Sunday, May 17, 2026

ongoing notes: mid-May, 2026: Dale Martin Smith + Ben Robinson,

You know the ottawa small press fair occurs in a month or so, yes? I already know you’ll be there. Or that zoom-interview that American poet Cole Swensen is conducting in a few days from now, via the Brooklyn Rail, with myself, Misha Solomon and Jennifer Baker on above/ground press? Oh, you should register for that. 

MN/NC/ON: The latest from Toronto poet Dale Martin Smith (who has a title with Wave Books forthcoming, don’t forget) is the chapbook Figures of Speech: Wide Infinity (Eden Prairie MN/Durham NC: Polis Press, 2026), a sequence of equally-sized-and-shaped stanzas, composed as lines that layer, accumulate and tilt across boundaries. You might already knew Smith as the author of a whole slew of titles, including the chapbook Blur (Toronto ON: Knife|Fork|Book, 2022) [see my review of such here] and Sons (Toronto ON: Knife|Fork|Book, 2017) [see my review of such here], and the full-length titles The Size of Paradise (Knife|Fork|Book, 2024) [see my review of such here], which was up for the Griffin Prize, and Flying Red Horse (Vancouver BC: Talonbooks, 2021) [see my review of such here], among others, and the poems of this particular title suggest a far larger project, which could be speculative, or even hopeful, on my part. The poem extends, wraps and bleeds, almost as notes taken during a single or series of family visits, attending family meals and catching world news, numerous threads finding themselves woven into these particular poem-notes. “Magic naps cautiously in light / black fur white inside what’s / left annual family holiday visit,” he writes, “turkey sauce and copper wine / cooking gear the pie crumbs / familial banter or touching of / cell phones and flat screens [.]” The poem, the sequence, frames itself in his childhood home within an infinite moment, an immediate present, of conversation and televised football games, reports of drone strikes and bombings in Gaza, the Persian Gulf; the traces of his father’s recent death and his widowed mother, there in the house. It is a sequence of grief, and its traces, both his and his mother’s and everything else, simultaneous. As the poem begins:

An hour till boarding crab
grass grey wind forlorn or
just plain loss like light
sleep I can’t remember getting
old going for broke in
the poetry engine no one
could tell I was real inside
altered rhythm thickweed and spurge
how hard then set loose
on a blank continent no
promise but gusto a word
unflattens reality whatever that is
in media zones others dying
our leaders pay to drone-kill
with illusion of non-complicity unlike
orcas in the Red Sea
or Persian Gulf wherever pleases
them to sink ships they
go rightly at war with
nothing I believe in today
inside the many photo-albums I
look through with Mom in
afternoon post- and pre-death return
to “moments” where time opens

Hamilton/Toronto ON: The latest from Hamilton poet Ben Robinson [see his 2024 ’12 or 20 questions’ interview here] is the chapbook [A] Sensitive Man (Toronto ON: Knife|Fork|Book, 2026), following titles including his two full-length collections The Book of Benjamin (Palimpsest Press, 2023) [see my review of such here] and As Is (ARP Books, 2024) [see my review of such here]. The poems in this chapbook-length cluster respond to fatherhood and masculinity, and in attempting to navigate both in healthy ways, offering an interesting tether to works such as Dale Martin Smith’s Flying Red Horse (mentioned above), among others. “I didn’t think I was really a dad,” he writes, as part of “Has Anyone in Your Family Ever,” “more / a person who happened to have kids // until a bachelor party where I was making / lunches, wiping spills, laying blankets over // puked-out men. I folded Lou’s hooded towel / and pressed my elbow into the jamb, // stretch my hips for the morning commute.” It is just as much a suite of becoming a father as in being one, learning (as do we all, in regards to parenting) as we move through the steps. It has been interesting to see more poets approach conversations on fatherhood, offering a perspective and openness far different than those of a generation or two past, with poets such as Andy Weaver and Jason Christie, for example, providing their own conversations through the process. Robinson’s poems are gentle, complex and inquisitive, able to hold a great deal across what reads as straightforward thought-lines, writing daily tasks such as haircuts and dentist appointments. There is such a gentle way he writes of dailiness, what for so long might have been seen as too mundane to be captured in writing. As Robinson discussed in a 2023 interview conducted by Kevin Andrew Heslop for The Miramichi Reader:

I’ve been working with Al Purdy’s “sensitive man” as a draft title for my new poems, but maybe less ironically than he was wearing it, or with a different kind of irony. Yeah, I think I *chuckling* really am just a sensitive person. I’m realizing that more and more. I feel things deeply, and I find the world overwhelming in a lot of ways. And maybe this gets to what we’re talking about, this transcription of the real. This almost Bernadette Mayer idea, that the material is all out there and it’s utterly compelling. But at the same time that it’s compelling, it’s overwhelming, right?


