Happy Tenth Birthday, Aoife!

Can you believe my small one is already ten? How does that happen? Happy birthday!

 

today is my fifty-sixth birthday,

and I’ve been wearing my ‘birthday boy’ pin since Monday, given I take the whole week.

Here, this annual check-in, to see where I’m at. Where was I last year? Ten years back? Where culture suggests New Year’s as the moment to collect, recollect, I’ve always done on my birthday, these fifty-six years since I first appeared at the former Grace Hospital on Wellington Street West, two blocks or so from the Carleton Tavern.

As some might know, I’ve been in the basement since the last day of August, having spent eighteen months relocating my home office from our main floor (where I’d been since we landed in our Alta Vista house, the same season our Rose was born), so our young ladies didn’t have to share a bedroom anymore. For the first three months, at least, we barely saw either of them, set behind their closed doors, in their spaces. Once made, the move felt immediately more comfortable than I might have imagined, mid-point through an essay on the trauma of the relocation, but then there simply wasn’t, and I went immediately to work (although winter and the spring thaw does make it a bit cool down in the back corner of the basement, but mother-in-law did gift a space heater, which I use when required). A much smaller space, so the bulk of the work of the move was two-fold: carving and curating a particular corner with what I would need, and attempting to not just physically move everything else, but figure out where the hell to put it (that last part is still working itself through).

We also have two new kittens over the past couple of weeks, but you already know that. This, also, a prompt for the young ladies to keep their bedroom doors open. With kittens, we actually see the young ladies more often.

I’ve been working, lately, short essays: focusing on a particular poet, a particular title, as a way through thinking on a particular form. I worked a piece on Kingston poet Joanne Page (and Sadiqa de Meijer and Bronwen Wallace etc), but evolved into a subsequent piece on the prose poem/Anne Carson’s Short Talks (1992); currently working a piece on (a particular version of) the Canadian long poem/Don McKay’s Long Sault (1975). To revisit classic works, specifically across my own reading, to see if there might be something new to learn. Not sure where I might go next (I do have some thoughts—Monty Reid, John Thompson, etc), but think I may better serve the work by focusing purely on one piece at a time. Otherwise, I recently put the project-based poetry manuscript “Fair bodies of unseen prose” to bed [I wrote on such here], having sent it out into the world to a potential publisher. I’ve also been shopping around “the genealogy book” and “the green notebook” for some months now, as well as my Covid-era essay-book, “Lecture for an Empty Room” (I’ve returned to such recently, for the purposes of revisiting/cleaning up that particular manuscript). I keep thinking non-fiction might be where I think best, especially when publishers keep saying how great the writing is in these manuscripts, but then add how they aren’t able to publish them. It makes for a frustrating process.

I’m close to also completing my further project-based poetry manuscript, “dream logic: poems from a Sunday prompt,” working weekly across the length and breadth of 2025, thanks to Benjamin Niespodziany’s “Sunday poem and prompt” substack. I’m announcing a chapbook from the same project via above/ground press a bit later this morning (the press turns thirty-three this summer; can you imagine?), in case such intrigues. I’ve been slowly working on my “Museum of Practical Things” since July [a project I wrote about over here], as well as a collaboration with Jessica Smith—“Lake Ontario.” I had a dream not long ago that she and I each wrote 20-30 page long poems on “Lake Ontario,” prompted in part via Lorine Niedecker’s “Lake Superior,” but this as a counterpoint across an international border with increased tension, thanks to that most ridiculous orange monster over there (when I first met Jessica, circa 2004, she was living in Buffalo, so the argument of us being across the same pond from each other, say). When I offered the prompt, I was very pleased Jessica agreed to work on this, as I’m always wishing to see further work by her. I am slowly inching and centimetreing along my “Lake Ontario.” It moves slower than I would prefer, but it is moving. Naturally, the pull these days is to return to fiction—whether my in-progress novel that sits between my two short story collections—On Beauty (2024) and the as-yet-unpublished “Very suddenly all at once” (or that other novel we don’t really discuss anymore, “Don Quixote”), as well as the potential for further short stories, some two years after that prior collection completed—is strong. But not yet, not yet. Finish one thought before starting another.

Mostly, the past three months (honestly, back to July, but the past few months have really ramped up) have been working on next week’s festival, our sixteenth annual VERSeFest: Ottawa’s International Poetry Festival. I’m also working new above/ground press titles by Jennifer Baker and Misha Solomon for such, as well as a very cool reissue by Stephanie Bolster.

