Tuesday, April 28, 2026

Nathan Hoks, Moony Days of Being

 

Dead Julia Syndrome

If it is possible to lick your own elbow
Why did Julia kill herself?
I thought the man with the radish
Would warm her ribcage
But the bleeding finger became a distraction
And the flogged horse sent us all spinning
Down the village well of internal turmoil—
So I went into the mustard field
To sweet myself away with the dusk
And I went onto the sunny patio
To sear memory out of my scalp
But I merely scared away the robins 

If it is possible to inspect the back of your neck
If it is possible to feel a protein
Enter the slog and ooze of the bloodstream
Why kill anything at all?
My coffee’s cold, my heart runneth dry
Another day another coffin makes
Yellow chicks fluff up beneath warm lab lights
I take my bloody finger to the other room
Where the radio won’t reach us
Where the shades blackout the light
Where a forest may spring from Julia


The fourth full-length poetry title by Chicago poet Nathan Hoks, but the first I’ve seen, is Moony Days of Being (Boston MA/Chicago IL: Black Ocean, 2026), a collection that follows The Narrow Circle (Penguin, 2013), Reveilles (Salt Publishing, 2010) and Nests in Air (Black Ocean, 2021). Moony Days of Being is a collection of sharp, first-person lyric narratives that punch, and parry; are occasionally odd, with surreal, absurdist twists. “I turned up my headphones and stroked my ermine collar.” he writes, as part of “Self-Portrait on the Go,” “I could sense no texture / Only numb gray nerves as the ultra-light car doors / Opened and closed continuously for several hours.” Offering an absurdist lyric with, at times, dark undertones, there are echoes reminiscent in Hoks’ work of American poets such as that of fellow Chicagoan, Benjamin Niespodziany [see my review of his latest] and fellow Black Ocean press-mate, Zachary Schomburg [see my review of his latest]. “Once you accept the basic pointlessness / Of life,” begins the poem “Self-Portrait as Ancient Mariner,” “the vomiting phantasmagoria / Crashes down to its earth-smudged abundance / I will insert line breaks later—for now / The thing is to listen to the heart murmur / The tale of the broken mermaid / I discovered while kayaking the city’s river, / She was delightfully moored [.]”

Monday, April 27, 2026

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Emma McKenna

Emma McKenna is a feminist, bi, disabled poet living in the Waterloo Region with her husband and two Shih Tzus. She is the author of Gold Star (2026) and Chenille or Silk (2019). 

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, Chenille or Silk, gave me confidence and it also calmed me down and humbled me. The fact that nothing really happened afterwards helped me understand that publication doesn’t magically change your life. By the time I wrote my second book, Gold Star, I had gained a stronger sense of my authorial voice. I was more practiced at making decisions on form, content, and tone, and possessed a better sense of control over the verse.

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

I wrote my first poem when I was thirteen, in a very self-aware way that I was writing a poem to express something private in a way that could also be shared. I liked the use of metaphor, of obscuring some things while revealing others. I have also written non-fiction and fiction, (mainly unpublished), but poetry does feel like my truest voice. I like the dance between offering something while also holding back. I wrote a novel between 2023-2025 and it was a great exercise in structure, plot, and character development. It taught me a lot about word economy and stakes, and the need to believe in your writing.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

My writing usually appears with a sense of urgency, a problem or an image, that I want to work through and imbue with other meaning. I will think about a poem before I start writing, playing with different beginnings in my mind. I have come to revise more intensely, and I think that has strengthened my poetry. With prose, revision feels so clearly necessary, and much less emotional. It’s more obvious when something isn’t working or feels jarring. Poetry is trickier, because there is less language to hide behind. The final form really needs to stand on its own.

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?

Poems usually begin from a feeling of something that I need to expel or a story I want to tell. My books have taken the form of collected poems, tied together thematically. Gold Star began as a very different book, with a different overarching theme, but through many rounds of revisions the core pieces came through, and I rewrote in alignment with them. I do think I am a “book” poet in that I like the feeling of a collection, of putting things together over a longer narrative. I would like to write a chapbook on a single theme, that sounds like something fun to do next year.

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

It is quite special to get to read publicly. I value that element of the craft, and I am grateful to have opportunities to do so. I am so moved by having an audience willing to engage with my voice, and my writing, and being able to perform hits at a different register than writing. I also love reading aloud; it is a delight to get pronounce the carefully chosen words and to say them with intention. 

I want to add that I don’t think reading publicly should be a requirement for anyone, as people have varying levels of comfort and access needs. It is important to meet writers where they are at and provide opportunities for them to engage with community that aren’t only performing in a public space. I am grateful there are virtual options, both as a writer, to be able to connect with folks who can’t be there in person, and as a reader, as it allows for a different set of possibilities to take place. Mentorship and other group or one-on-one writerly relations are also amazing ways that writers can connect with readers without having to perform.

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?

My work is always engaging with power. My writing grapples with things like choice, consent, domination, and coercion, on micro and macro levels. I write about gender, sexuality, class, trauma, violence, and disability.

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?

There are so many kinds of writers, I can’t ascribe a role to anyone else. Some people fit well into the role of public intellectual, others are fierce social critics, forest recluses, bog queens, etc. My hope is that the industry can allow writers to be the kinds of writer that fits them best.

