12 or 20 (second series) questions with Benjamin Gantcher

Benjamin Gantcher is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the recipient of a LABA fellowship as well as residencies from the UCross Foundation and the Omi International Arts Center. He is the author of the poetry collection Snow Farmer (2017), a finalist in several contests, and the poetry chapbook Strings of Math and Custom (2013). Gantcher’s first poetry manuscript, If a Lettuce, earned finalist honors in the National Poetry Series and Bright Hill Press contests. His poems and essays have appeared in many journals, including Tin House, Slate, Rhino, Guernica, The Brooklyn Rail, and DIAGRAM. Gantcher was Poet of the Week at Brooklyn Poets and is a former poetry editor of failbetter.

He is the editor, publisher and designer of unbound books, “free, downloadable, printable, foldable, downright handsome books,” that can be found @benjamingantcher, at the unbound books Substack, and HERE.

What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work?

            My daughter was just told that she is curious and courageous because she went to an intense summer program that brought her into contact with different kinds of people in an environment that was designed to stress the kids out physically and mentally. She appreciated the praise but was surprised. She said, “I just do stuff.” That’s how it is for me when I’m writing well: I just do stuff and language comes up. I follow the language or the feelings. For some of the poems in The Coronation of the Ghost, I was trying to transpose a certain kind of motion, the way a drop of pigment unfurls in a glass of water, or smoke billows, but the motion also connects with the flight of a hunting swallow — the way the plucking out of the air reveals where the bug was and the curves and layers of the carnal air. There’s a question in that image: what’s there that isn’t obvious? Sometimes getting at that is more strenuous than at other times. When I’m not writing well, I’m trying to just do stuff, which involves running it through my internal censors who check it against whatever notions are preoccupying me at that time.

            In the context of our violent idiocracy, I ask myself about the utility of poetry. It’s an anxious question, the clashing of pots and pans that drowns out what I know to be true about the vitality of art, but I have tried to answer it in some poems. I noticed, for instance, that my feelings about sirens had changed. When I was small, they meant one thing; now they also summon things that I know about distressingly many places, near and far. I tried to write about the change in imagery and emotion, giving a reader my childhood relationship to the phenomenon of sirens at bedtime and also what they do to me now, tried to make both versions real. 

Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? 

I like to read theory, but I know that my attraction to it is one of my weaknesses in that it gets in the way of making art that is — I lose sight of my experience and set out to write a poem that starts elsewhere. In that vein, I’ve been irritating myself with a current obsession: staking out a political and economic position on art in response to this moment. It’s been important to me to articulate the virtues of poetry and other art in the face of pressing needs for direct political action, but I have needed to keep it separate from the writing. It gets in the way of making poems that are lively and felt, not dragged down by injunctions or sloganeering or meeting what I think are expectations of the moment, serving up ideas that could be stated plainly as not a poem. 

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

I like reading to an audience. I used to perform as an amateur musician, and I miss that; reading to an audience scratches a similar itch. I get nervous before a reading, as I do before I sing, but preparing for a reading has become part of the reading — choosing poems and working through my patter is part of the exchange between me and the audience, which is the point. And reading to a crowd of any size, and sharing the audience with other writers (and artists and musicians), and the audience reacting — everyone could be someplace else, but we’ve chosen to meet in those physical and imaginary spaces. Every person there loves or at least cares about one or more of the readers or language or poetry specifically. When I was starting out I wasn’t sure what a reading was for, although sometimes I could feel the goodness of it. Now I see giving a reading as art-making that can be collaborative.

Are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

            Nature, music, science, visual art, yes! I live in New York City and often think about natural landscapes. Some of the poems in Coronation take the urban landscape as natural. For some that meant an attitudinal shift, accepting that built things are natural because humans are part of nature; for others, it took translation from mundane to marvelous. The idea was to not regret the lack of grass here and the shrieking train alarms and the bad air. The idea is to keep the passage open to delight.

            I read widely and listen to podcasts about all those things and to a lot of music. One of the questions from astrobiology that sticks with me is whether or not consciousness is fundamental in the universe, a fact of matter, which works nicely with how I see the world: personalities everywhere.

            In Coronation there’s a poem that invents a Northern Renaissance painting and alters a Hockney, part of speaker’s memories of a visit through a museum, the context for a meandering reflection, suggesting rooms on rooms of experience, entered and glimpsed. And another one names the video artist Pipilotti Rist in the title — she’s so joyous, whatever else she’s doing, just naming her brightly colors the ironies in the poem. In my previous book, Snow Farmer, there’s an ekphrastic prose poem that interprets a Vermeer. That one I wrote to put a personal, un-art-historical reading into the world.

            I like to work with visual artists, too. I used to, and might again, publish unbound books, a zine series comprised of “free, downloadable, printable, foldable, downright handsome books.” Many of them were collaborations between visual artists and writers. Cornerstone Press let me include facsimiles of three of them, three I did the writing for, in Coronation. I think they came out well in the book, and two represent a kind of parallel play of word art and visual art — not one explaining the other, but each influencing your experience of the other. The third is like the prose poem about the Vermeer but more bananas.

