Ongoing notes: early April, 2025 : Danny Jacobs + Caleb Jordan,

National Poetry Month! And you are following the daily poems I’m posting via the Chaudiere Books blog, yes? And you saw that Christine is doing a reading in Ottawa on April 15^th? We’re reading together in Ottawa in June somewhere (I’ll let you know where/when that happens) and she even reads in Winnipeg at some point, also. And the updates via my own substack and the new above/ground press substack? There’s so much happening! And the above/ground press postal increase sale, naturally, is still going on (in case you missed that). Oh, and prepare yourself for the ottawa small press fair this June.

Fredericton NB: Produced as “No. 2 in the Entrepôt Series” is Riverview, New Brunswick writer Danny Jacob’s Dreamland: The Bishop House Fragments (Fredericton NB: emergency flash mob press, 2024), following a poetry chapbook, Sulci (The Hardscrabble Press, 2023) and the full-length Sourcebook for Our Drawings: Essays and Remnants (Gordon Hill Press, 2019) [see my review of his full-length debut here] (with a novel forthcoming this year, according to his author biography). For those unaware, the Elizabeth Bishop House is one associated with the late Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979), now utilized as a space for occasional residency [Christine and I drove by once, if you might recall]. As Jacob begins:

My first night here and the Elizabeth Bishop House has kept me awake, the house or its ghosts, the creak and gastric inner workings, the oil furnace revving up like the gasping of the nearly drowned. I missed them, my wife and daughter. Sarah and I are separating so the missing is pressurized, gravitational. There is no devastating reason for the separation other than the sad fact of their being no devastating reason.

Which some might argue makes it more devastating.

There is an echo, of sorts, to this work composed during a residency to the late Robert Kroetsch’s chapbook, Lines Written in the John Snow House (Calgary AB: housepress, 2002), later included in his trade collection, The Snowbird Poems (Edmonton AB: University of Alberta Press, 2004) [see my note on such here], composed while Kroetsch was in Calgary as part of the University of Calgary’s Markin-Flanagan Distinguished Writers Programme. Unlike Kroetsch, Jacobs writes his as a journal of first-person fragments, observations and clarifications, working his way through the ghosts of that particular space, and of Bishop’s own writing, all through the lens of this imminent separation. He offers: “To write is to abandon surety.” He writes in this unknown space into, one might say, the unknown of what is to come, suggesting this work as a kind of pivot, a placelessness between where he was prior, to where he will be once he emerges. The uncertainty runs through this whole work, set as a foundation upon which the narrative fragments build.

I imagine Bishop wandering this house now, a vexed Crusoe brought back to her homeland, picking at what was kept, what was bought for old-timey ambiance. She pages through the giant family bible atop the upright piano with the clawfoot stool, presses a key on the Underwood – that familiar, mechanized resistance. She opens the red drawstring bag in which she used to smuggle roast beef on flights from Boston to Nova Scotia, now locked away behind a glass hutch, and asks – like Crusoe asks about his own stranded artefacts – “How can anyone wants such things?”

Rock Island IL/OK: I’m moving through Oklahoma poet Caleb Jordan’s Idylls (Rock Island IL: Stone Corpse Press, 2025), a sequence set as two sequences of fourteen numbered sonnets, reminiscent, slightly, of Stephen Brockwell and Peter Norman's magnificent collaborative essay in sonnet form, Wild Clover Honey and The Beehive, 28 Sonnets on the Sonnet (Ottawa ON: The Rideau Review Press, 2004), a collection I’d love to be able to see back in print. The sonnet is, as Brockwell himself has noted, an endlessly mutable form, and wild experiments around the sonnet have appeared for decades, with space enough for far more than what has already been produced.

I’m intrigued by Jordan’s sonnet-shapes, clearly feeling out the form throughout the entire paired sequence: “I emerge from the hollow horse corpse / into a desert in a box / and I cannot find the actual / door,” he writes, to open poem “XIII” in the first sequence, “even though / it is right there in front of me.”

This is a big project for what suggests itself as a debut, twenty-eight sonnets from a writer who offers little in his bio beyond the fact of his “PhD in Creative Writing from Oklahoma State University,” and that he “spends his free time as all Oklahomas do (searching for evidence of the existence of Bigfoot and other “cryptids”).” The internet doesn’t provide much more, but there is a curious interview with Jordan over at Black Stone/White Stone that provides this intriguing quote: “I do not want to be enjoyed but to be fleetingly experienced, like an immunization, and sting a day or two later.”

