Eve Joseph, Dismantling

 

family history

I am experiencing bouts of amnesia. Caught in the contradictions of time. One minute goes by and the whole story gets rewritten whereas years pass and the hands on the clock barely move. My grandfather took his youngest brother under the table and started to cut his throat with the blunt edge of a dinner knife. His mother had a fit and brought him a chicken. “Kill this instead,” she said, holding a glass of brandy for him in case he fainted. Forgetfulness is different than not remembering. Were it not for the feathers on the kitchen floor I wouldn’t believe a word of it.

The latest full-length poetry collection since her remarkable Griffin Prize-winning poetry title, Quarrels (Vancouver BC: Anvil Press, 2018) [see my review of such here] is Victoria poet Eve Joseph’s, Dismantling (Anvil Press, 2026), a book-length suite of deft, single-stanza prose poems. Her fourth published poetry collection, Dismantling is set in two untitled sections, the second of which is a suite of twenty-six numbered poems, each titled “cento.” “The shades above the city have already been drawn,” begins the first numbered “cento,” “the pockets of wind emptied. The room is quiet now, everything falling at the same rate of speed.” There’s a part of me still frustrated at how her work so quietly floats just under the radar, having only been introduced to her work at all through her third collection, and missing completely her first two—The Startled Heart (Oolichan Books, 2004) and The Secret Signature of Things (London ON: Brick Books, 2010)—although one might say what keeps her just under the radar is exactly the strength of her quietly powerful lyric. “All history is revisionist.” begins the poem “revisions,” “Dig down and there’s so and so with his version of events. A little further and you can hear the song of the last speckled cormorant and before that the ancestors of Przewalski’s horses no bigger than foxes. What’s the point of one more poem?” As part of her contribution to “short takes on the prose poem” over at periodicities: a journal of poetry and poetics in 2022, she wrote: “I love prose poetry. There is something about the shape of the form that encourages ranging thought at the same time it demands concise imagery. It is a loping wolf that places each paw precisely.”

Composed across firm and precise lines, set with such a delicate touch, Joseph’s poems are masterfully written, perfectly held together, even through an ongoing conversation around how easily things fall apart. This is a collection of form and attention, carefully layered and precise. As the poem “the hour before dawn” begins: “How many silences penetrate other silences? The monk with his vows. A violin at rest in its black case. Two of Adelaide Crapsey’s three: the falling snow, the mouth of one just dead. Not the dying or the death itself but the wide-open O of the moment. The breath gone from the lungs yet still in the room.” Or, as she offers to open her short “Introduction” to the collection:

Prose poetry, wrote Charles Simic, is where the impulses for prose and for poetry collide. Not a merging of form, but a collision. I am drawn to the energy of this impact and to the possibility of creating something new out of two established genres. Since 2013, following a thalamic stroke, I have not been able to write poetry in what we think of as traditional verse. Nobody really knows why. Prose poetry, with its long lines and little garden-box shape, tricks my brain into thinking I’m not doing what I most want to do.
            The poems that make up the first section of this book were written over the past six years and any flaws and imperfections are mine. The second section of the book is comprised of a series of centos – prose poems made up entirely of other poet’s lines. Derived from the Greek word for patchwork quilt the form collapses boundaries between the living and the dead and allows for unexpected alliances and conversations.

 

until the end of the world, : Victoria, part two,

Further to my adventures in Victoria, British Columbia [see part one here]:

Friday, April 24: I was to meet up with Steven Ross Smith for coffee around noonish, just prior to my early afternoon reading, so headed that way first thing to settle, read a bit, capture some notes. Coffee, naturally. Blossoms everywhere, again. Isn't it snowing in Calgary right now or something? The cafe was good enough to allow me to leave my large bag of books for the event in their space so I could walk the block or three over to the Emily Carr House, the birthplace and childhood home of the Canadian artist Emily Carr (1871-1945). My niece Emma is an artist, so I texted her a photo or two of the space [much as I had when we were in Owen Sound three years earlier, and saw Tom Thomson's grave]. I've long been intrigued by such spaces, and the stories of how well-known creators (writers, filmmakers, painters, actors) manage to get through those struggles of getting to the point of actually making. How does one make anything? Culture seems to want us to have created, but don't necessarily want to help get us there, so there's always that struggle, well beyond any specifics of family push-back, or any other hurdles that might exist. How do any of us get anywhere?