Otherwise, I’m reading (twice, it would seem) in Victoria, British Columbia on April 24^th via Planet Earth Poetry, and, while there, even hosting a podcast! Three weeks later, I’ll be a week at Banff Writing Studios as part of the fiftieth anniversary of the writer-in-residence program at the University of Alberta! (I was there as such in 2007-8, don’t forget). A week in the mountains, alongside ryan fitzpatrick, Fred Wah, Margaret Christakos, Daphne Marlatt, J.R. Carpenter, Thomas Wharton, Joshua Whitehead and multiple others (we’re doing at least one online reading as part of same, also; I’m sure closer to the time there will be further information/a link on that sort of thing). Naturally, I’ve already been working to produce new above/ground press chapbooks by fitzpatrick, Carpenter, Marlatt and myself for such, with possible others as well, and even an anthology through above/ground of as many participants as are willing to submit (the process is still very much in-progress). It is very exciting. What else might fifty-six bring?

Oh, and a new poetry title in June! edgeless, appearing with Caitlin Press (which includes both my elegy/sequence for Barry McKinnon, and my half of the call-and-response collaboration with Julie Carr, etc). The cover isn’t up yet (an image by our wee Aoife [above]; I’m curious to see how it comes out in the design), but the pre-order link is there. Just as the book of sequences, Snow day (2025), sits as sidecar between the book of smaller (2022) [see my write-up on such here] and the book of sentences (2025) [see my note on such here], so, too, does the book of sequences, edgeless, sit as sidecar between the book of smaller and the as-yet-unpublished third in this particular trilogy, “Autobiography.” A trilogy of five titles? Oh, how very Douglas Adams of you, sir.

introducing: Goose and Frankie,

These two young gentlemen (who will be four months old tomorrow) entered our household last Saturday afternoon. We'd been pondering new cats for a while, our young ladies preferring one each, in part so they wouldn't fight over a single one, and so the kittens could entertain each other during school-days. After the loss of our Lemonade more than a year ago [see my obituary for him here], the household was finally ready to be able to move forward (there was talk at one point of attempting to get Lemonade "a friend," but we never quite got there). Again, the kitten-proofing (lots of stuff getting knocked over) and the sunroom door closed (until potentially poisonous plants can be re-housed). Again, the attention to litter and water and brushing and food.

These "chaos gremlins" (as Christine refers to them) are a curious Highland Lynx/Siamese blend, and lap-cats (at least so far), very different than our skittish and moody Lemonade. As well, as Lemonade, both kittens are polydactyl, with multiple extra toes (and accompanying claws) all over their wee padded feet. It took longer than I would have thought for the young ladies to land on names (and refusing any of the ridiculous names I offered: "Captain Marzipan!" "Peaches!" "President Eisenhower!" etc). Aoife finally chose "Goose" for her kitten, after our recent Captain Marvel (2019) watch [Aoife and I have been doing an entire MCU watch, having watched twenty-five movies-to-date in order of their release, as well as the Guardians of the Galaxy Holiday Special, Ms. Marvel (which I knew she'd really like) and WandaVision, with more to come]. Rose has landed on "Frankie," a name she claims she "just likes," but it makes me think of Frankie Goes To Hollywood, of course. "Frankie says Relax," I tell them, and the boy agrees. Although Rose had earlier attempted "My Melody," a Hello Kitty reference we weren't convinced by (when naming pets or children, one has to be able to land on a name one can yell), but made me think of this song from my youth (one I was actually surprised Christine didn't know), which I hadn't realized was by a Toronto band. Are all my references from 1980s pop? Possibly.

Parc Oméga : outside you are three wolves,

Last week we spent an evening, night and part of a day at Parc Omega, a Safari-like park just outside of Montebello, Quebec. There's often so much activity, from music lessons to Guides to birthday parties to other things, we'd barely been able to catch our breath, or do something as a quiet unit for a while, it seemed. We'd been to the Parc prior, driving through to see the wolves, boar, bears, deer (which you can feed carrots to, from your car), silver foxes, moose, bison, etcetera. We'd only driven through (roughly an hour to ninety minutes to drive through), Christine suggesting there were cottages one could rent, with options of a panoramic view, or into a space where wolves might congregate. We picked the wolves, the whole one side of the building set as window, watching what was most likely three wolves wandering, moving, strolling. White wolf who walks by the window, in one direction. White wolf who walks by the window again, in the same direction, again. A third, a fourth time. As though this wolf, these wolves, a pattern, a path, worn into snow. One who spent much of the evening on a small mound, sleeping. The same (presumably) white wolf that would wander by and prod it, move a bit, before returning to their spot. All their movements, set upon a pattern.

We suspected that their food was delivered somewhere in this space, which is what would bring them by. 

It was a lovely, meditative space, with the option for a small fire in the woodstove, as well; although the hour drive there took two, given traffic and snow (and near white-out driving conditions, along highway 50), after the hour-plus I spent collecting the children from each of their schools, collecting Christine from work (the first forty minutes of our drive out of town purely on King Edward in Lowertown, which was irritating). While (finally) there, nestled into our cottage, we attempted best to keep off machines or phones while there, and Christine could hear them howling throughout the night. I don't think the young ladies did. Aoife and I played Uno, our game lasting around an hour or so, until I finally won (by a hair's breadth, to be sure).