            Years ago I tried to invent writing systems analogous to 20th-century music composition systems, including tone rows and aleatory procedures. I’ve also tried to adapt visual art practices to writing. Serra’s verb list was exciting, as much for the way it looks as it’s generative potential, and I made a four-axis grid of ideas, taking pains to develop handwriting that would look good. It’s a fine artifact but didn’t help me make poems. Another time, I thought I’d divide poems into vertical auras, like a Rothko. All those trials were generative in a caffeinated way — not producing specific works but swirling the energies around. I wasn’t able to find an explanation of Ornette Coleman’s Harmolodics, but the music, the texts I was able to find on it, and the name itself were exciting. I don’t hanker after a system anymore, but liner notes can get me going. I just read about Steve Coleman’s M-base — trying to translate what he describes as a very open system of improvisation into poetry composition is appealing, though, again, I don’t plan to make a system like it. 

            The scope of art in NYC is just one of the gorgeous tradeoffs for the indignities of the subway. And some of it happens right there on the platform! I am grateful for all of it. Recently I got to hear three of my favorite musicians, two different shows at Roulette, a storied organization housed in an elegant old theater, an intimate concert hall. Sylvie Courvoisier and Mary Halvorson played their album Bone Bells straight through. And Marc Ribot played solo guitar; I have his most recent album on repeat: Map of a Blue City.

            I’ve been laboring over a poem about a map of myself and recent ancestors; after this interview, I think I can go back to it with less labor and more pleasure.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Maria Nazos, Pulse

My review of Maria Nazos' Pulse (Oakland CA: Omnidawn, 2026) is now online at periodicities: a journal of poetry and poetics.

Hari Alluri, Tabako on the Windowsill

  

Windowsill Offering for Eric

In the crematorium’s service room, taking clumsy, ginger turns around the cardboard holding your body, such a thin distance, 4 generations of multi-iteration family scrawl and draw our messages for you to take. An act of reaching. Even here, the squeal and fight of children over markers carries what’s most sombre.

This act of releasing you to mark how we must begin to hold you another way, a promise in touch, which no one can live up to constant: from outside the chapel’s doors, through the service room, around and down the hall—Sade’s “By Your Side” playing off your celebrant’s phone as we arrange ourselves—one hand reaching forward to the next shoulder, in to the shoulders of your closest and your closest blood, finally onto Niki’s.

Hers, the most difficult task. Even as it’s her finger on the switch: when she presses it to give your body to fire—held and utterly alone—none of us are free of it. Our hope, which is also our fear: that we reach across to the other side with you, that the messages we wrote carry us with them in the flame.

The latest poetry title by British Columbia-based “a migrant poet of Filipinx and South Asian descent” Hari Alluri is the collection Tabako on the Windowsill (Kingston ON: Brick Books, 2025), a book I’m just getting to now. Subtitled “(poems to burn),” Alluri’s first-person narratives offer quiet gestures composed as direct response, akin to elegy or prayer, both for and to the living, and the dead. “May you outgrow many pairs of shorts, Anak. / And if a dryer doesn’t get them first,” begins the poem “Mountain Walk Offering for My Godson,” “your socks might inch down past your heels / bothering your arch and toes. That pattern will turn / to wearing thin, to changing style.” There’s a calming, soothing effect in Alluri’s lyrics—a gentle and attentive intimacy—even as losses compound across these meditations, so, too, the celebration of life and family, heart and the present moment. These are poems of witness, of gesture, attempting to articulate, appreciate and hold (“capture” doesn’t seem the right word, here) a moment, before it might fade. “Here, on the morning ride to work,” Alluri writes, as part of “A Pavement Sweeper’s Quarry,” “I’m jealous at the trolley doors: they get / to yawn. I would say the city is only mouth if it didn’t hear: we want to stay.”

The strength of these poems are found precisely through the understated way they’re written, attending and appreciating what so often isn’t noticed, caught or spoken. “I will always thank the day I turned towards these mountains here and saw / not the country I feared wants me dead or gone or totally subsumed,” he writes, as part of “Hum Its Dizziness Like Sugar in Tea,” “but / mountains, volcanic. Cousins / to those who made the islands my nanay is from, and beautiful even if they weren’t. // The deities I brought with me and seek, may they never become a pipeline dug into this land.” It might seem out of fashion to compose poems so overtly thankful, both for those the narrator has known and where he now lives, but Alluri manages a grace through the hush, across the foundations of human connection. As well, moving through prose poems, couplets and more traditional lyric stanza-blocks, the twists and turns of Alluri’s sentences and phrases are subtle, offering twists that hide in plain sight, shifting an effect of what one reads against what one might expect to read. The effect, to be sure, is quite striking. This is a book that will absolutely surprise.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Jeremy Springsteed

Jeremy Springsteed is a barista and occasional activist living in Seattle. He was one of the founders of the Breadline Performance Series and a member of the ReDrum poetry collective. His work has been published in many places online and in print such as SPREAD, Pidgeonholes, Underwood, Pageboy, Internet Void, Another New Calligraphy, and Limanal Spaces. He is the author of four collections of poetry: A Guide To Getting Lost. (Cyberwit 2022) Salt, Weasel, Corpse, and Other. (Cyberwit 2023) Beneath The Ashes of My Grandfather and My Youth. (Cyberwit 2025) By Wing and Foot. (Carbonation Press 2025)

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 felt like a validation of all the years I had spent working on my craft. All the readings I had organized or taken part in. All the rejections. It alleviated the imposter syndrome.

