
Cities really influence my work. There is a way in which every city has its own form of chaos and order that feels constant and unique to that city. For me, the really great books are the ones that capture a city in a way that gives you access to its character and energy.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
I have a small community of writers whose work and conversations are essential to my own work.

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

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?
My day job is as a lawyer, but if writing fiction could be an occupation for me, I'd do that.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I took the path of many failed writers and became a lawyer.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
The last great book I read was An Island, by Karen Jennings. I found it on a used book rack, and had no idea what to expect when I picked it up, but it surprised me at every turn. I looked it up afterward and was surprised to find that it had originally come out on a tiny press on a run of 500 or so, until it was longlisted for the Booker Prize and people took notice of this amazing little book. I realized how rare it has become for me to accidentally chance upon a great book, without first reading a review or knowing that it had won an award, which has since encouraged me to pick up random books and give them a shot. It also reminded me how many great books come out on tiny presses that I've never heard of, and those are often the books that are trying something truly new and interesting.

20 - What are you currently working on?
I don't like to talk about projects until I'm done because the ideas seem so fragile at this stage and I fear them disappearing.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Stephen Collis, The Middle

 

I tried to speak of the
times but there were
too many and
                        glancing
some like blows turned

in a twilight they had
created turned and I’m
sure like a bird or
something more seed-like so

/ even the mighty river burned /

and darting bent back
on their lines of flight
so that the yellow trees
were our fellow
                           travellers

and gave what they had to
spore or to flames we
took to be the earth’s own
vascular system unlocked by the
hot wind was our breathing was
                                                    common
as the dense mycelial air (“FIRST MOVEMENT”)

Vancouver poet, editor, writer and critic Stephen Collis’ latest full-length poetry title is The Middle (Vancouver BC: Talonbooks, 2024), furthering his array of poetry collections that speak to elements of climate crisis, social politics, community and human responsibility that include Anarchive (Vancouver BC: New Star Books, 2005), The Commons (Talonbooks, 2008/2014), To the Barricades (Talonbooks, 2013) [see my review of such here], Once in Blockadia (Talonbooks, 2016) [see my review of such here] and A History of the Theories of Rain (Talonbooks, 2021) [see my review of such here]. Each collection of his to date is crafted as a book-length poem, but one that has evolved into an extended, ongoing trajectory of thought, writing from the deepest part of the centre. “To be in the middle is to be in relation,” he writes as part of his “PREFACE,” “moving between.” Across a sequence of “MOVEMENTS” and numbered “CANTOS,” it is curious to see the evolution of his ongoing work, and how he sets himself firmly in the tradition and foundation of the work of the late Robin Blaser (1925-2009): if the forest is indeed holy, one might suggest, then it requires protecting. As his “PREFACE” continues, a bit further along: “This long poem grown from the middle of life comes in three parts. The first finds its seeds in the assembling of a small library of Robin Blaser’s books – a decade after the poet’s death, his books arrived at the university where I work, like a long-whispered echo through the trees. so I ran through the Holy Forest like a madman – there was some urgency, the librarians said – so I ran, pulling quotations from volumes like branches broken from the trees, apples caught as they fell.”

The deep middleness of things compels me – this fraught stretch of life between certain pasts (let’s recall, if only a few, colonial land grabs, empires in their always-new clothes, vast carbon incinerations) and uncertain futures (can we yet dream of a time when all will come to have a relationship with the earth that is welcoming and mutually sustaining?). I am writing this in a winged hut at the back of my mind, which is to say deep in an imaginary forest (where there are no actual trees) – a place I find whenever I’m surrounded by books and silence. That’s a middle of things that necessarily feels like respite, an eddy in the flow, as opposed to the middleness that feels like a slow-motion tumbling – in medias res – as the planet tips, and the turtle sloughs off that’s been built off its back.

The Middle presents itself as a book-length poem of perpetual love, despite all ecological trauma we’ve inflicted upon the both the planet and ourselves, but articulating the conflict held between that devastation, that love. Self-described as an extension of Collis’ ongoing “investigation of threatened climate futures into a poetics of displacement and wandering,” The Middle is the second volume of a projected trilogy; as a layering of one poem atop another, an expansive and introspective questioning of climate action and inaction, of state response; of music, movements and cantos, employing Blaser’s element of song across his examinations of the earth. “Without stopping / one after the other / lit out / for all haste / you move / your image moves,” begins “CANTO 25,” “words remain human / like blood coagulates / and quickens / like a plant / or sea fungus forming / from the begetter’s heart [.]” There’s a thickness to the collection, an intellectual and lyric heft, blended in such a way to not allow either to get in the way of the other, but intermingle comfortably; akin to the work of Blaser, one might say, able to absorb and engage with elements from his surroundings, his community, into something unique, lyric and purely his own. As he offers as part of his “NOTES” at the back of the collection:

To cite in poetry, I have believed, is to participate in the commons that poetry exhibits better than any other genre: our literary resources are shared, a common treasury for all. Citation may also be a form of solidarity. But I am compelled to note my sources here because, as Fady Joudah has said, “There is a solidarity whose horizon is assimilation, and there is a solidarity whose horizon is liberation. The former is hierarchical to those it is in solidarity with. The latter is in community with them. The former treats them as abstraction. The latter is citational. It names those it loves” (The New Inquiry). I would name what I love, and be in community with the many writers whose work I gratefully take up here.