This is far different than those childhood family trips I recall going to Parc Safari with my parents and wee sister, back in the 1970s (a space I somehow thought was north, but a map now tells me it sits south of Montreal, just by the American border). Seeing giraffes and lions in a Canadian setting always seemed confusing to me (especially an outdoor setting), but Parc Omega was rather nice. And the horrible cold was so cold, the next morning one of the workers wandered by removing snow with a leaf-blower, if you can imagine. Terrible.

We woke to wolves wandering, attending food, it looked like. We woke to wolves and to the crows, which might have been ravens, who also wished for some of whatever the wolves were having. Good morning, wolves. Good morning, crows.

And then, close to lunchtime, leaving our cabin to attend the rest of the parc, strolling through with the car, our young ladies feeding carrots to deer through the windows, Rose catching videos of her feeding (we were told we weren't allowed to talk when she was recording), and an eventual lunch at the chip truck. Curious to be in a space off-season, mid-week, nearly empty of anyone else but the occasional worker, attending repairs on the roads or elsewhere. The quiet of minus twenty, minus twenty-three. This solace of wolves.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold, and other rowdy tales,

Okay, possibly not rowdy. We survived another Christmas, at least the immediate bits of such, with a few more adventures and gatherings ahead. Aoife and I have been doing a Marvel Movie marathon the past week or so (in order of release), some six or seven movies in, at this point. I've not been able to convince Rose of any of this. As far as updates: Jérôme Melançon has composed the most lovely review of the book of sentences (University of Calgary Press, 2025), posted via the temz review. Did you see that the book was also part of this year's CBC Book's list of "The Best Canadian Poetry of 2025" as well? Very nice! I so rarely get on lists such as those. As part of the lead-up to this year's Ottawa Book Awards, Susan Johnson re-ran the CKCU Radio interview she and Brecken Hancock did with me on the book, which was fun. You probably already know that I didn't win the Ottawa Book Award for On Beauty (University of Alberta Press, 2024). I wrote about that here.

There's also a recent interview with me via On Creative Writing that got posted, as well. Read Alberta even recommended the book as part of "Alberta Books for the Poetry Reader"!

Public Reverie posted a few poems from my work-in-progress "Fair bodies of unseen prose," and Work and Days (Beautiful Days Press, Brooklyn) included some of the same, plus another project, in Vol. 6 of their journal, both print and online. I even have new poems in Gone Lawn. Oh, and the recording of the recent (zoom) conversation between Renée Sarojini Saklikar and myself on above/ground press is now online, as Aoife scours the shelves behind me, like the Junk Lady in Labyrinth (1986).

49th Shelf recently asked me for some reading recommendations, so I offered a list of such here, including titles by Anna Swanson, Qurat Dar, Isabella Wang, Melanie Dennis Unrau, Gillian Sze, Jumoke Verissimo, Hajer Mirwali and Sadiqa de Meijer.

What might 2026 bring? I'm pushing through these poetry manuscripts, hoping, in part, to return to short stories, return to that novel I was working on. There's also a whole swath of exciting things I'm working on via above/ground press and Touch the Donkey [a small poetry journal] and periodicities: a journal of poetry and poetics and the "Tuesday poem," as well as curating our spring edition of VERSeFest: Ottawa's International Poetry Festival. Did you know if you donate by the end of the year, we'll even send along a nice tax receipt? 

Lines Composed a Few Kilometres across Dublin, On Revisiting the Banks of the Liffey during a Tour : (part three,

[see part one of these notes here; see part two of these notes here] 

Thursday, July 10, 2025: Through all these travels, as we attempted to speak to Rose without wishing to interfere, allow her her space, her independence. It was a curious thing, allowing her a separate independence when she was but feet away from us. There were at least four other kids that talked to us (unprompted) during the trip more than Rose did. The grimace and the turn of her head as I'd realize she, from the choir, had seen us. Yes yes, there you are. And she's gone again. At one point in Dublin, she apparently saw us downtown walking around and took a photo of us on the street, sending it to Christine later, to prove the point. 