The first collection was more like a greatest hits than a thematic grouping of poems. As I produced new work I thought of it in a more contingent light. When writing work for this latest collection I would look at those oddball one off poems and find the correct home in the larger body.

While I have always had my themes and return points, my process recently has been looking towards enriching connections in tone and subject. 

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

I had always wanted to be a writer, not necessarily a poet though. I have a very vivid memory from when I was 13, my depression had really set in the year before and I was doing pretty poorly in school. I was talking with my mom in her bedroom and she was trying to figure out what was going on with me. I was crying, “I just want to write and I don’t even know what that means.”

We were a paycheck to paycheck working class family. I had, as far as I knew, never met any kind of an artist and I had no idea how one became such a thing.

I would work on my silly little stories instead of paying attention to my classes. Stories like– Hitler secretly surviving and taking over a small US midwest town or stories of me being a secret agent with a large base under my parents' rented house.

I would keep falling deeper into depression. I started playing sports to try to fit in with the other boys. Eventually I destroyed my knees and my mental health.

I was having mild auditory hallucinations. I began writing them down, then I began altering them. Eventually I didn’t hear them but they were still in my head.

I took creative writing and was lucky to have a fantastic teacher named Joel Long who introduced me to a larger world of poetry. Joel brought big name poets into the classroom, (the poet laureate at the time Jorie Graham, Louise Glück, etc.)  which was no small feat for our suburban Utah high school. I was introduced to many local poets. He gave me a structure to use. I have never looked back.

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 have two approaches to writing a poem. I have the quick flood, these are usually the more personal narrative poems or the politically charged ones. I also have the extensively researched ones that come with pages of notes and a million open tabs on my computer. The deep research ones are usually history based poems, this is also where science themes creep in.

In both cases there is a first draft revision process constantly happening. 75% of the time I spend on a poem is generally in that first draft process. More often than not the first draft is fairly close to the final, otherwise I am likely to scrap the whole thing and either try another approach or abandon it until it is ready to cooperate.

My revision process is a lot of cutting unnecessary words and then replacing what turns out to be structurally important. I also spend a large amount of time with line breaks and stanza size and shape.

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?

The stand alone poems generally come when a phrase or image starts running through my head. I sit down and type out the thing occupying my mind. Then I pace and occasionally return to the keyboard to add elements.  It is moments like these that I miss smoking cigarettes.

I love writing serialized poems. I become obsessed with something and try to write poems from various vantage points. In my book Salt, Weasel, Corpse, and Other there is a series of eight poems about the Wieliczka salt mine in Poland. In it there is history, folk lore, science, a tour of some of the stand out features of the mine. I spent months researching and drawing connections to try to inhabit the mine as well as I could through words.

My most recent book was the first time I started with a plan and wrote a large portion of the poems after defining a book structure. To fill it out I found places for several orphaned poems.

For me both possible answers are true but I suppose what I have been doing lately is putting a basic structure of a book together and writing some poems explicitly for that structure and writing others that may or may not find a home there.

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

Readings have been an important part of my formation as a poet. Hearing when a line cuts through people, or when it just lies face down on the floor. Receiving immediate feedback and interpretations of a new poem is powerful and valuable.

I have been the open mic MC for a few reading series. I would always start the open mic with a new poem which kept me writing. It also put me in close contact with all manner of writers from a diverse skill set. Writing is solitary work so any opportunity to be in community with other writers is to be relished.

I am also a founding member of the ReDrum poetry collective with my dear friend Alex Bleecker. Our troop has been involved in both publishing work and performative work. The performances are always occasional and based on a singular theme (whales, Carlo Zinelli, time travel, etc.)  that the 2-4 poets work towards separately and as a group. Those performances have allowed new ways of looking at what a poem might be.

My first book wouldn’t have been possible without public readings. It helped me to group poems so the flow of the work was more natural. They let me know what was working and what I should focus my energy on.

Then there is the theft. There is no better teacher than hearing someone read a poem that you wish you had written and trying to figure out how you might be able to still write that poem but make it yours.

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?

When I was a junior in high school I told my English teacher that I was getting into poetry and I hoped to be a poet some day. She said to me, “Jeremy, everything that could have been written about the human condition has already been written. What would you even hope to accomplish?” It became my goal to prove her wrong. But how?

Is experience static? Does an era change the experience or at least the voice of the experience? Is today less important than the days of Anne Sexton? Don’t we have anything to contribute?

I remember going to workshops where discussing a painting from the 1800s is an appropriate reference point but bringing up David Bowie in a poem wasn’t. Do we want to be relevant or not? Is this art form only available to the well educated or are we creating art for humanity?

Does the poet have a responsibility to humanity or is it only a responsibility to form?

Is killing the form from lack of interest worth the feeling of superiority towards the unread masses?

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?

My entire life I have watched the general number of people reading decline. It has been a question on my mind ever since I found myself dedicated to writing. With the advent of the smart phone reading has taken an even greater hit. There has been an all out assault on attention. (Although I am noticing Gen Z falling in love with reading and physical media in general.)

