Stephen Collis, The Middle

 

I tried to speak of the
times but there were
too many and
                        glancing
some like blows turned

in a twilight they had
created turned and I’m
sure like a bird or
something more seed-like so

/ even the mighty river burned /

and darting bent back
on their lines of flight
so that the yellow trees
were our fellow
                           travellers

and gave what they had to
spore or to flames we
took to be the earth’s own
vascular system unlocked by the
hot wind was our breathing was
                                                    common
as the dense mycelial air (“FIRST MOVEMENT”)

Vancouver poet, editor, writer and critic Stephen Collis’ latest full-length poetry title is The Middle (Vancouver BC: Talonbooks, 2024), furthering his array of poetry collections that speak to elements of climate crisis, social politics, community and human responsibility that include Anarchive (Vancouver BC: New Star Books, 2005), The Commons (Talonbooks, 2008/2014), To the Barricades (Talonbooks, 2013) [see my review of such here], Once in Blockadia (Talonbooks, 2016) [see my review of such here] and A History of the Theories of Rain (Talonbooks, 2021) [see my review of such here]. Each collection of his to date is crafted as a book-length poem, but one that has evolved into an extended, ongoing trajectory of thought, writing from the deepest part of the centre. “To be in the middle is to be in relation,” he writes as part of his “PREFACE,” “moving between.” Across a sequence of “MOVEMENTS” and numbered “CANTOS,” it is curious to see the evolution of his ongoing work, and how he sets himself firmly in the tradition and foundation of the work of the late Robin Blaser (1925-2009): if the forest is indeed holy, one might suggest, then it requires protecting. As his “PREFACE” continues, a bit further along: “This long poem grown from the middle of life comes in three parts. The first finds its seeds in the assembling of a small library of Robin Blaser’s books – a decade after the poet’s death, his books arrived at the university where I work, like a long-whispered echo through the trees. so I ran through the Holy Forest like a madman – there was some urgency, the librarians said – so I ran, pulling quotations from volumes like branches broken from the trees, apples caught as they fell.”

The deep middleness of things compels me – this fraught stretch of life between certain pasts (let’s recall, if only a few, colonial land grabs, empires in their always-new clothes, vast carbon incinerations) and uncertain futures (can we yet dream of a time when all will come to have a relationship with the earth that is welcoming and mutually sustaining?). I am writing this in a winged hut at the back of my mind, which is to say deep in an imaginary forest (where there are no actual trees) – a place I find whenever I’m surrounded by books and silence. That’s a middle of things that necessarily feels like respite, an eddy in the flow, as opposed to the middleness that feels like a slow-motion tumbling – in medias res – as the planet tips, and the turtle sloughs off that’s been built off its back.

The Middle presents itself as a book-length poem of perpetual love, despite all ecological trauma we’ve inflicted upon the both the planet and ourselves, but articulating the conflict held between that devastation, that love. Self-described as an extension of Collis’ ongoing “investigation of threatened climate futures into a poetics of displacement and wandering,” The Middle is the second volume of a projected trilogy; as a layering of one poem atop another, an expansive and introspective questioning of climate action and inaction, of state response; of music, movements and cantos, employing Blaser’s element of song across his examinations of the earth. “Without stopping / one after the other / lit out / for all haste / you move / your image moves,” begins “CANTO 25,” “words remain human / like blood coagulates / and quickens / like a plant / or sea fungus forming / from the begetter’s heart [.]” There’s a thickness to the collection, an intellectual and lyric heft, blended in such a way to not allow either to get in the way of the other, but intermingle comfortably; akin to the work of Blaser, one might say, able to absorb and engage with elements from his surroundings, his community, into something unique, lyric and purely his own. As he offers as part of his “NOTES” at the back of the collection:

To cite in poetry, I have believed, is to participate in the commons that poetry exhibits better than any other genre: our literary resources are shared, a common treasury for all. Citation may also be a form of solidarity. But I am compelled to note my sources here because, as Fady Joudah has said, “There is a solidarity whose horizon is assimilation, and there is a solidarity whose horizon is liberation. The former is hierarchical to those it is in solidarity with. The latter is in community with them. The former treats them as abstraction. The latter is citational. It names those it loves” (The New Inquiry). I would name what I love, and be in community with the many writers whose work I gratefully take up here.

 

Spotlight series #104 : Jessi MacEachern

The one hundred and fourth in my monthly "spotlight" series, each featuring a different poet with a short statement and a new poem or two, is now online, featuring Montreal-based poet, professor and scholar of feminist poetics, Jessi MacEachern.