Okay, waking. Our first Dublin morning we landed at the student pub, which had a rather good breakfast and was completely empty, but for bartender playing mid-1980s pop/alternative, which made me suspect he and I were similar vintage. By the following morning, we figured out where the choir was having breakfast, which was less fun (the actual student commissary/dining hall, what have you, which felt very 'boarding school' in tone), but at least we could see Rose from a distance. They were going thrifting and Rose needed money, so we aimed for that, to pass it along. Aoife ran over to provide money with a hug. I sent Rose a text suggesting she thank her mother in person for the cash and not simply send a text from six feet away.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Our final Galway morning, Thursday, 11am: the goal was for all of us to get on the bus, as the choir had a performance later that day, and needed to get into Dublin in time to get the bags to the residence before heading downtown to set themselves up. For whatever reason, the bus didn't show up (the driver didn't feel like driving that day?), which made the grown-ups quite nervous. They handled it quite gracefully, I thought, not presenting any of their (obvious) stress to the children, and were forced to go with another tour company entirely, who provided a bus some two hours after the original was supposed to have arrived (as we all waited outside with bags, waiting; it was decided they would lunch while we waited). One of the tour-chaperones (one of the choir-parents) is also a travel agent, apparently, and she was right on it. Stressful, but they handled it very well.

Once we were all settled on this new (finally) bus (a better bus than had originally been ordered), I attempted to return to the novel manuscript I hadn't looked at in well over a year (given my two large non-fiction manuscripts, and completing that short story manuscript last summer; the novel that sits somewhere between or even amid my two short story collections). It went slowly, as those things so often do. En route to Dublin, the final city of our three-city tour. Once there, we headed straight for the residence, where a parent and accompanying teenager and ourselves departed the bus at the residence with all the bags, so the choir could go immediately to their venue to set-up for their 6pm service (the timing was rather tight, but they figured it out). Bags and bags and bags as the bus moved along and moving bags and ourselves and a quick settle before a return outside and a rush to a cab. 

But they made it, we made it, the attending group made it, to Christ Church Dublin, otherwise known as The Cathedral Church of the Holy Trinity, where the choir was singing their Choral Evensong. Dublin, this Medieval city. This city of Vikings and early Christians. The church was founded 1030, under a Viking king, apparently rebuilt later on, in the late 12th century under Strongbow. Yes, that Strongbow.

After the service concluded (the cathedral was closed for tourists, so we were to be ushered out rather quickly, so I had to move fast), I went around to the other side of a particularly interesting tomb I'd been sitting near, only to realize that this was the tomb of Strongbow? Our Aoife, as you might recall [see her birth notice here] was named for Aoife MacMurrough (c.1145–1188), who often fought on behalf of her husband. Aoife MacMurrough, otherwise known as Aoife Rua or the anglicized Red Eva, for her fiery red hair (we had hoped our Aoife would have kept her red baby locks, but there you go). Strongbow, so I pulled our wee girl over for a picture or two. Our young lady, named for a Warrior Queen, don't you know. As the stories go, this is the supposed tomb of Strongbow, as certain details can't entirely be verified, and it has been uncertain if the figure beside him was meant to be his wife, or perhaps a child (they did have a child who died young). I attempted to find out from staff if Aoife was buried here as well, but couldn't get an answer, we're closed, we're closed, time to go, time to go. Online checking later on confirmed she is actually buried along with her father-in-law (as she died some years after Strongbow) in Wales, at Tintern Abbey [the same one Wordsworth wrote about, as you know], so it was good to know that we hadn't missed her (otherwise we would have needed to return). Have you heard of Daniel Maclise's 1854 painting "The Marriage of Strongbow and Aoife"? The pair were married in this same Cathedral in 1170, after all. Oh, there is history everywhere.

The painting, which somehow made me think of Homestar Runner ("The Marriage of Aoife and Strongbad"), a website I introduced to Aoife later that night (a website originally introduced to me by eldest daughter Kate some twenty years ago). She loved "Teen Girl Squad" best of all. After the service, we headed to dinner at the same venue where the choir had already a booking, set in the basement away from the main action, as there were no other tables. Given the heat of Dublin when we arrived (Belfast and Galway were as cool as 15 degrees C), the difference of another ten to fifteen degrees was considerable, and without air conditioning or fans. This is what it was at home when we left, you know. We sat in the restaurant basement (near the washrooms), away from the action; but away from the heat. 

Friday, July 11, 2025: The bartender in the morning breakfast student pub (of similar vintage and musical tenor to myself, as I said) suggested the best way downtown was to take public transit. A difference of six euro ten for the three of us, and not twenty euro by cab or uber (which appear to be the same thing over here). An easy enough ride, straight down into the city centre, by the giant spire. We took a bus to the spire, and landed one of the city tourist double-decker buses, to see what the city might provide. What might the city provide? Postcards, obviously. I had to get postcards. There were a multitude of postcards.