What has always remained though is that artists of other disciplines seem to be drawn to and directed by the thoughts of poets. I think back to earlier eras, Dylan being awestruck by Ginsberg. Rimbaud inspiring Jim Morrison. Kurt Cobain being in love with Burroughs. Patti Smith being both musician and poet and inspiring both is a beautiful crossing.

The poet is the cutting edge. They must live in the past and present because they are the artist that pushes to the future. They are forgotten and in many cases prefer to be an apparition.

They must point forward even if few see their outstretched hand. 

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

This latest book was the first time I have worked with an outside editor in a meaningful way and I loved the process. The different perspective was very valuable, there were moments where I thought I had something the way I wanted and a few good editorial questions allowed me to see with fresh eyes and make wise changes. On the opposite side there were moments where choices I made were called into question and I had to find a way to justify them and was able to bring the editor to my side. My first couple of books were from a very hands off publisher. I was glad to have those books published and start to get a feeling for what writing towards a book is like but it was a more fulfilling experience publishing with the more hands on approach that I had with Carbonation Press.

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

“Put your butt in the chair and close the door.”

So simple and direct. When it comes to writing nothing has proven to be more true. To do a ting one simply has to do it.

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?

I tend to go through a fevered creation period, followed by a cool off revision process, a rush of submissions and readings. Then I burn out for a bit. I’ll get to the point where I think, “well, you used it all up.”

A line will start to grow in my head. Always the entire time I was “blocked” I was actually absorbing, it just feels different than creating.

Within that routine days look very different. When I am on red hot creation I am in my writing room, at my desk, spinning as many instrumental albums on my turntable as I can. I’ll forget to eat.

Revision period is like looking at a house after a party. Something fun has happened here but I can’t enjoy the memory until the mess is cleaned and everything is put in its right place. 

Submission time is coffee time. It is the closest to professional time I ever spend. And then I wander into the desert until manna.

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

Every stall has a different reactivation code. Sometimes it is opening every poem I have that is unpublished and making sure I am happy with it and if not revising. Sometimes it is looking for magazines to submit to. Reading poems, always reading poems by my favorite poets or by freshly encountered poets to rejuvenate. Putting on a beloved record and free associate on the keyboard. Ask myself what I want to become obsessed with and go down a research rabbit hole.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Home is a difficult concept. By the time I moved out of my parents house we had moved states 4 times and within those states had multiple moves. Then I was briefly homeless in San Francisco before I finally found what has become my home in the PNW.

When I think of my childhood in San Diego the smell is chlorine and all the summer days I spent at my best friend Dominic’s house where he was an only child of divorce and being largely looked after by his grandfather, a WWII vet named Herb who would swim laps in their backyard pool.

When it comes to my teenage years in Salt Lake I think of the choking aroma of rotting brine shrimp that would blanket the valley as it was blown off the shrinking shores of The Great Salt Lake.

When I think of Seattle it is the earthy smell of wet decaying cedar on a misty path through the arboretum.

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?

Music is huge for me. The number of lines that I have based off of a lyric or melody by The Cure probably opens me up for a copyright lawsuit. When I’m writing I always have music on. I used to be a regular reader at a now defunct reading series called Liner Notes where every poet was assigned one song from an album and had a month to write and perform a response poem to their assigned song. Playing with the connection between music and poetry has always been a driving force for me.

I’m also big on history. I love to try to find myself in a different time and write towards it. Or find an underlooked corner of a figure from the past and try to tease it out. The continued thread of humanity is endlessly fascinating. The never breaking, repeating trends are a rich well for subjects to write about.

Science is a different beast when it comes to my work. It is usually an after thought, “I’ve gone as far as I can go here, let’s see what science says,” rather than science being my jumping off point.

Being raised religious but now being not religious it feels silly to say religion but it looms large in my work. I love to use prophetic phrases. Zoroastrianism has been a recent obsession. I have become a massive fan of the YouTube channel ESOTERICA which talks about largely forgotten aspects of western religion and mysticism. I’m a big William Blake fan which I think tends to put me in a space to treat poetry like scripture but like a living scripture.

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

My top three influential poets are as follows–

William Blake; his line in Jerusalem, “They became what they beheld,” is something I think about and try to apply to things constantly. How is the world making me?

Paul Celan is another poet that changed my life. I began with his Romanian poems and immediately fell in love with the work. The sparse surreal horror of a cold mechanical future yet there is still a human heart beating.

Antonio Porchia is the one with the least amount of work that I’m aware of but his book Voices was pivotal in my development. The simple one line statements that blossom is a feat that I aspire towards.

Jean Paul Sartre is my go to for philosophy. I destroyed two editions of Being and Nothingness in my 20s. I have referenced his ideas in countless poems; the play of responsibility and freedom in a deterministic world is a puzzle I hope to stare at for the rest of my life.

I have two top tier novelists. I love Günter Grass, The Tin Drum got deep inside of me, in fact the entire Danzig Trilogy remains a top recommendation when someone asks what they should read next.