Interestingly, the house structure reminded me of the historic site Christine and I had caught a year-plus prior in Vancouver, the Roedde House Museum, "the restored 1893 home of Canada's first bookbinder," also I suspect that the Carr house lands more traffic.

There was a tour happening, started a few minutes before I arrived, so I tried to stay out of their way, work my own self-tour. One room held excerpts of a journal that Carr's father kept, some of which was quite a compelling read. When did folk stop keeping journals? I'd give anything to see further volumes of journals by Elizabeth Smart, certainly. Is this a nineteenth century hold-over, by the wealth class? I did peek into one of the rooms held by tour group, and who did I see but Ottawa poet (and relative Ottawa South neighbour) Susanne Fletcher? She won the 2025 John Newlove Poetry Award, if you might recall (so her chapbook as part of such will be out this fall). Apparently she and her husband were in town on holiday, unrelated to anything I was doing there. We talked for a bit around history just by the gift shop (where I'd already collected some postcards, naturally), where the Emily Carr House offers visitors a cup of tea (from their own house blend, a small box of which I did pick up for Christine). Apparently the Emily Carr House also offers painting classes; if you were interested in painting, I think that would be extremely cool, to be able to attend classes in her childhood home, akin to a writing class or residency in the former home of a well-known writer. Such as the Elizabeth Bishop House, for example (which we did wander by back in 2014).

Once done, I returned to the cafe, another coffee, my bag of books, and waited for Steven Ross Smith (I've since accepted work by him for the next issue of Touch the Donkey, by the way), who soon accompanied me across the street to the James Bay New Horizons Centre to where I'd be reading, via Planet Earth Poetry (a series now three decades old, you know). It was an interesting reading, with an open set, including a woman who said she used to live in Ottawa, and attended readings as part of The TREE Reading Series during the late 1980s and into the early 1990s, before relocating west. It suggests we were most likely at at least one or two of the same events, possibly. She hadn't written in moons, so she read one of the pieces she wrote during that particular era. Did a full half an hour reading, which gave my reading a bit of space to breathe. Opened with the book of smaller, moved into the book of sentences. A good event, overall, including meeting Allegra Kaplan (current Yolk editor, and copy editor of Misha Solomon's recent above/ground press title), a poet recently relocated from Montreal. A far way to meet a Montreal poet, but there you go.

After that, Steven Ross Smith was good enough to offer to hold onto my huge bag of books for the evening event, and dropped me off at the Royal BC Museum, a natural history museum comparable to Ottawa's Museum of Nature. It was interesting seeing some of the coastal BC exhibits of ecosystems and animals, plants and other things, so used to my eastern Ontario sense of landscape and geography, so attending the details of these landscapes were entirely new, and extremely engaging. Unfortunately, about a half-hour into my wander, I realized I hadn't actually had lunch or food of any sort yet (it was around 4:30pm by this point), so I realized, however much I wanted to explore the museum further, I really needed to deal with that.

So, I walked. It seemed to make the most sense to head closer to the evening's reading venue and find some food in that area, find a place to sit and just be for an hour or two. Lots of stuff to look at along the edge of the water, as well as a statue of Emily Carr, once more. Is she following me? Possibly.

Some food, a pint, a back issue of The Paris Review and a place to sit for a couple of hours. Mother-in-law did gift a subscription to the journal a couple of years back, but this issue lands prior to that. The interviews, really, are my favourite part of any issue, even if with authors I haven't heard of prior, and this issue is no exception.

A mostly-empty pub by the water, with a slow trickle of young people to an eventual thumpy-loud music and screen coming down for the hockey game. At least by that point, I was heading out to the reading venue.

