12 or 20 (second series) questions with Kathryn MacDonald

Kathryn MacDonald’s poetry has been published in Room, FreeFall and other Canadian literary journals and anthologies, as well as internationally in the U.K., U.S., and other countries. She is the author of the chapbook, Wayside: asmall boat, a vacant lot, a man (March 2026, BPR Press) and the chapbooks Liminal Spaces (2025) and Far Side of the Shadow Moon (2024) – both Glentula Press. A Breeze You Whisper: Poems (2010) and Calla & Édourd (novel, 2009) were published by HBP. For more information https://kathrynmacdonald.com.

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 creative work was a short novel, Calla & Édourd. It provided the confidence to return to my great love, poetry. Since Calla & Édourd, I’ve published a full poetry collection and three chapbooks. Now, The Blue Gate is being released by Frontenac House this spring. It’s been more challenging than the other works, more personal, and feels more risky.  The Blue Gate is essentially one long poem written in series with a long titular poem at its core – not dissimilar to the novel.

2 - 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?

Poems begin as attempts to articulate the emotion that hovers around situations. In The Blue Gate, they witness: the surprise of love, the surreality of grief. One thing is constant, true to the lyrical form, my writing ravels and unravels in natural settings, and it tends toward lament. In this way, writing toward understanding, I focus on a collection as I write. However, I am also constantly scribbling pieces that become independent, stand-alone poems that coalesce around subjects and themes. It’s the writing, in the first instance, the book follows when I reach a certain place and the fire catches.

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

I love reading. I enjoy the reactions of listeners and the discussions that follow. That doesn’t mean that I don’t stew about what to read and what to wear, worry about which poems to read, about whether my voice will modulate, be soft and strong, be engaging.

4 - 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’m fascinated with the way mythology and folklore repeat and repeat in life and in writing. For example, the ‘call’ or invitation that comes when we’re perched uncomfortably on the threshold between what is known and the unknown. Accept the call and you’ll step into a quest (think Joseph Campbell; think Phil Cousineau; think Rebecca Solnit). It happens all the time. In The Blue Gate, after Jim’s death, I was bereft, a mess, when a surprising invitation came to travel to Kenya where I confronted questions around love and death and what follows bereavement. With respect to the current questions, they swirl around destruction the natural world, the political world of oligarchies and capital, the apparent blindness (helplessness?) about genocide in Palestine, and the economic isolation of Cuba to name just a few. While I collect volumes of ‘witness’ poetry and read it on the web, I write only occasionally in that genre.

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

Both a pre-publication editor, who can identify strengths and weaknesses in individual poems and the overall structure, and an editor to work with during the publication process are both essential. I love the challenge of working with an editor, love discovering what s/he finds in my writing. Of course, I fluff my feathers with positive feedback, but knowing what editors (and other readers) read into or miss in my work is a growth experience. I welcome it.

6 - 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 have the luxury of being able to write daily, but reading others’ poetry books is important to my writing process and a part of my writing day. A few years ago, I began writing reviews for my website, trying to figure out what makes a book work; more recently, I’ve been publishing reviews. My reading also includes books that discuss poetry. For example, How a Poem Works by Adam Sol, The Elephant of Silence: Essays on Poetics and Cinema by John Wall Barger, Ten Windows by Jane Hirschfield, books by Mark Doty, Robyn Sarah, and so on that discuss writing and reading poetry are inspirational.

7 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

What a fascinating and unexpected question. Lilacs. Lilacs bloomed outside our bedroom window in the first home that Jim and I shared together here in Amherstburg. And when we moved north of Kingston, lilacs were wild and rampant on the limestone rise on which our home stood. Lilacs always remind me of nights with the window open, the scent of love.

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

Long-poem books have a special attraction for me. A few on my bookshelves draw me back again and again, as both inspiration and insight into the form. Each in its own way demonstrates how to maintain movement and interest over pages. Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf is an all-time favourite, as is Derek Walcott’s Omeros, they articulate a myth or are written over the skeleton of a myth. I’ve been a sailor and have a particular fascination with rivers and seas, so Dart by Alice Oswald, which is written in the voice of “the river’s muttering,” is often pulled off the shelf. Magnetic North by Jenna Butler describes a sea voyage and environmental damage to the Svalbard archipelago, a beautifully crafted collection about a desperate situation for place and people. Another long-poetic narrative is Karen Clavelle’s Iolaire, which captures people, place, an historic tragedy, and I respond to its political undercurrent. For similar reasons, I return time and again to The Caiplie Caves by Karen Solie – the surface story and the theme written between the lines.