Saturday, May 16, 2026

the city on the edge of forever, : Victoria, part three,

Okay, so I clearly had too many adventures in Victoria, British Columbia [see part one here; see part two here]. I thought I could contain it all in one post, so there you go.

Saturday, April 25: My final morning in Victoria, with a noon check-out, so I had to get my bags figured out. My high school pal Jennifer (who originally collected me from the airport on day one of this trip) arrived for the sake of my many bags, and we headed out to get coffee and sandwiches. There were rowboats in the water. The sky was an incredible blue. We drove out for sandwiches to a place she likes, realizing we were parking right by that art gallery that was closed on Thursday, when I wandered that same way, able to go into the "multi-media debut solo exhibition by Mila Rio," You Do Not Have to Be Good (again, a line from this Mary Oliver poem). Rio is layering animal imagery in a really interesting way, from paintings to works of felt across frames, stitching ideas together that intrigue and slightly trouble the imagination. I hadn't realized until after that we had actually met the artist, sitting in the space, so that was pretty cool. I think Rio is doing some interesting work. If you are in Victoria, you have until May 28th to see this small show, and I would recommend it.


Sandwiches by the water, the low American hills in Washington State across the bay. Sandwiches, as we talked about who we still knew from high school (Glengarry District High School, class of 1989), and where they might be. Who we still spoke to. Where has everyone gone? A handful still around home, while others (that we know of) scattered across Ottawa, Germany, Lethbridge, Texas, etcetera. The long arm of Glengarry wanderings.

Mile Zero, where I think I might even have visited with Joe Blades, back in the spring of 1998 (we attended that year's League of Canadian Poets AGM, and launched a five-poet anthology we were in, that he edited/published). A photo, most likely. I wonder where that might be? Mile Zero: the end of a poem by Robert Kroetsch, naturally. Or is this the beginning?



Afterwards, Jen offered to keep my bags in her car until the evening event, and she dropped me at Miniature World, a museum near enough to the reading venue that I knew I could catch this, sit somewhere, and then head off to the event fairly easily. This place is magnificent and everyone who goes to Victoria must go there immediately. When I looked on a map, it seemed close enough and intriguing enough, and I thought, why not?



Some of the battlesites were pretty cool, as were the occasional trains, but the best part had to be a wrap-around single train-line heading from Canada's west coast through to the east, catching most of the main stops along the way across the period of some of the original founding of our country's national rail. Victoria, Calgary, Regina, Toronto. Although it jumped immediately from there to Quebec City and a generic "The Maritimes," which I thought a bit nonsense (I wanted to complain, but the end of the tour leads one to the street, and not back to the front desk). It was a remarkable display, either way. But I wanted to see my house!




And then the lights went low! And the train lights went on, and the train whistled through! And then it was daylight again, the sunlight lifting up across the whole stretch of country.

There were historic European and American battlesites, fairy tale settings, circus city-scenes and a whole room of dollhouses. A stretch of buildings and totem poles reminiscent of the Great Hall in Gatineau's Museum of History (formerly the Museum of Civilization, which is a better name, despite what former Prime Minister Stephen Harper thinks).

No gift shop, which was admittedly a surprise (and disappointing; I would have picked up something, at least). From there, I wandered slightly, collecting postcards (and a block further, stamps to accompany), before landing at the Sticky Wicket, "Vancouver Island's biggest pub" (it's not always about size, fella), attached to the city's Strathcona Hotel (very different than, say, the Edmonton namesake, which had been a perpetual favourite of myself and pals such as Andy Weaver, Paul Pearson, etc circa 2000). I sat with pint, wrote postcards and read further from The Paris Review for a couple of hours, catching my breath. Why didn't I take any pictures? The pub was fine (and there was a woman across from me reading, also, so it felt the right place), although there was an artwork, a drawing, along one wall I found confusing, and didn't know the reference, something about "preparing the troops for Sevastopol," a sketch of the army that I realized, upon looking it up, was a reference to the Crimean War (1854-56). Why would a pub in Victoria, British Columbia be holding a sketch referring to the Crimean War?

I eventually met up with Jennifer, who had my mound of books, and went into the on-stage recording of The Poet Laureate Podcast, in which I interviewed Kyeren about her experience around being Victoria's (seventh!) poet laureate for the first half, with the second half focusing a bit more on me and my work, my thoughts around writing, etcetera. She kept saying throughout that we would have cake in-between, so the audience listening would have to imagine us eating cake. The third poem she read, leading into our break, was one that referenced Marie Antoinette. So, as I said, let us eat cake.