Okay. There's a lion in this window. Why is there a lion in this window? (I don't think it's a real lion)

At Aoife's request (once she heard all the options), we made our way towards the Dublin Zoo, situated in Dublin's Phoenix Park, one of the many stops of this particular double-decker tour bus. Half-way through the whole run, maybe. I took eldest daughter Kate to the Toronto Zoo once, around the time she was Rose's age; do you remember when I took toddler Rose to the zoo in Washington DC, or six months later, when I took her to the zoo in Berlin? [We visited the Berlin Wall, also, on that same trip, but she cared far less for that] That is an awful lot of international zoo travel (separately, I have also been to zoos in Calgary and Annapolis Valley, not to mention the classic Park Safari in Hemmingford, Quebec; which seem a lot, when I'm somewhere between anti-zoo and completely indifferent). Rose's choir did not make this particular destination, so perhaps she'll have to hear from us how this particular visit went (I don't think she cared; I think they were either rehearsing or shopping).

Just west of the city centre, Phoenix Park is 1,750 acres, if you can imagine it, of "recreational space." Phoenix, from the Irish fhionnuisce, according to Wikipedia, meaning clear or still water. This is an awfully big park, especially set in the midst of such a grand city as Dublin, and reminded me of the park Stephen Brockwell and I visited in London circa 2002 or so, former hunting lands of Henry III, I believe. Such a grand scale so he could hunt elk at his leisure, you know. Just before the Zoo was the Wellington Monument, built across the first half of the 1800s (1817 to 1861, from start to finish, which does seem a bit ridiculous) to commemorate the victories of Dublin-born British Army Officer Field Marshal Arthur Wellesley, the 1st Duke of Wellington (1769-1852). This is the same fella Ottawa's Wellington Street and broken Wellington Street West (used to be one singular street until LeBreton Flats mangled that up) are named for, acknowledging his role in the creation of the Rideau Canal. And of course, it was the building of the Canal into Bytown that helped prompt Queen Victoria to choose us, renamed Ottawa, as capital. Thank you, sir.

It was far too hot a day to be walking around anywhere, let alone a zoo, but there was something Christine said she liked about going to a place that was filled with more locals than actual tourists. The heat, was hot. We walked and we walked, catching hippos in the shade and giraffes in the shade and bonobos in the shade and zebras in the shade and flamingos in the shade. It was hot, there. Most of the animals might have been melting.

And as well, throughout, there were dinosaur displays for some reason? A bit random, that.

Eventually we did make it out of the zoo, wandering back through tourist audio (lots of stories of Oscar Wilde, he lived here you know, in a building that used to be here, etcetera), before we made our way back towards the spike, and some food, and Trinity College, where we were attending The Book of Kells Experience. 

They've a whole display set up around the book, as apparently, as Christine suggested, the whole exhibit used to be the manuscript itself (not a nineteenth century book, as some of the promotional descriptors had, but an illustrated manuscript created around the year 800 that has been bound and rebound repeatedly over the centuries, including in the nineteenth century; please get your facts right, promotional materials). The "experience" did seem an awful lot of show for the manuscript, but all of it was extremely interesting, putting the manuscript into a far wider and broader context of composition, creation, historical and Christian tides. 

Above the "experience" was a staircase leading up into their infamous library, an absolutely breathtaking space of books and stacks and busts. Not since we were in Paris as part of our honeymoon in 2011 [I'm wishing I'd writ up my notes on our travel for such, we did see some incredible things during that jaunt across London, Paris, Brussels, Cambridge, etc] as we wandered the Roman foundations at the lowest end of the Musée de Cluny, did I witness a space that could be packed solid with people but completely silent. It absolutely took one's breath.

I did like this pic that Christine took of Aoife, as part of such. Apparently she had seen someone else do the same, and thought it would be fun to attempt as well. Aoife, casually holding up the earth. She is strong, that one.

Aoife, in the Long Room, as it is called. It certainly is. The globe in the centre far larger than us, if you require context for Christine and Aoife's visual tom-foolery. The space also holds, as the website reminds, "one of the few remaining copies of the 1916 Proclamation of the Irish Republic which was read outside the General Post Office on 24 April 1916 by Patrick Pearse at the start of the Easter Rising." Very cool to be able to see a copy of one of the original documents, outlining independence, as important a document as I've seen in some time (the Hudson's Bay Charter being another, for example). The Brian Boru Harp, as well, is housed there, said to be the oldest surviving Irish harp, although the medieval artifact was only associated with the former High King of Ireland, Brian Boru (c. 941-1014) well after the fact.

And then, to close out the whole "experience," an expansive animation of how the book, the manuscript, came to be. And, in the next room, a whole other animation to follow. It is hard to make fun of the whole "experience," as it actually did broaden the story of and around the manuscript and how it came to be, how it came to be there, how it disappeared and reappeared, and who might have been seeking it. Not mere a book but an artifact around a culture long past, and a stretch of history rich with detail and narrative, rich with layers of who they are and have been, and presented in such a way that it can only spark the imagination. In the gift shop, I picked up a copy of the official book on the manuscript (and postcards, so many postcards), so I could further read up on it (there was an audio guide as part of such during the tour, but I'd rather read text quietly in my own time in my own way than feel propelled by audio, although the Giant's Causeway I allowed the exception, as there were no billboards of text, and the walk was quite a ways).