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

Dreaming big: I would love a long retreat in the Hebrides and/or Highlands of Scotland to concentrate on figuring out that shadow identity – to explore generational memory that lingers and why does it matters – a universal question. While I research, I learn most through my body, hence, I’d love to sail through the Northwest Passage and experience something akin to Jenna Butler’s discoveries during her time aboard the Antigua and the exploration to the Svalbard archipelago. I’d love to see the world at peace, to see equality, the end of genocide, and a valuing of nature on this fragile earth and wish I was the kind of poet who writes timely and engaging witness poetry.

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

Most of my work has included writing – anonymous reports and speeches, editorial work on magazines and books, teaching literature and writing at the college level. I cannot imagine not writing.

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

The last great book shifts like the wind. I’m presently rereading Leaf Counter by D.A. Lockhart. He brings Indigenous questions to Al Purdy country and the Loyalist county in which the Purdy A-Frame stands. Lockhart’s craft is impeccable; his voice passionate; his point of view fresh and timely. I am haunted by The Dialogues: The Song of Francis Pegahmagabow by Armand Garnet Ruffo. In a completely different vein, I read and reread Hunger: The Poetry of Susan Musgrave. It reminds me of her early influence on my writing, and it reminds me that as writers we grow, even when our themes remain similar.

12 - What are you currently working on?

Currently, I have three or four chapbook collections. As for a work-in-progress, I’m also trying to understand what my pull toward travel means, what draws me to the way we build beliefs and conversations upon mythic and folkloric structures, the pull toward the complexity of identity, the repetition of patterns. I write on the Canadian canvas where the majority of us have come from elsewhere, across generations, where we build on land that has a pre-colonial history and reality today. I feel as if there are answers hidden in places, answers I want to uncover and understand. 

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Wendy Donawa

Wendy Donawa [photo credit: Chris Hancock Donaldson] left her natal Victoria as a young woman to settle in Barbados. She attended the University of the West Indies, taught college literature and became a curator at the Barbados Museum. Decades later, she returned to Victoria to complete her Ph.D., taught literature for several years and turned her focus to her first love, poetry. Her poetry collection, Thin Air of the Knowable (Brick Books, 2017), was longlisted for the Raymond Souster Award and a finalist for the Gerald Lampert Award. Her second collection, Our Bodies’ Unanswered Questions (Frontenac House, 2021), launched with the Frontenac Quartet. The Time of Falling Apart is her third poetry collection. Her poems are published in Arc Poetry Magazine, Prairie Fire, Freefall, The New Quarterly, The Literary Review of Canada, Room and others. She is a contributing editor with Arc Poetry Magazine and a board member with Planet Earth Poetry reading series. She writes a monthly review, “Unpacking the Poem,” celebrating the diversity and creativity of BC poets. She and her wife live gratefully on the unceded territory of the lək̓ʷəŋən (Lekwungen-speaking) Esquimalt and Songhees people, in Victoria, BC.

1 - How did your first book change your life?

My first book, Thin Air of the Knowable, anchored me in poetry, gave me encouragement, and a reason to stay committed. The manuscript had gathered up what I’d selected from my writing life, but finding a publisher followed two discouraging years of rejections. Finally being accepted by Brick Books, a publisher I so admired, was validating; it told me I wasn’t wasting my time.

How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

It’s hard to bring a rational perspective to about one’s own progress, but I’d say the craft and complexity of recent poems developed, through my second book, Our Bodies’ Unanwered Questions, and now, The Time of Falling Apart, from Harbour Publishing. 

Also, the world being the way it is, my mood and tone is frequently darker, less ebullient. And now that there’s so much more behind than ahead, I muse on my own mortality, and the urgency of using time well.

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

Although my family was not bookish at all, we did have (as well as the Bible) many of the children’s classics, and I knew by heart much of Robert Louis Stevenson, AA Milne, the doggerel poems of the Alice books.  Before I thought of them as poems, I loved the rhythm and wit.  Once in high school, I loved literature courses, I became and remain a compulsive reader. I started writing poetry as a private hobby, no one I knew did anything so eccentric.  Anyhow, I thought I was going to be an artist, a printmaker, and that’s where my creative energy went.

As a young woman, having married a Barbadian, I settled in Barbados. I taught at the college, attended UWI, painted, eventually worked as a museum curator. My time coincided with Barbados’ Independence, and also with the emergence of several major Caribbean writers: Vidia Naipaul, Derek Walcott, Kamau Brathwaite, Jean Rhys. All this influenced my writing, which still was mainly academic or educational.

After nearly four decades, I returned to Victoria, still writing, and in 2007, joined Patrick Lane’s annual poetry retreats. I’d say I “came to poetry” then; I owe him more than I can say. This is where I began a regular writing practice, started sending poems out and in 2009 published my first chapbook. Three chapbooks later, Brick Books took my first collection, “Thin Air of the Knowable”, and I started calling myself a poet.  