I am also a big Thomas Pynchon head. I have read all of his work. I try not to be insufferable about it though. The first book of his that I read was V. Chapter Three In which Stencil, a quick-change artist, does eight impersonations blew my mind and I had no idea someone could do that with prose. I was constantly lost and always in a sweaty paranoid state reading it and I became hooked on his style. 

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

I have never been on a book tour and would adore it. I love traveling and I love doing readings. Perfect pairing.

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?

It is sort of a  funny question for me because while I identify myself first as a poet, it by no means has nor do I expect it ever would provide me with enough income to not do another job. I have been a barista for the last 26 years and I love it. I have been in some sort of cafe leadership for the majority of that time. I am currently the manager of the flagship location of a popular local doughnut and coffee shop that has a few locations around the Puget Sound area.

When Covid started and I was laid off from the cafe I was working at at the time I thought it would be a great opportunity for me to get a massive amount of writing done and that I would get through every book on my to-read list. I had so many plans but it turned out without having a number of hours in a day being taken from me I had an impossible time at doing anything. I don’t know if it is the working class upbringing that has made me this way but what I have learned is that even if I didn’t have to work a job for financial reasons I need to have some hours dedicated to doing work that has nothing to do with my passions.

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

I’ve tried other things. When I was a kid I wanted to be an actor. I’ve been a drummer in a few bands. I used to paint and show my work and even sold a few paintings in my early 30s. I was an active anti war political organizer in my 20s.

No matter what other passion projects have come along poetry has always been the main focus. It being the thing that I’m most skilled in certainly helps to keep it as my most important outlet. Not to say I haven’t put a ton of work into growing as a poet and am always looking to expand my knowledge and ability but writing feels like a natural part of me whereas those other pursuits were more like learning a foreign language rather than speaking in your birth tongue.

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

I recently read 2666 by Roberto Bolano. It was a great sprawling novel that took me on some wild rides all over the world and throughout time. There were some of the most gruesome pages of prose that I have ever read. There were no clear answers other than that men are capable of terrible acts.

I also read Pynchon’s latest book Shadow Ticket. It had all the classic Pynchon elements, strange songs, labyrinths of conspiracy, a dairy magnate that is referred to as the “Al Capone of cheese,” and of course WWII. 

I don’t watch a lot of films. I only keep a netflix account because I need episodes of Seinfeld at a low volume in the background to sleep.

19 - What are you currently working on?

I began my current project thinking I was doing one thing but of course as time has gone on I find that the project has decided it wants to be something a little different. I started the year writing poems about 20th century visual artists and their closest relationships, usually romantic but not limited to that. Of course certain themes began to appear. Then I got a little burnt out on all the research. I felt I needed to step away. I wrote several personal poems about my struggle with depression, friends and loved ones’ mental health, loss of relationships and loss of what one perceives oneself to be. As I have been going about it I have been working on some artists again and am seeing that this is a larger project weaving these elements together. I’m sure a third twist to the project is soon to come as I feel like I don’t have all my elements gathered yet. It is something that I couldn’t have been able to write and execute correctly earlier in my career and it is exciting for me.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

new from above/ground press: Young, Graham, Goodwin, Spyker, Wilkins, Goldstein, Hoefle, Fagan, Heroux + Words on the Water, eds./dir. O'Meara + Sylvain,

 ; SPREE, Geoffrey Young $6 : Elegies for the Fish Prince of Arkansas, Lea Graham $6 ; Map of What Was Taken, Cara Goodwin $6 ; Bedtime stories for my imaginary friends, James Spyker $6 ; provocations, Grant Wilkins $6 ; The Common Dark, Mark Goldstein $6 ; Leaning In, Harold Hoefle $6 ; Useful Poems, Cary Fagan $6 ; Look Out, Yellow Umbrella, Jason Heroux $6 ; Words on the Water / Mumures sur l’eau, eds./dir. David O’Meara and/et Véronique Sylvain, translations by/traductions de Myriam Legault-Beauregard w new work by Jean Marc Dalpé, David Galvaude, Harold Hoefle, Christine McNair, Sarah Migneron, stephanie Roberts, Alexis Rodrigue-Lafleur + Mahaila Smith $10 ;

published in Ottawa by above/ground press
July-September 2026
a/g subscribers receive a complimentary copy of each

To order, send cheques (add $2 for postage; in US, add $3; outside North America, add $7) to: rob mclennan, 2423 Alta Vista Drive, Ottawa ON K1H 7M9. E-transfer or PayPal at at rob_mclennan (at) hotmail.com or the PayPal button (above). See the prior list of recent titles here, scroll down here to see a further list of various backlist titles, or click on any of the extensive list of names on the sidebar (many, many things are still in print).

keep an eye on the above/ground press blog for author interviews, new writing, reviews, upcoming readings and tons of other material; did you see my report on the recent above/ground press anniversary party? and don't forget the above/ground press substack, naturally (where there's lots of extra cool stuff posted,

With forthcoming chapbooks by: Mark Tardi, Peter Carl Anderson, Katy DeCoste, Lori Anderson Moseman, David Phillips and probably others! (yes: others,

AND 2026 SUBSCRIPTIONS ARE STILL AVAILABLE (but you probably already know that,

the ottawa small press book fair, fall 2026 edition: November 14, 2026

span-o (the small press action network - ottawa) presents:

   

 the ottawa
    small press
    book fair

autumn 2026 :
will be held on Saturday, November 14, 2026 at Tom Brown Arena, 141 Bayview Station Road, Ottawa

“once upon a time, way way back in October 1994, rob mclennan and James Spyker invented a two-day event called the ottawa small press book fair, and held the first one at the National Archives of Canada...” Spyker moved to Toronto soon after our original event, but the fair continues, thanks in part to the help of generous volunteers, various writers and publishers, and the public for coming out to participate with alla their love and their dollars.