And then back to our residence, our oven-roast room. Small items from grocery, and the balcony off the shared kitchen (shared with a student-aged boy who saw me once and ran away for some reason; we never saw him again, although we did hear him occasionally). I wrote postcards, postcards, postcards. Remember those?

Saturday, July 12, 2025: It took some doing, but we finally figured out where the choir was breakfasting, although we got there well after they'd been and gone, off to Dublin Castle, I think. We were in our own time, attempting a morning at our own pace. Aoife, throughout the trip, was an absolute trooper, the only hurdle being getting her out of the room first thing in the morning. Once we managed that (and it wasn't easy, some mornings) she was completely fine for the rest of the day. Another morning, another attempt at the city bus, and then back into the double-decker tour wanderings. Did you know Oscar Wilde lived here? Just there, the house used to be there. 

Back on the double-decker tour bus, we ended up at EPIC: The Irish Emigration Museum; another "experiential" museum space, one focusing on the context of the many decades of Irish emigration to other countries, from the obvious years of the potato famine, religious conflicts and multiple other stories and eras, even up to the present day. There were an array of posters I found particularly interesting, including one that offered "free land" in western Canada, a sequence of such would have spread across the British Isles and Western Europe across different eras, different groups. The myths of the empty west, after all, a more casual trope in Canada than the United States but still equally strong, pushing the Indigenous population out of the way and, at least was the attempt during those years, out of history entirely.

I was struck by a display that offered a quote of a poem (in a display that had nothing to do with literature), quoting Irish poet and playwright Louis MacNeice (1907-1963), offering a nice counterpoint to a more North American tradition that appears to leave literature out of general thinking. 

The museum was absolutely fascinating, offering reasons for leaving, movements as to where, with some horribly sad stories, including unmarried, pregnant teenagers arrested and sent to the colonies, separated from their children, religious leaders banished, or the hoards of starving populace attempting to leave to save their lives. [A while back, I wrote on the Peter Robinson settlers, when Parliamentarian Peter Robinson brought over a few thousand poor settlers into Ontario from Cork, Ireland; one of my genealogical threads was part of this particular group]. There was something curious about the length and breath of world histories and individuals the museum took Irish-credit for, spread across the globe in power and influence. American President John F. Kennedy, the first Catholic President, of Irish descent, seemed an obvious marker, but there were multiple Presidents listed as well. Joe Biden, Barack Obama. This is all us, you know. Interesting.

On the way in, referencing the potato famine, I did make the joke that an Irish emigration museum wouldn't have a proper cafeteria, a joke Christine didn't care for, and then, in the gift shop, one of the featured museum-made products was a stress-ball shaped like a potato. Well, then. Hilariously dark and self-aware, as only the Irish can. Well done, everyone.

Walking out, attempting to find lunch, we chanced through a Pride Parade, which was packed and brilliant and simultaneously serious and joyous. We were walking through, and worried about being separated. As well, walking a couple of blocks, I realized we were passing, again, multiple points we'd already been to, that I hadn't realized were so close together, the tour bus (and other of our activities) making these points seem so distant from each other, but Dublin really is a walking city. Everything is right there. And, from the group chat later on, it seems as though the choir caught up in the same parade at a different point (it would have been impossible for us to see each other through this particular crowd), each of us working our way through a point right by City Hall and Dublin Castle (and so much else). Just around the corner, finding some of the best pizza we've had on this trip (and we've had some fantastic pizza). Aoife had a nutella pizza, and I think it was the happiest I've ever seen her.

"Constructed in the early thirteenth century on the site of a Viking settlement," Dublin Castle (which apparently the choir had toured the day prior) is not at all what I had thought it might be, seeming less a medieval castle than a more (relatively) modern government residence. This was the English seat of government in Ireland for hundreds of years, until the Republic of Ireland finally made itself clear, now hosting itself as site of public events, conferences and Presidential inaugurations, as well as the tourist stretches. The building and surround complex is huge, and I'm sure the public is only allowed into a fraction of the sprawling layout, room upon room upon room (built, obviously, in an adjoining-room design, before hallways were invented, as was the style).

We were a self-guided tour (and Aoife had the scavenger hunt offering that she took very seriously), although we were caught directly between two large guided tour-groups, that often took over whatever space we were attempting to look through. We had to navigate ourselves carefully (and I did get separated from the two of them at least twice). 

The artworks were stunning, and clearly the best parts of the tour, covering almost every surface, including some ceilings (yes, I did lie on the floor to get a better view, which others around didn't exactly take too kindly to). Portraits of royals, including Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, William IV and Cromwell, even. Such a wealth of portraiture as became difficult to fathom, yet another room beyond yet another room beyond yet another room, all filled to bursting.