The first eleven in the series were attached to the Drunken Boat blog, and the series has so far featured poets including Seattle, Washington poet Sarah Mangold, Colborne, Ontario poet Gil McElroy, Vancouver poet Renée Sarojini Saklikar, Ottawa poet Jason Christie, Montreal poet and performer Kaie Kellough, Ottawa poet Amanda Earl, American poet Elizabeth Robinson, American poet Jennifer Kronovet, Ottawa poet Michael Dennis, Vancouver poet Sonnet L’Abbé, Montreal writer Sarah Burgoyne, Fredericton poet Joe Blades, American poet Genève Chao, Northampton MA poet Brittany Billmeyer-Finn, Oji-Cree, Two-Spirit/Indigiqueer from Peguis First Nation (Treaty 1 territory) poet, critic and editor Joshua Whitehead, American expat/Barcelona poet, editor and publisher Edward Smallfield, Kentucky poet Amelia Martens, Ottawa poet Pearl Pirie, Burlington, Ontario poet Sacha Archer, Washington DC poet Buck Downs, Toronto poet Shannon Bramer, Vancouver poet and editor Shazia Hafiz Ramji, Vancouver poet Geoffrey Nilson, Oakland, California poets and editors Rusty Morrison and Jamie Townsend, Ottawa poet and editor Manahil Bandukwala, Toronto poet and editor Dani Spinosa, Kingston writer and editor Trish Salah, Calgary poet, editor and publisher Kyle Flemmer, Vancouver poet Adrienne Gruber, California poet and editor Susanne Dyckman, Brooklyn poet-filmmaker Stephanie Gray, Vernon, BC poet Kerry Gilbert, South Carolina poet and translator Lindsay Turner, Vancouver poet and editor Adèle Barclay, Thorold, Ontario poet Franco Cortese, Ottawa poet Conyer Clayton, Lawrence, Kansas poet Megan Kaminski, Ottawa poet and fiction writer Frances Boyle, Ithica, NY poet, editor and publisher Marty Cain, New York City poet Amanda Deutch, Iranian-born and Toronto-based writer/translator Khashayar Mohammadi, Mendocino County writer, librarian, and a visual artist Melissa Eleftherion, Ottawa poet and editor Sarah MacDonell, Montreal poet Simina Banu, Canadian-born UK-based artist, writer, and practice-led researcher J. R. Carpenter, Toronto poet MLA Chernoff, Boise, Idaho poet and critic Martin Corless-Smith, Canadian poet and fiction writer Erin Emily Ann Vance, Toronto poet, editor and publisher Kate Siklosi, Fredericton poet Matthew Gwathmey, Canadian poet Peter Jaeger, Birmingham, Alabama poet and editor Alina Stefanescu, Waterloo, Ontario poet Chris Banks, Chicago poet and editor Carrie Olivia Adams, Vancouver poet and editor Danielle Lafrance, Toronto-based poet and literary critic Dale Martin Smith, American poet, scholar and book-maker Genevieve Kaplan, Toronto-based poet, editor and critic ryan fitzpatrick, American poet and editor Carleen Tibbetts, British Columbia poet nathan dueck, Tiohtiá:ke-based sick slick, poet/critic em/ilie kneifel, writer, translator and lecturer Mark Tardi, New Mexico poet Kōan Anne Brink, Winnipeg poet, editor and critic Melanie Dennis Unrau, Vancouver poet, editor and critic Stephen Collis, poet and social justice coach Aja Couchois Duncan, Colorado poet Sara Renee Marshall, Toronto writer Bahar Orang, Ottawa writer Matthew Firth, Victoria poet Saba Pakdel, Winnipeg poet Julian Day, Ottawa poet, writer and performer nina jane drystek, Comox BC poet Jamie Sharpe, Canadian visual artist and poet Laura Kerr, Quebec City-area poet and translator Simon Brown, Ottawa poet Jennifer Baker, Rwandese Canadian Brooklyn-based writer Victoria Mbabazi, Nova Scotia-based poet and facilitator Nanci Lee, Irish-American poet Nathanael O'Reilly, Canadian poet Tom Prime, Regina-based poet and translator Jérôme Melançon, New York-based poet Emmalea Russo, Toronto-based poet, editor and critic Eric Schmaltz, San Francisco poet Maw Shein Win, Toronto-based writer, playwright and editor Daniel Sarah Karasik, Ottawa poet and editor Dessa Bayrock, Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia poet Alice Burdick, poet, writer and editor Jade Wallace, San Francisco-based poet Jennifer Hasegawa, California poet Kyla Houbolt, Toronto poet and editor Emma Rhodes, Canadian-in-Iowa writer Jon Cone, Edmonton/Sicily-based poet, educator, translator, researcher, editor and publisher Adriana Oniță, California-based poet, scholar and teacher Monica Mody, Ottawa poet and editor AJ Dolman, Sudbury poet, critic and fiction writer Kim Fahner, Canadian poet Kemeny Babineau, Indiana poet Nate Logan, Toronto poet and editor Michael Boughn, North Georgia poet and editor Gale Marie Thompson, and award-winning poet Ellen Chang-Richardson.
 