The evening reading was at Russell Books, a store I realized I should have spent a couple of hours wandering before the reading began. There was no time, for which I am disappointed. It had a remarkable selection, although the store was technically closed during our event. Most of the lights were out, which made me presume the space most likely had at least one ghost.

Hosted by Kyeren Regehr, Victoria's seventh and current Poet Laureate (through Planet Earth Poetry), the crowd was stellar, and included Maleea Acker, Melanie Siebert, Chris Fink-Jensen [I did publish an essay by him, some six years ago, fyi], Sara Cassidy, Lorne Daniel, David Day, Patrick Friesen, Eve Joseph (I brought along my copy of her latest [see my review here], for her to sign), John Barton, Terese Svoboda, and a whole bunch of other folk. A really good crowd, and Anna Yin and Phoebe Wang gave good readings! Wang's mother was there as well, taking photos, which was quite charming (the one time my mother heard me read, as I launched my second poetry title back in April 1999, she actually heckled, if you can imagine, which delighted the audience; I was less pleased by it). After, I sold a bunch of books (and handed out chapbooks); the post-reading crowd lost a track of each other, with Anna Yin and Kyeren and I in one direction, for a drink, and others in another direction. After Anna and Kyeren retired, I did manage to figure out where Sara, Maleea [I've since published a poem by her, by the by], Chris and Melanie had landed, and hung out there for a bit. Into my (hosted) bed around 2am, so the days this way are long.

next up: Mile Zero, and podcasting with Kyeren,

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Eve Joseph

Eve Joseph’s two books of poetry, The Startled Heart (Oolichan, 2004) and The Secret Signature of Things (Brick, 2010) were both nominated for the Dorothy Livesay Award. Her nonfiction book, In the Slender Margin was published by HarperCollins in 2014 and won the Hubert Evans award for nonfiction. The book was named one of the top 100 picks of the year by the Globe and Mail. Her latest book of poetry is Quarrels, new from Anvil Press.

1.     How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

I was 51 when my first book of poetry came out. There’s something about seeing that number in print that is shocking! I don’t know what the impact would have been if I’d written my first book in my twenties. Perhaps it would have changed everything, perhaps nothing. To say it changed my life is too big a claim but it let me imagine another life. Similarities? Both my first and my most recent books move by a kind of illogical logic. They are both associative in nature and rely on leaps rather than narrative. I find myself reaching towards the surreal recently, interested in how, when we scratch the surface of our lives and stories, the foundation is often strange and marvelous.

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

I wrote my mother a ten-page poem for her 80^th birthday and got hooked again. Worst poem imaginable. She loved it. I knew nothing about poetry other than I’d loved it when I was young and had written and then stopped for 30 years. I think poetry was dormant in me all that time. When it woke up it was hungry and consumed everything without discrimination.

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 write painstakingly slowly. Emphasis on “pain.” My initial drafts, both in poetry and nonfiction bear no resemblance to the final manuscript. I edit as I go along and rewrite numerous, numerous times.

4.     Where does a poem or work of prose usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a “book” from the very beginning?

Very much the former. I don’t know I’m working on a book until I’m deep into it. Writing nonfiction, for me, is akin to combing tangles out of one’s hair. I write until I’m snagged and then have to go back and work out the knots. My nonfiction book came out of an essay that I went back into and “blew up” - the way one blows up a balloon - until it was a book. I had to follow a line-of-thought as far as I could and then follow another. There is a point when I become aware that I am working on an actual book and that’s exciting.

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

I dread readings beforehand and then, most often, enjoy them when I’m doing them. I’m always tense the day of a reading. It’s helped to separate myself from the work. My husband, Patrick Friesen, is an amazing reader. He’s taught me to give the words their due. When I’m reading, it’s about the work and not about me. That helps.

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?

It’s feels politically incorrect to say I do not have theoretical concerns behind my writing. But I don’t. At least not in the sense that I have a cause to champion or elucidate. I think all writers probably have a very few “themes” they return to, or circle, in their writing. My themes are probably grief and wonder.