General info:
the ottawa small press book fair
noon to 5pm (opens at 11am for exhibitors)

admission free to the public.
$25 for exhibitors, full tables
$12.50 for half-tables
(payable to rob mclennan, c/o 2423 Alta Vista Drive, Ottawa ON K1H 7M9; paypal options also available

Note: due to demand, we offer half as well as full tables (because not everyone needs a full table, and this allows more exhibitors to participate). this fair will also have fewer table spots than recent fairs, so be aware that this will limit author space more than usual,

To be included in the exhibitor catalogue [too many of you aren't reading this part; please read this part]: please include name of press, address, email, web address, contact person, type of publications, list of publications (with price), if submissions are being considered and any other pertinent info, including upcoming Ottawa-area events (if any). Be sure to send by November 1st if you would like to appear in the exhibitor catalogue.

And hopefully we can still do the pre-fair reading as well! details TBA
: and we're on Bsky now! that's exciting, yes? follow us!

BE AWARE: given that the spring 2013 was the first to reach capacity (forcing me to say no to at least half a dozen exhibitors), the fair can’t (unfortunately) fit everyone who wishes to participate. The fair is roughly first-come, first-served, although preference will be given to small (literary) publishers over self-published authors (being a “small press fair,” after all).

The fair usually contains exhibitors with poetry books, novels, cookbooks, posters, t-shirts, graphic novels, comic books, magazines, scraps of paper, gum-ball machines with poems, 2x4s with text, etc, including regular appearances by exhibitors including: above/ground press ; Anvil Press / A FEED DOG BOOK ; Apt. 9 Press ; Arc Poetry Magazine ; Assembly Press ; Manahil Bandukwala ; battleaxe press ; Jessica Bebenek ; Book*hug Press ; Bird Lips Zine ; The BumblePuppy Press ; Bywords ; Dave Cooper ; CreateSpace ; Amanda Earl ; Elliott Dunstan ; equitableEducation.ca ; Good Golly Zines ; The Grunge Papers ; John Haas ; Seymour Hamilton ; Heartlines Spec ; Horsebroke Press ; L'Interligne : Kersplebedeb Publishing (LeftWingBooks.net) ; Paragon of Virtue Press / la presse POV ; phafours press/Writebulb app/Pearl Pirie ; Proper Tales Press ; Puddles of Sky Press ; Raccoon Comics ; ROOM 3o2 BOOKS ; Sarah's Zines ; Simulacrum Press ; shreeking violet press ; sider0xylon press ; swooncor ; Tel # Publishing ; Things in my Chest ; Touch the Donkey [a small poetry journal] ; Turret House Press ; Alberte Villeneuve-Sinclair ; Wyrdsmyth Press ; etc etc etc.

the ottawa small press fair is held twice a year (apart from these pandemic silences), and was founded in 1994 by rob mclennan and James Spyker. Organized/hosted since by rob mclennan.

Come on by and see some of the best of the small press from Ottawa and beyond!

Free things can be mailed for fair distribution to the same address. Unfortunately, we are unable to sell things for publishers who aren’t able to make the event.

Also: please let me know if you are able/willing to poster, move tables or distribute fliers for the event. The more people we all tell, the better the fair!

Note: spring 2027 we are returning to the Glebe Community Centre for June 19, 2027 (with a slight increase in table rates, for the first time in a decade) and autumn 2027 we are returning to Tom Brown Arena, date tba

Contact: rob mclennan at rob_mclennan (at) hotmail.com for questions, or to sign up for a table.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Lori Lubeski

Lori Lubeski’s latest book is in another language. She is also the author of estranged domain, has the river of the body risen, and pilgrimage foliage. She lives in Connecticut.

1. How did your first book change your life?

My first book was a little chapbook that Scott Macleod made for e.g.press while I was at San Francisco State. It was extremely validating and felt like it legitimized my position as a poet in the world. The fact also that someone liked my work enough to put a book together was so exciting for me.

My most recent work… it’s funny because I always go back to that first book— which was from 1985— and realize that I knew everything then that I needed to know— and I read through it and see how true everything in there is about people and relationships— and somehow I feel there has been no linear progression in my writing, but the same themes of loss and longing just twisting down another path, and the world winding around my heart as it always has…

2. How did you come to poetry first as opposed to fiction/non-fiction

Poetry seemed like the perfect escape. I started writing in high school to let out my pained heart. It had no rules and you could do or say anything in poetry and it was acceptable. The lack of formality and how you could begin anywhere and stop in the middle of an idea or sentence gave me a sense of relief. The idea of abstraction was also appealing to me—- how you didn’t have to say things directly or logically. I felt very strange and different from everyone and felt like my thoughts were so different from other peoples’. Poetry seemed to provide an outlet for my thoughts, to talk to myself with this freedom that was not available in the world. I also became interested in surrealism then, Salvador Dali and Magritte, and I remember their work just opening up a fascinating place of possibility and inspiration which coincided with my thoughts about poems, that they were there to show a particular feeling, mood or an idea,  and rationality and logic was not required.

