Robert Colman is a poet, essayist, and critic based in Newmarket, Ont. His fourth book of poems, Ghost Work, was just released by Palimpsest Press.
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?
It made me realize that I couldn’t pretend not to care about the work, that poetry wasn’t just an occasional distraction but was an integral way in which I want to express myself. My first chapbook came 7 years later. When Shane Neilson accepted Factory at Frog Hollow Press it revived my belief in my abilities, the idea that I might have something to say, and the ability to say it with craft.
Shane’s influence, and that of Palimpsest editor Jim Johnstone, has encouraged my use of form in Ghost Work, which is a suite of poems that explores the gradual loss of my father from dementia. This new book has a much more defined narrative arc than any of my previous work, and yet it’s also the most varied in form from poem to poem.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I’ve always been much more interested in poetic form than fictional narrative. I just don’t think in that shape. I do pursue non-fiction when an idea doesn’t work effectively for me as poetry. That work moves slower for 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?
Very few poems in Ghost Work came out close to their final form. The only exceptions were three of the pantoums that inspired the project. After writing those, I knew a project had begun. After that I wrote about five really bad poems that were soon disposed of. Writing those, however, encouraged the creation of a shape for the first section of the book.
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?
I usually start by writing individual poems inspired by events in my life or, on occasion, a movie or piece of art. Once I’ve written enough poems that I see certain themes, I might be influenced by those themes as I write. Ghost Work was different. I knew very early that I wanted to write about experiencing my father’s dementia. That intention sometimes made it a challenge, but the use of form helped push me, allowing me to write both away from and towards that ultimate concern.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I love readings. That’s where community happens, where you can talk to other people whose work you admire. But I don’t think of them as a natural part of my creative process. For instance, I’ll read a poem out loud to myself but would never take a half-formed poem to an open mic to hear how it’s coming. What I love is hearing what work resonates with an audience. My last book came out during the pandemic, so I had few opportunities to read aloud from it in person. Reading in London, Ontario, last year, though, I had two readers comment on the same poem, one that I’d thought very little of since writing the work. That interaction changes my own perception of the work. Writing is a solitary process, as is reading, so those occasional in-person interactions are revivifying.
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?
I write because I want to express emotion in a crafted, hopefully beautiful way. I guess the overarching question is, can I reiterate a scene or emotion in a way that is new enough or striking enough that people will notice? Writing on the anthropocene, which I think most of us feel compelled to tackle, is particularly challenging in this sense. Environmental concerns found their way into Ghost Work sideways, which is probably the best way for it to happen.
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 writers can reframe experience to clarify it for a larger audience. I think of how Roxanna Bennett and Shane Neilson have helped reconsider dis/ability on the page. While it can have a societal impact, poetry can also simply encourage readers to consider language(s) in new ways, as Klara du Plessis has done for much of her poetic explorations. Hopefully what we write gives our readers at least one moment of recognition, something they’ve seen before that they have a new appreciation of because of the work. It’s all about connecting.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I love working with my editor. For me that interaction is essential. Jim pushed me to try new things - for instance, he encouraged me to work on a longer poem, which became “We’ll Meet Again” in this book. My work is very much a collaboration with my editor.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Don’t think of the outcome of the work. Allow the poem space to become what it needs to become. Save the editing for later.
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 writing towards my first book I wrote every day. I needed that discipline to find my way toward the work. Now, I have a full-time job as editor of a trade magazine and life is much busier. If I have a routine, it is that I read or write poetry almost every day, but much more of that time is spent reading. I read before work, and late in the evening. Poetry writing primarily happens at night, sitting up in bed and organizing those thoughts into concrete shape.
11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I try to get to the Art Gallery of Ontario or the McMichael. Visual art helps calm me and occasionally inspires me.
12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
The smell of sand and pitch pine.
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?
Visual art is the form that seems to influence my poetry the most. The opening poem of my last book, Democratically Applied Machine, was a commentary on a Gerhard Richter painting that, at the end of the process of writing that book, helped me frame its narrative arc in a way that hadn’t been possible before. The work of Joan Miro appears in Ghost Work in a way that remains a bit mysterious but is very important to me.
14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Honestly, my peers whose work challenges me and encourages me to push the art further.
15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I’d like to write poems that tackle the anthropocene effectively. It’s something I’m working on very gradually.
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?
Rock star? Maybe a lounge singer at my age. That’s the fantasy job I joke about.
17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
It’s honestly the only marketable skill I have. I’m glad I found poetry along the way to becoming a daytime writer and editor.
18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Barbara Tran’s debut, Precedented Parroting, is remarkable. Also, Russell Thornton’s latest really surprised me.
19 - What are you currently working on?
I am currently working on a book of essays and criticism that is due to be published in 2026 or 2027. There is also an eco-themed poetry collection that remains in its protean stage of development.
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