7.     What do you see the current role of the writer being in the larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

I think the role of the writer is to be true to the work. Whatever happens after that is out of his/her hands.

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

Absolutely essential. In some ways I trust myself more when I’m editing, and working with an editor, than when I’m writing. Writing is tentative, an exploration. When I’m editing I’m working with a known, trying to make it better. Reaching for what it is I actually want to say.

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

Years ago I read “Instructions to a Writer” by Jane Kenyon in which she said “ask yourself if the work passes the ‘so what’ test.” I apply this test to all of my writing. Funnily enough, when I looked up Kenyon’s instructions just now I couldn’t find the ‘so what’ test anywhere. I may have imagined it but it’s stood me in good stead nonetheless.

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

I love moving between genres. Each genre contains the other…my nonfiction is guided by poetic thinking and my poetry contains the “seeds” of something larger. I have to say I am more and more drawn to prose. I love the room to range that prose provides. I am also really enjoying the containment of prose poetry. Charles Simic describes prose poetry as the place where the impulse for prose and the impulse for poetry collide. I like the collision that takes place…a little of each destroyed and something new created.

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 keep any kind of routine. I’d like to and I’ve tried but it never lasts long. I need to be alone to write so I go away three or four times a year for a few weeks at a time. I like the anonymity of being in a hotel in a city. A rhythm starts to build  when I’m on my own. A sort of a dance will begin between procrastination and finally falling into the work. I get up, go out for coffee, go for long walks, I don’t talk to anyone and over the period of a few days I begin to feel the “pull” towards working and will often end up writing 10-12 hours a day. I have to find my way towards that every time. Once I have found my way into something then I can work at home.

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

When writing eludes me I am convinced it will never return. I go through long periods of circling writing, trying to find my way in. Kenyon (again) has a six line poem called “Not Writing”

A wasp rises to its papery

nest under the eaves

where it daubs

at the gray shape,

but seems unable

to enter its own house.

I often feel like that wasp. Probably the hardest thing about writing is being locked out of one’s house.  My late brother-in-law, Jamie Reid, wrote that poetry came to him in short bursts, punctuated by long dry spells during which he ardently prepared for the moments when poetry was given to him again. That rings deeply true for me as well. The way back in often involves writing really bad poetry or prose in order to feel the point at which the writing takes over and brings me with it.

13.  What fragrance reminds you of home?

Hops. There was a brewery not far from our house in North Vancouver. Certain mornings, the air smelled like popcorn only a bit sweeter and sicklier.

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?

The question makes me think of oral vs. written history. In the west, it makes sense that books come from books. There is a long history of influence and there’s an ongoing conversation that flows out of literature. In this way, books can and do come out of books. But they also come out of stories – the stories we grew up with, the stories we tell ourselves, the stories the world tells us. The oral tradition is the oldest form of storytelling that we have and I am deeply influenced by it.

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

There are just so many wonderful writers. I go back to the classics I loved as a young woman at the same time I find new, and exciting, writers all the time. I’m often guided by the genre I’m working in. Most recently, working on prose poetry, I kept Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Tranströmer, Bly, Follain, Carsten René Nielsen, Rafferty, Simic and others close to me whenever I sat down to write.

16.  What would you like to do that you haven’t yet done?

I’d like to go deeper into what I’m already doing.

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

Patrick believes that many artists are engaged in their second closest art form because their first is too close. He would have loved to have been a musician. I would have loved to have been an actress even though I have zero talent and was kicked out of acting class when I was 15. Still, it’s another life that I dream of.

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

Without wanting to sound pretentious, I’d say that writing chose me. I didn’t choose it. Writing invites me into the world in ways that nothing else does. I’m enormously grateful for it.

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

 Beloved by Toni Morrison and the New Zealand film The Dark Horse.

20.  What are you currently working on?

I am intrigued by short fiction and am playing around a little with that.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;