The crowd was grand! Rhona McAdam [my generous host], John Barton again [who later said I reminded him of the late Victoria poet Robin Skelton, which I would like him to explain, as I don't have enough direct knowledge of the man to speculate], and Terese Svoboda [I knew Donald Sutherland, she said, and you have his eyebrows!]. Allegra Kaplan. I was able to return Sara Cassidy her charger cord, which saved my computer while west. During the half-time, a familiar face came up to me (the woman on the couch) and reminded me that she was a waitress at The Royal Oak I frequented in the second half of the 1990s [ex-partner of my late pal Greg Kerr, also] and had been a therapist in Victoria for years, interested in the fact that I was doing an event, and came out, which was very cool. Kyeren had suggested I read three poems, so I read only my three poems from the new Coach House Books anthology On Occasion: Poems for the People, ed. Sina Queyras [see the write-up I did on the collection here]. Given I'd read healthily from my two University of Calgary Press collections, it seemed a good idea to read from the new collection, since it was brand new.

It was an engaging conversation, kind of all over the place, but one I quite enjoyed (worried slightly it was my usual rambling nonsense). I shall let you know when the audio lands online. After, Jen and Allegra [it was good to hang with her and get a sense of her, as I'd only caught her in passing at that first reading] and I caught a quick drink at a hotel (fancy) bar. I mentioned the artwork at the Sticky Wicket, and Allegra suggested it could just as easily be an interest in British-isms by whomever designed the space, and not any deeper or more specific connection between anything here and anything there. That makes the most sense, I think.

And then Jen drove me to the airport for my 11:30pm overnight flight, which left late, bumping my landing in Toronto enough to put me on a further flight back home. But home by noon, exhausted, pleased. Hopefully it won't be another two decades-plus before I land in Victoria again! (and hopefully next time Wayde Compton is actually in town, as well).


Friday, May 15, 2026

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Mekyle Ali Qadir

Mekyle Ali Qadir is a Pakistani poet currently pursuing his Master’s degree at Carleton University in Ottawa. His writing explores the negotiation of culture and ethnicity he enacts in his life as an immigrant from Pakistan. Writing in both English and Urdu, his emerging work explores South Asian cultural traditions, migrant identity, mysticism, and intertextual art.

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

This is my first published book so I can’t compare it to anything other than not having a published book, which feels pretty different! For that reason, it’s too soon to say how it’s changed my life. But the decision to compile my poetry into a coherent collection and the work I’ve done to achieve that has shifted my attitude towards writing as an occupation. I now think about my creative work as pieces of larger wholes rather than just impulsive projects.

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

I’ve been writing fiction and poetry concurrently for many years. I enjoy both but poetry has a way of expressing spiritual truths that other forms of writing just don’t. I think being from Pakistan, especially being Punjabi, inclines me towards poetry naturally. I’ve grown up hearing poems recited to me, in English, Urdu, and Punjabi, especially by my grandparents, which is something I’ve taken for granted and I’m now starting to become aware of its impact on me.

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?

It starts almost instantly, the weird idea comes from nowhere and usually when I’m occupied with something else. But that doesn’t go very far until I start the slow process of putting it down and looking at it and getting frustrated at why it looks like that on a page and sounds different in my head. As for drafting, I’m terrible at it. I usually edit as I go which I know is not recommended. Mostly, I revise and rewrite a line before moving onto the next. I have notes scattered here and there but these are more like ‘verbal moodboards’ than coherent research.

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?

I haven’t thought about long projects yet. That doesn’t mean I haven’t fantasized about becoming the author of a great novel, but I’m grateful for being taught early on to be realistic and not jump into ambitious projects. I’ve had many successful people guide me through the realities of writing. One of the most important was: work from small to large. Start with flash fiction, small poems, maybe polished journal entries, put your energy into those first, then move onto longer forms. I’ve barely begun a ‘career’ in writing so I have to trust this process and see where it goes.

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

My poems don’t lend themselves to spoken word performance. I write them to be read and don’t put much thought into how they’ll sound. So when I do readings, they don’t sound good as they’re being performed. I’m trying to get better at writing more performance-ready poems, especially by drawing inspiration from Urdu sha’iri which has a very strong spoken word component. 

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?