And then, a large room beyond all the other rooms, holding the space where receptions are held, and Irish Presidents are inaugurated. Extremely impressive.

After Dublin Castle, we walked for a bit, making it just in time for our pre-arranged tour of the Guinness factory, weaving and moving and slipping through sidestreets. We knew we weren't far, but it was a bit of a hike, especially after an already-walking day. Earlier in the morning, we had wondered if 4:45pm for a tour (the only available slot left) was a bit late for such, but Aoife told us we had to, we needed to (seriously). We sat on the sidewalk as she held her stress-potato and told us we'd be fine.

Comparable to "The Book of Kells Experience" (or even the Titanic experience in Belfast), the "Guinness Factory Experience" did feel like a lot of show for a free (ticketed) pint at the end, offering the original charter that Arthur Guinness signed, the 9,000 year lease, on December 31, 1759 (oh, to be around in the year 10,759, to see what might happen next; one can't always presume a renewal), the document itself set into the floor in a place of significant honour. Funnily enough, Stephen Brockwell and I toyed with taking the tour back in 2002 when we were in town, but couldn't find ourselves out of The Oliver St. John Gogarty, a pub in Temple Bar where we spent each of our five nights in Dublin, nights of multiple Guinness. We gave our own honours there, I suppose.

The tour was expansive, more floors than one might have imagined, offering the history of production, the history of marketing (my goodness, etc), an array of gift shops (with the main one on the ground floor) and multiple corners to have a pint and a meal and a pint and a meal. The place was huge and the crowds filled every corner.

And the Guinness harp, the official logo that pre-dated a similar emblem for Ireland itself, the Irish government forced to hold a different angle to not get caught up in copyright. 

An experience, floor after floor. With the main floor at zero, the final pub where the free pint on the seventh, so that's a lot of walking up, up. With each corner packed. 

On the top floor, each window held text, highlighting a corner of Dublin in the distance (the views were spectacular). Aoife, naturally, offered a fizzy drink, which she hated (our two don't care for fizzy drinks, and even the orange and apple juice over here is fizzy, which irritated her). 

And of course, the potato. Aoife, baby shark.

From there, we retired back to our oven-residence, the breeze of our balcony. We sat for a bit, catching groceries en route from the corner store, and that was the end of it.

Sunday, July 13, 2025: Our last full day in Ireland. We caught breakfast in the student cafeteria place once more, attempted the bus to catch the last day of choir performances. We stood at the bus stop awaiting transport, as dozens of student-groups descended upon the stop and completely took over, forcing buses to be overrun (and at least one wouldn't even stop), forcing us to rush for a cab to catch the first of the choir's final day of performances. We made it, but barely: a morning and afternoon of the choir performing at National Cathedral and Collegiate Church of St. Patrick, a site originally built between 1191 and 1270. Along one side, I saw the curiosity of military flags hung and clearly falling apart, something I found out later was left as deliberate memorial (as opposed to the flags being repaired or any other conservation intervention), providing acknowledgements to those parish members lost as part of particular battles or movements or wars. It was a curious thing, this corner of dark memorial, strips of disintegrating material. Oh, and we saw the return of poet and choir parent Dave Stymiest and Sarah, having returned from their travels to meet up with the group back in Dublin. I wonder if the postcard I mailed them from Ireland has landed yet?

One element of this whole tour that really struck was in how capable the choir tour organizers really are. James Calkin is an exceptional choir director, gently pulling from his assembled choir a quality and comfort and power of performance with seeming ease. As well, the Dean of the Ottawa Anglican Church that hosts the choir, so clearly and absolutely delighted to be participating in such performances, radiating a joyous energy and clear pride of these assembled youths as they performed, traveled and explored. The sheer delight of watching her sheer delight, and how easily and comfortably each of the adults of the group seemed to interact with the kids, ranging from eleven or so (where our Rose is at) to around eighteen or so. The group cohered fairly well, and were remarkably well suited for travel in a foreign country. No conflicts or meltdowns or complications, at least that we were aware of.

The final day of performance, as we saw Rose briefly, post-service, before they wandered off for a lunch on-site, and we left Aoife with Susan for the afternoon (where she hung out with Susan's boy, Matthew, over lunch and other activities, both children pleased with the company), allowing us to rush off to Books Upstairs (we didn't have much time, not expecting an hour-forty service, and couldn't catch a cab to save our lives, barely making it there) for our afternoon reading with Éireann Lorsung and Christodoulos Makris, an event kindly put together by the brilliant Makris. When we were first putting this together, I hadn't understood that this would be Lorsung's last Irish reading, before returning back to the United States after teaching in Dublin, which allowed us a packed house, which was a good stroke of timing on our part. Always read with a local, certainly, and Lorsung brought out the crowd. 