3. How long does it take to start a project, how does your writing come out?

It is very quick, usually one fell swoop… the idea comes and I just start going. I most often get an idea or concept that I want to write about, and frequently hear the title or get obsessed with the title, such as ‘pilgrimage foliage’ and then I think of what that means and write on that. The lines usually just come to me. Recently a concept about addiction was “Addict, addict, failsafe bravery” and I took the book from there. The sound of the words provoke the writing. My process is very intuitive and irrational. I get the feeling and the sound of the phrases move me along. I rarely stop to think about anything along the way. It is basically an experience of free-writing or some sort of stream of consciousness within the frame of the title concept. A funny thing is that I frequently use vocabulary that I am not quite sure of the meaning and I end up having to look up certain words after. The final process usually just involves cutting sections that don’t fit but I don’t typically re-write anything. One thing that annoys me is that all of my books seem to be one long tale so it feels like there are no separate individual poems that stand alone. They all  seem to belong solely to the context of that project/idea. When people ask me to send them work I feel like I have nothing to send!

( This seemed to combine questions3/4)

5. Are readings an important part of writing?

I love to do readings. I wish that I could do more because my poetry is best heard aloud. There is something about the intensity and rhythm that belongs to my writing which of course cannot be fully conveyed on the page. It is very gratifying to read my work to others because people always come up to me after and are sincerely moved by the work. I also enjoy the social aspect of giving readings because it allows me to come out into the world and be around other poets.

6. Theoretical concerns/questions I am trying to answer

Of course I have concerns about the state of the world and the effect it has on the individual. How do we attempt to make peace with our circumstances? How can things be so unfair and unright? How do we come to terms with such grave inequities? I have always been an overly emotional person who is deeply affected by injustices. Perhaps that comes out in my writing.

7. Current role of writer in larger culture?

The above answer addresses this question I would say. To acknowledge the state of the world and put words to it in any way possible. To also recognize the beautiful moments. To capture what passes by unseen. To pause. To express what the heart holds. To evoke some level of tenderness.

8. Working with editor

Important for objectivity. Good to be open minded. Often working in the context of your own head so it is helpful for another to intervene on your behalf for the sake of the project!

9. Recent best piece of advice I heard was from poet Andrea Gibson.

“I choose to be amazed by this world.

I choose to put my attention on what is astonishing, because doing so makes every other part of my life better.”

10. What kind of writing routine do you have?

I have absolutely no writing routine. I am the most ADD,  un-disciplined, disorganized writer one can be. If it comes, it comes, if not, oh well. Perhaps I should be more seriously committed but that has always been my problem with everything. If there is any semblance of routine it is randomly writing in my notebook when I am overly emotional, desperate, and upset. Sometimes poetry comes out of this process.

11. So therefore this idea of ‘stalled’ writing is impertinent here but when I feel unable or incapable of getting inspired I make visual or hands on projects that are creative such as decopauge or tie dye or making poetry collages with word phrases and color samples from the paint store or reading poetry.

12. I love vanilla or coconut. They are calming and peaceful and sweet and remind me that things will be okay.

13. Any other forms that influence your work science or nature or visual art.

Yes, visual art and also history and geography. I like maps and reading childrens’ social study books. I collaborate with my friends who are visual artists and make projects together and they often do the covers of my books. Of course nature as I love bird watching and collecting rocks and fossils.

14. What writers or writing are important to your work.

My friend the writer and artist Scott Macleod is an important inspiration to my writing. I was long time friends with the poet Linda Gregg and her ideas and writing shaped my poetry sensibility and sensitivity. I love Forrest Gander’s work. Phoebe Gloeckner is a creative genius to me. Rumi and Rilke are my constants.

15. What I haven’t done is win a great big financial blessing of a prize for writing. Wouldn’t that be wonderful.

16. Any other occupation I would be an archaeologist and dig up ruins. Or I would be a florist making arrangements and delivering flowers.

17.  What made you write as opposed to doing something else.

Writing seemed what I liked to do best and also what was easiest for me to do. I was a professor of English for 30 years because that was the only way to make money remotely related to writing.

18. Last great book was Forrest Gander’s Mojave Ghost. Stunning writing there. Movie I just watched was Holy Days with Judy Davis.

19. What am I working on now?

A poetry book, ‘addict, addict, failsafe bravery’ and several concurrent memoirs.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

i left my (potato) heart on Prince Edward Island, (part two,

[see part one here] 

Wednesday, August 19, 2026: You might not be aware that our wee Aoife has been months begging us to take her to The Canadian Potato Museum (please, she begged us last fall, you can make it my birthday present). How did she even know of such a thing? It was more than an hour west and north from where we were staying, so made our way out before most of us were even awake (okay, before I was even awake--Christine and the young ladies had already done a morning walk to the coffeeshop for coffee, treats etcetera). 