My writing is probably too theoretical. I’m very occupied with intercultural knowledges, negotiating my home traditions with Western modernity. My writing interrogates the assumptions that come with intercultural dialogues, especially in a place like Canada with all its performative multiculturalism rhetoric. I draw much of my inspiration from postcolonial thinkers who challenge hegemonic and Imperialist epistemologies, especially Edward Said, Fanon, Cesaire, Iqbal, and Shariati. I’m just regurgitating their words and adding personal anecdotes along the way. Aside from that, though I don’t count it as a “theoretical concern,” my writing is steeped in mystical thought and teachings. As I repeat throughout my answers, the Sufi traditions give me inspiration beyond these great thinkers. Mystical inspiration doesn’t work in the question-answer structure because it’s beyond language so it’s hard to say what questions I answer when I write through this inspiration. But a tangible result of it is a keen sense of empathy that pushes beyond personal and cultural barriers and lets me capture intense personal and social experiences.

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?

I think there’s more creative writers operating at multiple levels of culture than we tend to acknowledge because they don’t call their work ‘creative’ even though it is. I think writers always find themselves in strange ‘moments’ in history, but now especially their work has been threatened by AI and slowly, their value is starting to be remembered in the wake of AI’s disappointing capabilities. I also think writers should see their work beyond its political impact. It’s a result of Eurocentric reductionism that writers are encouraged to think only in terms of political, material ends. I don’t think all writing is or should be political, though you can stretch definitions to fit your argument as much as you want. There are truths that transcend that, which all writing, but especially poetry, can uncover. I guess that’s what writers should be chasing after, to unveil Maya and reach the Gha’ib.

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

I haven’t consulted a professional editor before, but I’ve had the opportunity to share my work with incredibly talented people, who are my friends and also my mentors and have dedicated a lot of their time to editing my writing. I think that’s the best place to start, if you’re lucky, and unless a large project demands professional editing, leave your work in the hands of friends and family who aren’t thinking of marketability or industry practices.

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

One really talented writer told me writing is an extroverted activity. People seem to think being a writer means sitting in a dark room at a desk and being overly existential about everything (all things I’ve associated with writing and romantically tried to imitate). That’s just one very small part of it, the majority of the work involves engaging with your communities, as many as possible, and sharing experiences that may or may not make their way into your writing but that make you sensitive to seeing the meaning in apparently mundane interactions. That stuck with me because I think it’s an attitude shift that gives you more endurance and a healthier approach to writing and art in general.

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’m a very poorly disciplined writer. I’ve tried to write regularly, to keep a writing journal and all that. I think I have four or five notebooks with just the first couple of pages of regular ‘entries’ and nothing more. But I think a writing routine can involve a lot more than hitting a daily or weekly word count, it may not even involve writing any words at all. I consider hikes and listening to music and reading as part of my writing process, when I do these things consciously and presently. My body, including my mind, becomes primed to absorb and reflect what my senses are telling me during these moments. Verbalizing that reflection becomes easier after that.

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

The biggest influence in my writing is mysticism. Specifically Sufism, which is the Islamic tradition of mysticism. The overwhelming amount of writing produced by Sufis across the world for thousands of years has been intertwined with poetic and artistic traditions in the majority of Islamic cultures. I always draw on the words of the Sufis when I don’t know what to write or how to process an idea. Because it always works.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

I’ve written about this a few times in my first poetry book. I deal with nostalgia and home a lot in that book, and the sense of home I keep coming back to is strongly connected to scent and fragrance. I remember the smell of the living room in the house where I grew up in Pakistan, something like varnished wood and old curtains, but also something else I don’t know how to describe. It’s hard to find smells that remind me of home in a different country so a lot of my writing about that is based on the memory of the fragrance alongside the memory of the place itself.

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 see what he means I guess, but I don’t like to think of it that way. Writing for me is one form of art that has to coexist with others. The creatives I admire most are creative in multiple ways, it’s only now that we’re siloing ourselves into discrete ‘disciplines’. I like to draw and play music, both of which make their way into my writing. Poetry is a mathematical activity, sometimes a scientific one. Poetry for me is tied to my religious expression concurrently with all of these other forms. Defining poetry through delimitations leads to dead ends, I think.

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

I’m an English Lit grad student so I study writing more than I write. My focus is on postcolonial literature, theoretical and creative, so I read a lot of Global South literature and colonial resistance fiction/poetry. I like theory and I have a lot of fun translating theoretical concepts from my research into creative pieces. Aside from these, as I say above, the most important writing I keep turning back to belongs to the mystical traditions.

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

I want to travel and be able to write about it. My academic focus, and creative interest, is postcolonial literature and I would like to see more places with a colonial past and connect with people there so I can write about it. And I want to meet more people on the Sufi path, to learn more from them directly.