Having gone through one of her books before the reading (back when we were in Belfast), there's a precision to Lorsung's work that I appreciate, and I picked up another of hers here. Makris is an interesting poet, one I'd solicited for a chapbook back when Gregory Betts was organizing a conference [I produced a mound of chapbooks by a variety of conference participants for that event, including by Betts himself, Julia Polyck-O'Neill, Gary Barwin, Kate Siklosi, Mairéad Byrne, Kimberly Campanello, Kyle Kinaschuk, Paul Perry and Stephen Cain), but Makris hadn't any work free at the time, so we weren't able to do anything (I am hoping there is still an opportunity for us to do something). 

The reading was brilliant, and Christine's reading was stunning, prompting her to sell out of copies we'd brought along of her Toxemia (Book*hug Press, 2024) [see my essay on the collection here]. We wished we'd brought more! I, of course, had a stack of handouts of our "poem" leaflet, along with recent issues of Touch the Donkey, which went out to a variety of audience members. Did you leave one of these "poem" handouts at the Seamus Heaney Center last week in Belfast? Why yes, I said. Apparently someone saw it there, which was pretty funny. 

There was even a poet from Ottawa who came over to say hello, Dimitra Xidous, who said she'd done her first ever public reading at The Manx Pub as part of a reading for Bywords Quarterly Journal, not long before she moved from Ottawa to Dublin. And apparently she'd heard Christine read before when she was there, and I even published a piece by her as part of my (small press) writing day. I purchased further books, naturally, and even left a small handful of Touch the Donkey issues for handout at the store.

After the event, Christine ran off to catch the second choir performance back at the Cathedral (and collect Aoife from Susan), as I made for drinks with Makris at a pub nearby, where poets Cliff Horseman, who performs and publishes as Cah-44, and Kit Fryatt, both of whom attended the reading, were already situated with pints. Lorsung, unfortunately, also had to run off to a gathering of students, so wasn't able to come out (I'd been hoping to get a sit-down conversation with her as well, but there you go), but it was good to get a sense of the three that were there. The bartender, also, when he asked how I was (old and tired, always), he said he'd spent part of the afternoon at a birthday party with seven-year-olds, so he had my sympathies (Aoife's last birthday held sixteen or so nine year olds, which wasn't as chaos as you might think, although we were picking up bits of cake in our living room for days, after). Makris and Fryatt only stayed a bit, but I ended up in a lengthy conversation with Horseman, telling me the ins-and-outs of Kentucky (where he's from) history and politics, and the curiosities of being an immigrant back to the old country, as though he moving in the opposite direction to expectation. Mid-sentence, a barfly acted shocked (and pleased) to see me, which made me suspect some kind of Billy Connolly thing again (his reaction was never explained), and insisted on selfies with the two of us. I kept saying, rather loudly, Have you never seen a Canadian before? The conversation with Horseman was fascinating (moving all over American and Kentucky politics in really interesting ways), and I could easily have stayed there all evening, but had to catch the "final dinner" for the choir, reservations for 6:30pm, so he was kind enough to walk me out to a cab; the bartender stopped me on my way out hearing I'm Canadian, saying that he was from Toronto! I mean, small world. 

Arriving at dinner, where the whole choir and crew and Christine and Aoife were awaiting me, not far from our residence. After dinner, the choir descended upon the park just by our residence, a grand and expansive park, where they had ice cream, and did their group thank-yous, good-byes, hugs and tears, acknowledging all who had done so well, so much, so important. We hung back with Susan and her family, who were taking their choir-member from the group for a further week of adventure, and not returning back to Ottawa the next morning. The kids in the park, and we, talking a bit. Just before 10pm, we thought we should head up for our early morning, given the flight, and discovered that the fences of the park had been padlocked at half-nine? (9:30pm). We were trapped! A jogger came through and said there was a low bit of wall on the other side, meaning we had to walk all the way around to the far end of the park, only able to walk back to our residence along the outside (after having to jump down a stone fence of some three feet). It took an hour, so that was a bit frustrating. But then to our sweaty beds, after doing our final packing for early morning.

Monday, July 14, 2025: We woke just after 5am, downstairs at 6am for a cab (the choir had a bus, which there wasn't space on for us, which we already knew) to the airport. None of us were entirely awake, but we made it. I attempted to poke through two of the books I picked up at the reading, one of Makris' earlier titles and Lorsung's prior collection, which I was curious about. A cab and a plane and a bus back from Montreal, much of which I attempted to sleep if I could, but not really, exhausted from travel, exhausted from everything, and looking forward to our wee house again and all of our things (and what mail our neighbour had been salvaging from our front door while we were away). Twelve hours, from the time we woke in Dublin to making our front door. It was good to be home.