XIV

I am not reaching. In my mind
is a door and behind that door
is a name. Thucydides?
Pantagruel? Joe? The key to
the door is glowing blue
underneath unbreakable glass.
I claw, I curse, I dream
of opening the door and finally
saying the name aloud.
It hurts to brush freshly cut
grass with the tender palm
of my hand. The shapes
on my journal move themselves.
Unbidden, the door creaks open. (“1”)

 

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Danny Jacobs

Danny Jacobs grew up in Riverview, NB. His poems have been published in a variety of journals across Canada, including ARC, Event, The Antigonish Review, Riddle Fence, The Malahat Review, The Fiddlehead, Grain and CV2. After living in a number of cities and towns in the Maritimes, Danny is back in Riverview and works as the librarian in the village of Petitcodiac, NB. Songs That Remind Us of Factories is his first book.

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 just came out so I guess I will have to see how much it will change my life. It is pretty surreal to finally hold the book, though. The big thing for me is working through all that post-first book writerly angst regarding what comes next.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
You could say I came to fiction first. I always wanted to write fiction and I did a fiction thesis during my Creative Writing MA in ’08 (UNB). I still love short stories but I don’t know if I am the best at writing them yet (and I haven’t tried the form in years). I wrote poetry along with fiction during that time and I just kept at the poetry—it’s what I felt was working better.

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 vary between two extremes—some poems change little from first drafts; I write them and think to myself “that’s done” and I’m happy (as happy as one can be, which is never completely). Then there’s some I continually tinker with and tear apart and rebuild and add new paintjobs to and then stand back and notice how gaudy it is and then sand blast it.

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?
If I’m going to be honest, I think the book that just came out is a collection of what I think are my best efforts of the last, say, six years or so. I think this is the case for many first books of poems. Or most books of poems? You find common threads after the fact.  I don’t think I have the attention span to do a full-length themed collection—I jump around too much. I like to write a poem about oxen and then jump to the Higgs Boson. 

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I love public readings and I think it’s valuable for non-poetry readers, or occasional poetry readers, to attend them. I once had a friend who didn’t read any contemporary poetry get really excited about the sounds I was making while reading my poems. That’s a really wonderful compliment. Readings make people pay attention to the music – the rhythm and cadence – of a poem. No wonder most poets read their stuff aloud while drafting it.

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?
This is a huge question. I don’t think my work could be couched in an overarching theoretical framework. Like I said, I jump around. One of the big theoretical concerns with a lot of contemporary poets right now seems to involve reconciling scientific thinking with poetic thinking. Or trying to integrate scientific terminology and concepts in their work. One thinks of Matthew Tierney, Gerard Beirne, Adam Dickinson. This kind of thing interests me a lot and makes for fine poetry. I also get a real charge out of poets who use very contemporary diction, themes, settings, etc. in poems—detritus from Late Capitalism, if handled deftly, can make incredible poetry. One thinks of Michael Robbins’ Alien Vs. Predator, a book that knocked a lot of people out.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
Most writers try to tap into the culture at large and hold a mirror up to its vulnerabilities. Great writers do a damn good job of this. They throw back at us the shit we say and do and ask us to lay with it for awhile. I think this is important, this reminding us of who we are at this tenuous stage in the game.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Essential and, in my case, not difficult. My editor at Nightwood was fantastic and made it easy. You hear these stories about editors and writers butting heads. I didn’t have these problems.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Read tons of shit (not necessarily in those words).

10 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
When I wasn’t working another job full time (and getting financial aid from a grant) I wrote in the mornings. I work full time as a librarian now so I obviously have to rework when and how I write. And I’m still dizzy from the book coming out so I don’t have much of a writing routine. I grab snatches of time when I can, but I work better with a routine so I’m still trying to figure out what that could be.

11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
No one particular place or thing gives me inspiration. And I think this is good for a writer— it works better when you’re attentive to your surroundings, open to let anything, at any time, bonk you on the head the right way.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
I wish I could say cow patties or haymows or freshly chopped wood but I grew up in the suburbs and I think they all smell alike—a kind of non-smell. Cut grass, maybe? What does the inside of a convenience store smell like?