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 don’t think I’m a writer yet, and it’s definitely not my occupation, but I want it to be a bigger part of my life. I am pursuing a career in academia, focused on literature, so my creative writing will complement my academic writing. I don’t know if I’ve had any other career ideas since I finished high school, and even then I knew I wanted to be a writer.

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

I started seriously writing poetry when I moved away from Pakistan. Since the beginning, my writing has been occupied with migration, belonging, identity, all those diaspora buzzwords. My poems became a way to understand that condition and respond to it as fully as possible. Alongside that, visual art has always been an emotional outlet that gives me the same way of reflecting on whatever is going on.

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

Sea Without Shore by Nuh Ha Meem Keller. It’s a memoir and a manual by a Sufi, describing the great mystic teachers, Sheikhs, he has met since he started out on the path, and their most important teachings. The book is an amazing journey through the mystical world and also provides a thematic guide for the major teachings. I keep revisiting this book trying to incorporate its insights into my life and my writing. The film scene is really sad nowadays, but I really enjoyed Dune Part 2. They got it right, and it’s a really tough book to get right on the screen, as past adaptations have shown. The Dune books are heavily inspired by Sufism, which most viewers don’t pick up on, but Villeneuve’s adaptation handled that part really well.

19 - What are you currently working on?

I’m writing some short stories which I plan to turn into a publishable collection. I received a grant from the OAC to work on them so that’s good motivation. I keep writing as often as I can, but my master’s research takes up a lot of my time so it’s hard to stay consistent with creative work.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Thursday, May 14, 2026

Leesa Dean, Interstitial


The latest by Krestova, British Columbia writer, educator and mentor Leesa Dean, following the short story collection Waiting for the Cyclone (Brindle & Glass, 2016) and a novella in verse, The Filling Station (Kentville NS: Gaspereau Press, 2022), as well as a couple of chapbooks, is the poetry collection Interstitial (Sackville NB: Gaspereau Press, 2026), one of a trio of recently-released collections by this new iteration of the legendary Canadian small press. Composed as a lyric of detail, both meticulous and sketched, and incorporating visual elements, Dean quilts her Interstitial with incredible precision across five numbered sections—“I. APOGEE,” “II. TRAPPINGS,” “III. THE DEEPEST KIND OF LISTENING,” “IV. INTERSTITIAL” and “V. PERIGREE”—all wrapped around the illness, loss and aftermath of her late mother. “She’s not your mother anymore,” she writes, to open the short sequence “Brace Yourself,” “my father warned as the hospital doors / flung open to reveal her final ecosystem [.]” At times, she writes her descriptions slant, confronting directly when required and skimming across an interiority, an abstract of lyric, as counterpoint, holding a fine balance between what needs to be said and what can’t be easily held. “I inherited my wildness / from the midnight sun / long,” begins the poem “L’appel du vide,” to open the second section, “lean days in a resource town / where greasy oolichan flashed / beneath the wide-toothed Skeena [.]”

I’m curious as to how a number of her poems throughout sit as block text, as though utilizing a physical constraint on her lines, almost as a kind of containment to push against that very sense of wild, or even to keep certain poems, through the rawness of her subject matter, from falling apart entirely. “She cried the first three months. latched / while sobbing.” begins the short lyric “Firecracker,” “mouth as big as her soul. / woke every hour. didn’t want to miss a / thing. I watched her every move. don’t / fuck up—not sure who I meant. two / years sober then. Still white-knuckling, / saying you saved me baby girl. how do we / quantify our saviors.” The poems of Interstitial directly confront the loss and the aftermath of her mother, the grief of a family, and family secrets that always have a way of making themselves known. It is a book of and around loss, but one of connections made, seeking to unpack and articulate details of her mother’s experience; working to solidify through writing what otherwise might have slipped entirely away. To make solid, and therefore more present, that loss, perhaps, working to unpack threads and speculations around her mother’s direct experience, as the poem “Learning to Walk,” for example, offers: “My mother is released at eighteen / months. She has lived most of her life / in hospital.” It is through Intertidal that Dean allows her mother her own agency, one that wasn’t always present, possible or even acknowledged by those around her, such as she writes as part of the extended sequence “Cripple,” that includes:

What nagymama didn’t say when she betrayed your secrets
is that you survived. You grew and thrived, became a nurse
for sick children and then had two children. The doctors
labelled your body an unfit vessel for childbearing—there
was nothing you enjoyed more than proving people
wrong. This is a trait I have inherited.