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[Amy Dennis lectures in Ottawa on Saturday, March 25 at 1pm alongside Natalie Eilbert as part of The Factory Lecture Series at VERSeFest 2023]
1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first chapbook was THE COMPLEMENT AND ANTAGONIST OF BLACK (OR, THE DEFINITION OF ALL VISIBLE WAVELENGTHS) with above/ground press. I’m a private person so beneath the excitement and appreciation, I’ve always felt a degree of vulnerability when publishing, especially now that I’m a mother and live in a smaller city. Releasing my words in a more formal way made me (and makes me) reflect on these things.
Publishing my book, The Sleep Orchard, was a lot different from my other (shorter) publications, because although the book consistently considers the life and artwork of Arshile Gorky in some way, my personal responses range over a considerable breadth of time – dating back ten years to where I am now, a mother of two beautiful little boys, about to get remarried, post pandemic. When I started the collection, I was in the middle of completing my PhD and getting married for the first time. Midway through writing the book, I endured the heartbreak of several lost pregnancies, an international move, and separation. The more recent poems in the collection, interwoven throughout, reflect where I am now, having come out the other side, likely as a different person. The last poem in the book is so sad; I wish I could go back and tell myself there will be peace and hope again after such loss, and so much love too.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I think in images and my mind tries to make sense of things by framing them metaphorically, so I guess poetry is a natural fit. I experience synesthesia at particular times, which is probably linked with a more poetic sensibility.
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?
One or two fragmented sentences come quickly, allowing me to feel a pulse connected with what I want to convey. If there’s enough of a vibration, I can stay focused. After this initial flurry, the writing slows and approaching the rest of the poem feels like watching a snow globe and waiting for the flakes settle. My space (inward and outward) has to be completely quiet or else I can’t build walls around the poem’s heart; I need those walls because without them, there can’t be a door. I always do several drafts.
I haven’t written for a while now because my energy has gone into financially supporting my family and being as present as I can with my kids.
4 - Where does a poem or work of fiction 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?
My response to Arshile Gorky in The Sleep Orchard was the first time I had a larger and more cohesive collection in mind from the start. I saw his painting “One Day the Milkweed” and was hooked. I first stumbled across the image online while living in England, and less than two hours later, I was on a train to the Tate Modern in London to see the Gorky exhibition. The pull I felt was incredible, especially with his later work. I felt a simultaneous distance too – because our worlds were so far apart and that made the dynamic complex. I found small entryways to help with my understanding, such as how much he loved his mother. At times, I tried to take on the first person perspective/voice of those close to him – always women, such as his wives and daughter.
Familiarizing myself with every angle of Gorky’s life and artwork through research created a mental space I could effortlessly slip into during the writing process. Even though the figurative rooms I entered were always too dark to see clearly in full, I began to sense where I could find cracks in the (embroidered) curtains.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I love to do readings!
Attending readings and workshopping poems with others is a gift that I long for and hope to find again. When aligned with literary communities in Hamilton, Toronto, and Vancouver, my creative process felt more energized. (I love the literary vibe in Ottawa too, but I’ve never lived there; I wish I did!) For the last five or so years, there just hasn’t been time to seek out or connect with a community in this creative/artistic way.
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?
There’s always the old question whether one can or should separate an artist from his work. More and more, I began to empathize with his wife, Mogouch (Agnes Fielding) and actually felt quite a loss when she died not too long ago. The book experiments with these different vantage points, and intersections.
Also – when writing ekphrastic poetry, the presence of artwork can act as a buffer between the writer and uncomfortable subject matter, as well as a buffer between the writer and the reader. To what extent does this lessen a poem’s immediacy and authenticity? Or, does the presence of artwork as a buffer provide a kind of breathing space that is beneficial for both the reader and writer? What tips the scales one way or another?