The whole series can be found online here.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Renée D. Bondy

Renée D. Bondy taught in Women’s and Gender Studies at the University of Windsor, where she facilitated courses on queer activism, women and religion, and the history of women’s movements. Her writing has appeared in Herizons, Bitch, Bearings Online, and the Humber Literary Review. She is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers. Renée lives in Chatham, Ontario. [non]disclosure is her first novel.

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 début novel launched just a couple of weeks ago, so I haven’t processed the effects of it being out in the world quite yet. The experience of writing the novel changed me, certainly. I wrote it in the seclusion of the covid-19 pandemic, which had its challenges as well as its advantages. I was fortunate to be able to enroll in the graduate program in creative writing at the Humber School for Writers, and I also joined a stellar writing group. The opportunities to learn and grow as a writer were life changing.

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

Actually, I wrote non-fiction first – articles, essays, creative nonfiction. Popular writing, mostly for feminist magazines, and scholarly writing were ways that my teaching and research interests in Women’s and Gender Studies found expression. I never thought I would write fiction. Ever. The isolation of the pandemic, and my desire to find a creative way to express my thinking on the subject of child sexual abuse in the Catholic Church led me to fiction. As strange as it sounds, the novel came as a surprise, even to 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?

My thought process is lengthy. I am ‘in my head’ a lot at the outset of a new project. I thought about the novel for years before I began writing. When I begin a short story, it is only after weeks of living with the characters. I am a slow writer. However, with both the novel and short stories, my drafts are not so far from their final shape.

4 - Where does a 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?

Until recently, my initial ideas about the form and length of any project remained constant from start to finish. However, my current project, which is in its very early stages, is a novel that grew out of a short story. I decided to keep going with it when I realized that I knew far more about the characters than I was able to convey in the short story.

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. Perhaps it’s my background in teaching, but I like reading aloud and hearing work read aloud. I’m definitely a writer who writes with my ear, and I think there are layers of meaning revealed in tone, inflection, and cadence.

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 novel, [non]disclosure, is political. I hope to challenge the reader’s thinking about the abuses enabled by hierarchical religious institutions, and the misogyny and homophobia implicit in those structures. Another important takeaway from the novel is the complicated nature of silence and silencing; that is, how silence can be imposed and damaging, but it can also be chosen and protective. As a culture, we have redefined ideas about privacy in recent decades, so it's important to think about the complex meanings of disclosure and secrecy.

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 definitely belong to the camp of writers who feel that art is, in and of its nature, political. Whether by accident or by design, we change the world when we write. At least for me, I feel a responsibility to pursue truth in my writing. If I’ve done that, I’ve done my job.

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

I suppose it would depend on the editor, but my experiences have been overwhelmingly positive. I wrote for Herizons magazine for several years, and worked with its long-time editor Penni Mitchell, who is a gem of an editor: sharp, perceptive, and incisive. Liz Johnston edited [non]disclosure. Not only is Liz exceptionally skilled, but she was sensitive to the traumatic material in the manuscript, which was of paramount importance to me. She and I had a wonderful collaboration, and I learned so much from her.

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

A yellow Post-it above my desk reads, No one is watching. This helps me remember that I write for myself first, that nothing is set in stone, and it’s okay to take chances with my writing.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (historical fiction to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?

Since I completed [non]disclosure, I’ve been writing short stories. Most of them are much lighter in subject and tone than the novel, and writing them has been an antidote to the stress of writing about trauma. My second novel will have a different structure than the first, and I think the challenge of figuring that out keeps the writing fresh.

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

I’m not a morning person – I wish I could be. I tend to write after coffee and the morning news, and before my daily swim.

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

I walk. I read. I walk some more.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

I grew up near two large distilleries – Hiram Walkers and Seagrams. When they were in production, the sweet, yeasty smell of mash permeated the town. That scent takes me back to childhood.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

I’m not sure that I can pinpoint a direct link between other forms of art and my writing. Because I’m an auditory person, I appreciate the musicality and poetics of prose. Also, while writing [non]disclosure I watched many excellent films which addressed the subject of sexual assault by Roman Catholic priests – from feature films like Doubt and Spotlight, to lesser-known documentary films, like Prey. The emotional intensity of film made an impact on the work.