13 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
I like to think all of those things influence my work. But I would agree primarily with Mr. McFadden: books come from books.

14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
My initial reaction is the clichéd one: there are too many to name. This may sound ass-kissy or something, but I consider myself lucky to be living in a country that has such a vibrant poetry scene. So many great presses have wild poets pulling things off that I couldn’t even imagine attempting. Over the past, say, 10 years, there has been so many amazing books. Our country has Ken Babstock, Don McKay, Karen Solie, David O’Meara, Matthew Tierney, Jeramy Dodds, Carmine Starnino, Elizabeth Bachinsky. To name a few. Awesome. All of these poets mean a lot to me and my writing.

15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Finish painting my house.

16 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
I started school studying astrophysics but realized very early in my first year of university that I couldn’t hack it.  So being one of those guys who looks at pictures of the very early universe and writes beautiful equations on dry-erase boards all day sounds pretty swell. You use the word “attempt” and I couldn’t attempt this, but it’s a nice daydream.

17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Writing is fun. It is hard at times but usually at least a little fun. I could lie and say it is often painful and gut-wrenching and it was my calling and I was compelled to it and I was like John Berryman or something but it wasn’t like that. I think for very off-the-wall geniuses (like Berryman) it’s absolutely like that but for most of us normal and very average and very minor people, it’s probably just fun most of the time and that’s why we do it.

18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I’ve been picking away at Cleanth Brooks’ classic of New Criticism, The Well Wrought Urn. It’s a great book for poets—Brooks takes the springs, cogs, and screws out of poems and lays them out on a clean towel for the reader. While dusty at times, there’s a minimum of bullshit. His close readings show us that great poems, when taken on their own terms, are tiny perpetual motion machines—isolated systems that don’t wind down, each greased piece working in concert.

As for film, I caught some of Jurassic Park on TV last week. Such a cocktail of nostalgia.

19 - What are you currently working on?
I’m trying to write new poems. While I doubt a book-length themed project will ever be my thing, I wouldn’t mind the next book to be a more focused project, in terms of theme. I recently moved back to my home town, so I see some poems coming into fruition that examines the strangeness that comes with moving back to the place you grew up in.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

The Factory Reading Series : Jacobs, de Meijer + Francheteau, November 29, 2013;

with readings by:

JM Francheteau (Ottawa ON)
Danny Jacob (Riverview NB)
+ Sadiqa de Meijer (Kingston ON)

lovingly hosted by guest-host Brecken Hancock
Friday, November 29, 2013;
doors 7pm; reading 7:30pm
The Carleton Tavern,
223 Armstrong Street (at Parkdale; upstairs)

JM Francheteau is a rural transplant based in Ottawa. In 2013 he released a chapbook, A pack of lies, and his writing has appeared in CV2, The Steel Chisel and Bywords. He has five wisdom teeth.

Danny Jacobs [pictured] grew up in Riverview, NB. His poems have been published in a variety of journals across Canada, including ARC, Event, The Antigonish Review, Riddle Fence, The Malahat Review, The Fiddlehead, Grain and CV2. After living in a number of cities and towns in the Maritimes, Danny is back in Riverview and works as the librarian in the village of Petitcodiac, NB. Songs That Remind Us of Factories is his first book.

Sadiqa de Meijer was born in Amsterdam and moved to Canada as a child. Her poetry, short stories and essays have been published in a range of journals and anthologies, including The Malahat Review, Geist, Riddle Fence and Poetry Magazine. Her first book of poems is Leaving Howe Island (Oolichan Books). A selection from the manuscript won the CBC Poetry Prize in 2012.

For links, etcetera, check out: http://www.abovegroundpress.blogspot.ca/2013/10/the-factory-reading-series-jacobs-de.html

Danny Jacobs, Songs That Remind Us of Factories

LIGHTNING RODS

Look: they came with the place,

roof’s half-assed shot at Gothic,

bent spikes riding the arch of it,

wires spidered on eave and gable

to ground volts til the maple

roots jerk in their soil. Suspect

if ever they caught sky’s lit wick,

charmed cloud to mossy shingle.

Before the walls get bulldozed

and the beams fall in, my uncles

and I might straddle the ridge,

grab lengths of rebar and hope

for storms—the copper funnels

of our spines fine-tuned conduits.