Exactly what one might expect, one can walk through the space and learn a history of the potato and local potato crop [comparable to the Big Apple along Highway 401 by Colborne, Ontario, of course, except without the added benefit of the array contained within a giant potato], as well as farming. One whole wing was filled with farm machinery, much of which included signage on usage, and prior ownership. It seemed entirely the sort of museum I could see my father quite enjoying (and there were even the occasional antiquated item in the shed that I know we had). The young ladies collected (of course) potato-shaped stuffies, and I saw a stress-ball shaped like a potato, exactly like the ones we saw (and picked up) at EPIC: The Irish Emigration Museum in Dublin last summer [see my note on such here, including a pic of Aoife holding up said potato]. After all that build-up, Aoife reported that she was impressed, I guess, although it could have been better. What had she been expecting, exactly?

From there, we wandered over to a house made out of thousands of bottles that Christine knew about, with accompanying gardens. The space was lovely (both the buildings and the grounds/gardens were worth it alone), and odd to think a gentleman spent years of his life building such a thing, a series of structures that required repair after he'd passed (it is fully maintained; and with a charming wee gift shop to boot). It was misty, also. One could see out to the water, various lighthouses in view; the trailers at the edge of the property where some had settled into their own waterfront views, staring south-west towards New Brunswick (and just inland, Moncton).

I did manage another panorama shot or two with multiple Aoifes, which was fun to play with.

Rose buses, and many bees. In a way, the best part of this space had to be the abandoned house next door, just across from the parking lot, with a large stuffed animal on each side, set in the open window. Creepy.

As usual, there was too much to do, too much to see, so we were off again, back the way we'd come, to meet up with Ottawa poet Jason Christie and his family, who were on the island just as we were. Did I mention Jason was here also? I'd sent him a text before we'd flown out, asking if I'd see him at my event in Ottawa on the weekend, and he'd responded, saying, No, we've just crossed Confederation Bridge! Hey, we're doing that in two days! I responded. We drove, and drove, realizing we had missed out on an attempt at lunch (we'd considered as part of the potato museum, but the in-house diner wasn't open yet), so we kept hoping we'd simply pass something, knowing we had a loosely-scheduled 2pm meet up with Jason etc at Green Gables, right by where we were each and all staying. Not far from there, we drove into the parking lot of the Cavendish Boardwalk, for the sake of landing at Cows. I mean, there must be food here, yes? Once there, the kids went in one direction, Christine another, and I bee-lined to Cows for the sake of a new beach towel (I still had my worn towel from a much earlier PEI visit, possibly with my parents, somewhere during the 1980s; I'm a bit amazed the beach towel holds). A towel, a sticker or two, and a t-shirt, which I promptly changed into, just in the parking lot (why not?). The children purchased more stuffys for some reason (geez), but we did manage to convince them to remain still long enough to get them fed. If only we'd had more time, we would have told them about the Cows ice cream (we hadn't time, so didn't mention; perhaps we should come back at some point).

Green Gables, Prince Edward Island. I think this is my third time visiting? First, with my parents, somewhere in the late 1970s or early 80s, and again circa 2000 with my pal Sandie [a trip that resulted in my poetry title, red earth], and now this. It was different than I'd remembered, although I know I saw a wedding when I was last here, the space crowded with Japanese tourists. Given the broad popularity the books have in Japan and Japanese culture. The site really needs to perpetually thank Japanese novelist and translator Hanako Muraoka, who took it upon herself to translate that first Anne of Green Gables novel during a period that Japan considered English an "enemy language," publishing her translation in 1952. You want to see the impact of translation? Look to some of the tourism that regularly visits Green Gables.

This is a heritage house, basically, from the era from which L.M. Montgomery wrote those infamous books, of course, with accompanying texts surrounding the author and some of her characters. We met up with Jason and his family (his two boys are roughly the age of our two young ladies), and all four of the kids absolutely bored with the place. The children wandered, and wandered, albeit in different directions than we did. We paused for a bit of social, and the children had snacks. From there, a slip back into our separate directions, us back to North Rustico, and at least a few minutes not moving.

I hadn't realized until this trip the array of Acadian across Prince Edward Island, the array of Acadian flags that ran through this part of the island, specifically. There's a statue of an Acadian fisherman in the water, not far from our doorstep, to acknowledge both the cultural heritage of the space and the men who have, for generations, fished these waters. Right by our doorstep, also, a place where one can take a ride along for deep sea fishing. Not me, thanks, but it does sound interesting. A wall of lobster traps along one whole side of set buildings along the boardwalk.

After a respite of an hour or so, we collected some supplies and headed off the fifteen minute drive to where Jason and family were staying, an array of cottages closer to Green Gables, for the sake of dinner, socializing. It probably had been two years since the kids had seen each other, the past number of months Jason and I out for dinner maybe two or three times a year, but the array of household requirements and child schedules preventing us from doing anything beyond that.

It took a while for our children to talk to each other, but they figured it out. We hung out on the porch, right across from Grandpa's Antique Photo Studio (which Jason joked we should do, until he realized how much). A grand evening, overall, although the children remained a few fire-pits over, at what they termed "the good fire," beyond the one that Jason built.

next up: we head for a ferry, and back to Halifax,