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

I admire so many writers : Miriam Toews, Heather O’Neil, Katherena Vermette, Casey Plett, Suzette Mayr, Alicia Elliott, Sigrid Nunez, Lauren Groff… I could go on and on. Diane Schoemperlen’s work has been a huge influence, particularly her penchant for lists, which I share.

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

Hmm… I might try my hand at poetry one day. But not soon.

17 - 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 love to bake, so if I had to choose a career that didn’t involve writing (except on birthday cakes), I would be a baker.

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

I often joke that I am good at just two things – words and cake. My first career, teaching, utilized my skill with words. Writing was a natural next step.

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

All the Colour in the World, by C.S. Richardson, is a wonderful book, in content as well as design. I love a book that merges fiction and nonfiction, and Richardson does this brilliantly. I don’t watch many films these days, but I recently saw Wicked Little Letters, starring Olivia Colman, which was highly entertaining.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I always have a short story in process. And I’ve started a new novel, which is in its wobbly early stages. It’s an intergenerational story, and it explores ideas around sexuality and aging.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Ongoing notes: the ottawa small press book fair (part three: Jamie Sharpe + Monty Reid,

Here are some further items I recently picked up as part of our thirtieth anniversary ottawa small press book fair [see part one of my notes ; part two of my notes]. So many things! Maybe you should come out for the next one in June?

Comox BC/QC: Curious to see a new phafours chapbook by Comox, British Columbia poet Jamie Sharpe, his Michael Hofmann: Poems (QC: phafours, 2024), following a small cluster of titles, including five full-length poetry titles through ECW Press. As the opening note of the small collection offers: “I was forty. I lived in an unassuming, but comfortable, vinyl-clad box in a small Vancouver Island town. I’d completed an English degree, then an MFA. Somehow, I authored five books. Then I became Michael Hofmann. […] Six-months after this puzzling transformation, as abruptly as it began, it ended. A modest sheaf of poems, written while I existed as Michael Hofmann, remained the residue of altered days.” As he describes living an ordinary enough life with wife and two small children, there’s a curious element of this apologia that might seem entirely familiar to anyone feeling the accumulation of life-shifts, no longer who they once were; an evolution of being and becoming, entirely natural through moments of wondering whatever became of one’s errant, fleeting youth. Or perhaps a writer with a handful of books, wondering if an evolution is required; if the writing requires a shift into or towards something other, else (this is all speculation, possibly; or overthinking on my part. Perhaps I take his framing too seriously). Is this Sharpe attempting to adapt certain elements of style from the German-born translator, critic and poet Michael Hofmann, working to step into a voice beyond his own? As a writer, an artist, one needs to evolve, certainly. Is a change as good as a rest?

One in a Row

The Northern Lights are gone, leaving
Streets as the stars scar..

As insects increase, Southerners
Fall on boulevards. Even my kids try,

With disgusting, sincere voices, to make names
With their awkwardness.

I first turned to night, as coincidence.
Succumbed to the census by accident.

Saw our constellation in a hospital,
Free. Mutilation, flash your whip

With its two golden hooks: one in vain,
The other, across dumb distance, in lace.

The poems offer a curious shift on the work from his prior publications, one that might be less of a singular shift than part of a larger move into or towards other structures, one step following another. It will be interesting to see where this particular direction might lead.

Ottawa ON/Montreal QC: Ottawa poet Monty Reid’s latest is Vertebrata (Montreal QC: Turret House Press, 2024), a chapbook-length sequence on some of the makings and doings of some of his inner workings of late, including issues he’s had with his back, one shoulder, arm: enough that he’s no longer able to play or perform music. “Articulates at the Luschka joints.” begins the small poem “CV3,” “Little Germanic teeth / subject to degeneration. // And the foramen / little Latinate windows / gradually closing themselves. // And the nerves die / twitching with their languages. / Their little languages.” Composed as short, compartmentalized and numbered sections: seven poems in a sequence titled “Cervical Vertebra,” twelve poems in the “Thoracic Vertebra” sequence, and five poems in the “Lumbar Vertebra” sequence, followed by the singular poems “Sacrum” and “Coccyx,” the penultimate of which reads, in full:

The federated bones have a single voice.
They do now.

Sacred bone, buttocks bone, broad bone
The bone that survives.

You sit there
and I am there for you

like a shovel in your pelvic girdle
to shovel all the shit

out of your sedentary life.

Reid has long had an attention to the smallest detail, and the ability to extend a particular thought or sequence of thoughts, offering sequences and even collections that feel akin to a single, extended sentence-thought, holding a balance between the minutae of cause and effect, the physical and the metaphysical, bone against bone and the abstract idea. “Sit on the disc / of collagen,” writes the poem “T6,” “where the metaphysical arteries / don’t penetrate // until you become / yourself. // Every bone / needs its cushion // which you are now.”