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?

A slow process, usually, unless I’ve been musing on a particular theme or topic. Occasionally if I’ve been close to sleep, turning a topic over and over, several lines appear in their final form, and if I race to write them down, the rest of a draft poem will take something close to its final shape. That said, I more often work on large sheets of paper, mapping my thought processes. Copious notes, freewriting, looking up the linguistic roots of words. I think on paper and write by hand; when it’s finished enough to be edited, I type it.

4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you?

A poem often begins from a memory, often my own, but also often an historical memory or a geographical one.  I’ve always lived by an ocean; my life in Barbados and now on the BC coast, both landscapes shaped by colonial conquest, so the land poses its own questions.

Or I read a current event  or respond to a question posed by something I’ve observed. But these are all starting points; the real work is finding a through-line for what the poem is really trying to say.

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?

Short pieces that combine.  I’ve followed single themes through my four chapbooks, but an entire poetry collection dictates a more complicated structure. Each of my books has taken about 4-5 years of writing, and I can’t keep to a single theme that long. I try not to think “book” during the process of making meaning in each poem. After two or  three years, I find a large bare floor and lay the all poems out—they generally sort into several themes or categories, then I shift gears into collection mode, and start trying out titles for the whole.

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

I love doing readings! Writing is necessarily a lonely business, so it’s very rewarding to share with listeners who want to hear what you say.  Often there are searching comments that fuel me to push a poem harder, or to continue a dialogue.

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 think the current questions are?

These are thorny questions!  It’s often said that poetry tries to articulate that which is beyond language, but if that is so, why bother?  I find my efforts tend more to articulate a question or mystery, to unpack a dilemma or situation or ambiguity that the reader may engage with.

The current questions that surface for me are often linked to casualties of misused power, whether they illustrate personal failures of empathy or all along the spectrum to war, oppression, genocide.

Other questions concern mortality: have I used my time well? Has my life made a difference? What remains to be done?

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?

Poets are society’s truth-tellers. Unfortunately, poetry seems to have very little role in our present culture, and poets are frequently seen as dilettantes with a frivolous hobby.  Perhaps our current role is that we are Cassandras, our warnings falling on deaf ears. 

But history may tell a different story: one trend I’ve noticed is that the egregious political forces unleashed over the last decade have led to an outpouring of really fine, powerful, poetry in all styles, forceful and articulate and outraged. These will last the ages, always relevant: Ada Limon, Carolyn Forché, Margaret Atwood, Terrance Hayes, Jericho Brown, Jan Zwicky, Adrienne Rich, Tracy Smith, Anne Michaels….many more and many young writers.

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

Both!  I’ve been very lucky in all three books, to have had empathic, intelligent, insightful editors, whose council pushed me push harder on one aspect or delete another (ouch). A few times I’ve argued successfully for a poem’s continued form. So I can be confident only my best writing “survived.”

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

Can I choose two pieces? But both require unpacking:

1.      “nobody cares about you!” From one of Ellen Bass’ instructional videos.  It felt shocking, but she was talking about giving your poem energy and distinction, deleting all the excess, particularly the tendency to start: “I woke from sleep /and I/and I was so sad/I cried as I looked out the window/and I…”etc.   Get to the point, said Ellen, what is your poem trying to say? Nobody cares about you! 

It was good advice and an editing strategy I use frequently.

2.     “What behooves us?” (Adrienne Rich, An Atlas of the Difficult World)

This is a bigger, metaphysical question, and one I use thinking about the purposes of my own poetry.  Surely poetry can be a call to action, to stir the imagination and the conscience, to deepen understanding, to “sing about the dark times. 

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 make excellent resolutions! At times that works, but often it goes downhill from there.  I work best in the morning, I write in my journal and have fits and starts of productivity.  I don’t write every day but I can’t imagine a day when I don’t read. Sometimes I scribble notes, or freewrite, or prowl the library.  When I get on a roll, the start of a good poem, or an idea for a sequence of poems, I work almost non-stop. When I’ve got a dry spell, I defrost the fridge and tidy my closets.

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

See “dry spell” above.  I try to find ways to tease out a difficult poem by looking up linguistic sources, or historical analogs. If there’s an interesting workshop coming up, I join.  Collect snippets from good journalism and see if they’ll work as prompts.  Try using different forms.  Try ekphrastic poems. Go back through some  excellent writers’ instructions (Tony Hoagland’s Art of Voice,  Ted Kooser’s manual, Adonizzo and Laux, Dobbyns’ Best words…etc

I have a couple of poets’ groups who meet monthly.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

I’m always pulled in two directions. When I lived in Barbados, I was nostalgic for the scent of cold salty air, the smell of cedar, the resiny woods smell, good coffee.  From here, I’m nostalgic  recalling the heavy smell of frangipani, the tumultuous pounding and smell of the seasonal rains that broke the long dry season. All the cooking smells. But the pandemic nearly erased my sense of smell, which in turn diluted my sense of taste. Tragic for a foodie like me—where I used to cook by taste and smell, now I cook from memory and conjecture.