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

I love to work with editors. I also love to edit for other people and moonlight at this. Having the opportunity to work with an editor is incredible. But you need to have a sense of who you are, and your voice, unless you are just looking for a ghostwriter. A good relationship with an editor will involve mutual respect; don’t work with someone you don’t admire and respect. I was incredibly fortunate to work with Sandra Ridley on Gold Star, and she brought a perspective to my work I couldn’t see myself. What a gift that was, and I will forever be grateful for that time spent together on this collection.

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

Don’t chase fads.

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

I like to write in all forms. I trained in academia for many years so I have written a lot of academic, critical writing. I was a songwriter for over a decade as well. My favorite thing about poetry is having a limited space to carve out the meaning—I like that restriction. Fiction is a delight because there are no citations required, it’s so fun to just make stuff up. And I am an aspiring memoirist—one day—but the difficulty I have with non-fiction is how much to share, where to begin the story, and where to end it. I admire non-fiction writers who can so cleanly develop a narrative arc out of their life and not divulge everything at once. I’m working on that, slowly.

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?

As a white-collar worker, I’m at my desk five days a week. I think this helps make writing kind of second nature as I do some kind of writing every day at work. I do not “write everyday” but rather I write in random pockets of time.

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

Reading, of course! I also like to look back at my journals and see what I was intending to write, and that can help. And of course, I take two walks a day with my pups, and walking is always meditative and good for thinking through writing.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Lavender, or my dogs’ paws.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

I would say I’m most influenced by people and relationships.

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

I read a lot and am always hungry for women’s stories and narratives. I love memoir, poetry, fiction, whatever, especially if the writer has some struggle to work through.

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

In terms of writing—write more poetry books, write a memoir, write novels. Many things!

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 wanted to be a writer since I was young. So, I feel proud that I’ve stuck to that plan. I have a job in research administration, which is square within my skill set. If I were to do something else that followed a passion, it would have been something to do with fashion.

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

My great grandmother Hilda wrote poetry, and my grandmother Joan did as well. I like to think that is part of why I became a writer. Writing has always been intuitive to me, as essential as speaking. Writing is a life practice, and it’s something I have prioritized. From very early on I was aware I needed language to make sense of my experiences and the world around me.

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

The last great book I read was the memoir Mother Mary Comes to Me, by Arundhati Roy. The last great artistic film was The Zone of Interest. But I also love mainstream media, and I really enjoyed The Housemaid.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I’m completely focused on promoting Gold Star and touring for the next few months. When I have spare energy, I’m working on poetry. I have a new book project—a literary novel—that is in its drafting stages, and I hope to write more of it this summer.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Sunday, April 26, 2026

Rennie Ament, Full-Time Mammal

 

Porcupine

I’m vulnerable with animals.
They are an interpersonal event.
When I offer the trundling rodent
a pocked crabapple
he gives me brain in the eyes.
Density of language
here would be a cloud of mosquitoes.
Wipe off the smear of language on the already.
What exists does not need a cowboy hat.
The slow unfolding of a thought does not sing true.
Blah blah blah blah blah
is what the porcupine takes off my hands.
O my little fleshy mace.
The porcupine turned its ass to me,
which meant it was time to chuck
archaic modes of processing.

The second full-length collection by Owls Head, Maine poet Rennie Ament, following Mechanical Bull (Cleveland OH: Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2023) [see my review of such here] is the absolutely sleek, sharp and whip-smart book-length suite, Full-Time Mammal (Iowa City IA: University of Iowa Press, 2026). Composed as an assemblage of first-person stray thoughts, the rich interiority of the short poems across Full-Time Mammal manages to contain both her animal impulses and pure thinking through compact lyric. To say these poems are odd, even quirky, would be an imperfect description, as her poems are composed in straight lines, albeit with the wild heat from her lines providing a kind of abstract shimmer across these long, lyric highways. “Once, unemployment left the fluffy / corpses of days at my door,” she writes, as part of “Now,” but nothing / killed me. Nice try, brain.”

There are poems composed while in motion, and, as with Ament, poems composed while standing completely still, as though her poems present a pause, and requiring the full attention of both author and reader. “So I can / go to work. Work for / peanuts. Get worked up. Work / on myself.” she writes, as part of the poem “Faster, Blood!” “The good work / is a work in progress.”

There’s an element of her expositional lyric, her thinking and examination, that suggest these are poems composed in real time, even as you might be reading them; lyrics held fast and almost disorienting, offering lines composed in fluid but held in ice. “Turn on the day: / dead vole in the grass / with blood on its rump.” begins the short poem “Impossible Task,” “Ban prepositions: they force / the interrelatedness of things.” Her declarative accumulations and modes of compositional thinking, her riffs and responses, offer such an abstract sheen of concrete truths, composed as short, self-contained musings, each of which offer a new beginning into an entirely different direction. “I’ll try to be a good baby / for poetry and brim,” she writes, to open the poem “Potatoes,” “with innocent questions / about potatoes. / Why are they humble?” Or, as the short poem “Tomaž Å alamun” ends:

Get over here, mouse.
Jump over my head.
Animals, animals
all thinking, too.
Comma, comma.
Sentence, sentence.
We take a long time to learn
to live with life.