In Riverview, New Brunswick poet Danny Jacobs’s first trade poetry collection, Songs That Remind Us of Factories (Nightwood Editions, 2013), he displays a clear ear for sound, composing lines with a crackle-pop sensibility that holds both music and the attention of a descriptive narrative lyric. Given the book’s title, as well as in poems such as “Pipeline,” “Lawn Boy,” “Weeding,” “A Fifth Factory” and “A History of the Billiard Ball,” Jacobs’ work can be seen, in part, as a product of the work poetry that emerged out of Vancouver in the 1980s – poets such as Tom Wayman, Kate Braid, Erin Moure and Phil Hall. Their writing (as well as Wayman specifically in a number of essays) argued that poetry should and/or could be about working class considerations, such as physical and low-income labour. Wayman, one of the co-creators of The Kootenay School of Writing, argued vehemently for more of a straight poetic line than any play with the language (which caused eventual conflict and even a break between various of the KSW camps), and it would seem as though Jacobs is still negotiating between two traditions that he is still working to bring together, in his own way. In Jacobs’ collection, as capable as it is, sometimes his narratives aren’t enough to hold my attention, and sometimes the language isn’t enough to properly propel the story, leaving me feeling adrift in two directions. There are elements of both that are strong, but they don’t always manage to connect. In the poem “BARGAIN BIN,” for example, the use of the word “ridden” twice in the last two lines just feels clunky.

BARGAIN BIN

The whitewashed drywall woke as BiWay

and I, nigh on eight, decried the toy display’s

lack of good Lego, all knockoffs and Duplo.

By grade five she was re-signed and sold to

Woolco, this before a brief stint as SAAN –

weak real estate’s circadian rhythm,

same shit different aisle, bins of Bugle

Boy and bungee-roped rubber balls, back stock

unboxed and marked for blowouts. While frugal

ladies lollygagged and haggled, made slapdash

muzak in the key of jangled hanger,

in walked the new century to sweet talk

the walls into fishnets of fibre-op,

row the floor with chain gangs of chopped desktop

Dells. Before long we’re in for the long haul,

twitchy phone pitch wizards picking foam

from levered ergo-thrones. A banner snaps

epileptic in the parking lot squall,

screams Join the Team; they’re roping in

hopefuls with a flair for the upsell. We’ll

bid on hours and carpool to the nightshift,

parse new mall smell from dying small smell.

The food court’s robot, once ridden for

a quarter, is just not ridden anymore.

When I think of poets who have negotiated a successful blend and interplay between formal language and language and/or sound play in their own work, I tend to think of David McGimpsey, Lisa Jarnot, Phil Hall, Lee Ann Brown, Karen Solie, Lisa Robertson, Ken Babstock (there seems quite a heavy Babstock influence here) and Elizabeth Bachinsky. This interplay seems very much what Jacobs is working to achieve. Where Jacobs does shine is in those poems where he allows description to move beyond itself, allowing description as a means to an end, as opposed to an end unto itself. And it’s a fine line he plays – how do you elevate a poem on “subject” beyond subject matter without excluding or completely abstracting it? Poems such as “BETTY GOODWIN SOUND INSTALLATION” or “THREE FRAGMENTS TO HER HAND” are quite striking in part because they aren’t there to describe, but sparkle, spark and simply be. I admit that I am intrigued by, but uncertain of the poems of Danny Jacobs; I am curious to see where he might go next.

TOME

            Hantsport, Nova Scotia

Giddy with the Carboniferous, I huff up

the bluff’s pitch with a ten-pound slab

just pinched from Blue Beach: sheaves

of pressure-stamped era

collated from the Book of Lith,

straight-cut rhombus sheared off

from nature’s packed-

down less. Rock’s biopsy sample,

deep-time casserole, inch-thick glued-shut

hardback from some bygone zoic.

Plumb enough to upright on bookshelves,

each waterlogged page is a thousand years

of coal swamp, river dreg; one black-rimmed

hair’s width the pressed leaf

of a generation’s bad weather. Tucked somewhere

between sandstone and shale, a love letter

to the Law of Superposition:

a single footprint from a flathead tetrapod

scouting the Late Devonian, tube sock of axons

taunting gravity with a new backbone,

calling us back to mornings

when we half wake, still slaves to

hindbrain, to stretch our spines, sniff the air.