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
Writers in general cover such a huge expanse, but I think poets, in particular, encourage readers to pay attention if they can stay still enough while reading. Paul Bowles, in his book Sheltering Sky, says:
Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon that is so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four, five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps 20. And yet it all seems limitless.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Instructors/mentors/editors have been essential and never difficult to work with. I love collaborating creatively with others after a bit of time spent percolating alone, and don’t feel defensive against criticism, probably because emotional distance from my work comes easily once I’m past a certain stage. It’s never good to agree to edits as a blind reflex, but almost always, those I trust offering feedback have been right. Sentimentality or too many burlesque-flavoured words can come with a cost, so I try to “kill those [self-indulgent] darlings” when they slip below my radar. I do need the help at times, although I’d like to think I’m getting better.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
I was told recently that I need to give others more credit in their ability to discern. Another person told me it was time I took up more room.
10 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
When I did have a writing routine, it started at night when the house was still and I wrote into the early hours.
A typical good day includes coffee and/or Leonard Cohen on my way to work. Every single day without fail, my fiancé sends me the sweetest morning messages while he’s away on the ship.
11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return (for lack of a better word) for inspiration?
I’ll echo another writer’s technique as an exercise to propel myself forward. For example, I’ll study and then try to pivot like Ashbery does in Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror, or try to move subtly and seamlessly through observation and introspection like Jane Hirshfield – examining how she does it. Sometimes, I’ll paint or work with mixed media before returning to poetry.
12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
When I was little, my mom used to kneel in front of a stained-glass window we had in our living room. On a towel laid out over the cream carpet, she’d iron various shapes of fabric before sewing them onto church banners. The fabric adhesive she used had a particular scent that lasted for a few seconds after she lifted the hot iron.
Also, growing up, I had a fox terrier, and I liked the way her paws smelled after coming in from the freshly mowed lawn. I know: too sentimental but alas, it’s true.
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?
For me, abstract or non-representational art is a great springboard. I like the challenge of seeing myself or bits of my life within in a work of art; sometimes, it’s instantaneous and inescapable.
Also, my dear friend, Dick Capling just published a book of poetry called Fleeting Breath and I feel inspired by his response to nature, particularly his meditations on a butterfly garden in Tobermory.
14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
I named my youngest son Rilke, and I want to go back to Rainer Maria Rilke now that some years have passed; I have a feeling he’ll speak differently to me now. I’m entering a new stage in my life, and it means starting to reconcile with Rilke’s words:
Sometimes a man stands up
during supper
and walks outdoors, and keeps on walking,
because of a church that stands somewhere in the East.
And his children say blessings on him as if he were dead.
Other times, he remains
inside his own house,
stays there, inside the dishes and in the glasses,
so that his children have to go far out into the world
toward that same church, which he forgot.
15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I’d like to find an artistic community in my surrounding area that I resonate with, feel comfortable and settled with, unjudged. I’d also like to make writing a more consistent part of my life, and find that sweet balance.
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 was a docent at an art gallery long ago, and oh, how I loved it; it would be rewarding to link my love of teaching and writing with art and/or museums. I want to create a course on the expressive arts. For a few years, I taught an “Understanding Art” course at Georgian College and would love the opportunity to teach it again. It’s amazing to see how students come alive in response to art, discovering things when they look inward, into corners.
17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I’ve been writing poetry for as long as I can remember. I’m also drawn to writing for children and plan to start that up again, although it satisfies an entirely different part of me, creativity and artistically.
18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Currently, I’m reading All Good Things by Toronto writer, publisher, and public speaker Erin Paterson. It is available through Lemonade Press, a newer publishing company that provides a voice to underrepresented medical communities. It’s a brilliant memoir about genetic testing, Huntington’s disease, infertility, human connection, bravery, and believing happiness is within reach. I recommend it. https://lemonadecommunity.com/about/
19 - What are you currently working on?
I have three completed manuscripts just sitting on a shelf that I haven’t tried, in earnest, to publish; I plan to revisit at least one of them and respond in a polyphonic way now that years have passed, playing around with layers and peeking into chasms.
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