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?

My early leanings were with the visual arts, mainly printmaking, painting, I worshipped the Japanese printmakers and dreamt of Japan.  As inspiration for poetry, early music, pre-Baroque enthralls me, nature sustains me, and the interaction of science and art is compelling. I’m definitely not any kind of expert in science or math, and do a lot of (admittedly superficial) learning on the spot. E.g. I was reading an agricultural report to find out what abscission was; the article began by saying describing it as the time of falling apart. Halleluia! This was the title I’d been looking for, and so many things fell into place.

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

Despite an annual pruning, the  groaning boards of my bookcase reach the ceiling. But here are some of the keepers I re-read and re-read for their heart, their intelligence, their  insight and foresight, their magical craft: Margaret Atwood, AS Byatt, Michael Crummey, Margaret Drabble, Esi Edugyan, Katherine Govier, Hilary Mantel, Jane Urquhart, Ann Patchett, Zadie Smith, Guy Vanderhaeghe, Abraham Verghese.

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

I’d love to be proficient in at least one musical instrument and in more than one language.

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’d probably still be a teacher and artist. Or a museum curator

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

Opportunity.  I always wrote privately. When I settled back in Victoria, I discovered a poetry community, and Planet Earth Poetry with its weekly open mic.  Many fine poets are also teachers, and I took advantage of that, and particularly Patrick Lane’s annual retreats.

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

In Winter I Get up at Night Jane Urqhuart

Films: two because they both blew me away with their astonishing visual qualities:

Dark, dark in every sense, totally absorbing 

The Tragedy of Macbeth, with Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand as the regal pair. Wish I’d had this on hand when I was teaching Macbeth.

Conclave: Another visually stunning film, this one in arresting colour.

A coincidence I chose these two: both about power and its uses, both a struggle between good and evil, But ambiguous, not an obvious goody/baddie dichotomy. Both with powerful visual metaphors—saturated colour in one, pure light and dark in the other.

19 - What are you currently working on? 

I’m currently in a dry spell, but busy with the business of looking for and arranging readings and reviews—that’s really hard work for a shy person. It’s a short window of opportunity until the next poetry season launches its new poets.

A few projects hanging in mid-air: 

• A half-finished illustrated chapbook called  Something has Been Left Out, poems noting the unawareness, the lacune around  some aspect of Indigenous history or rights. I fear trespassing, so have left it hanging …

• My column, Unpacking the Poem, about 2 years of monthly exegesis of a BC poet’s poem. Intended to catch the interest of those new to poetry, or who like to see how and why a poem works   http://planetearthpoetry.com/unpacking

It would be nice to develop further, see if a book were possible

• A long time ambition, to see if the focus of my doctoral dissertation, a study of the dynamics of womens friendships, A Rebel  Band of Friends—to see if its substance could be translated into a long poem.

Thank you for the opportunity to tangle with these though-provoking questions! 

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Bruce Hunter

Bruce Hunter is an active writer, speaker and mentor. His award-winning novel In the Bear’s House was just rereleased by Frontenac House. In 2024, as Nella casa dell’orso, it was published in Italy as was his 2023 poetry collection Galestro, following in 2022, A Life in Poetry, all by iQdB edizioni. 1n 2021, his memoir essay “This is the Place I Come to in My Dreams” was shortlisted for the Alberta Magazine Publishers’ Awards. In 2024, his eco-poem “Dark Water” also originally published in Freefall won the gold prize for poetry for the same awards. Bruce’s poetry, fiction, reviews, interviews, translations, and nonfiction have appeared in over 100 publications and in seven languages internationally.  www.brucehunter.ca.

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 trade book Benchmark was released by Thistledown Press in 1982 in my second year at York University. It included a long poem about government military action against Canadians I wrote in bp nichol’s class and published as a chapbook by Chris Faiers’ Unfinished Monument Press. CBC Radio broadcast a section and Benchmark received positive reviews across Canada.  The title refers to the starting point of a survey or mapping. Indeed it was.  In the forty years since, so much of my prose and poetry came out of the seeds planted in that first book.  I still use nichol’s teachings on the breath line in near everything,

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?  
After listening to many lofty sermons at our tiny local Anglican Church and much reading, I wrote a lofty long epic love poem. I was thirteen. I knew little about poetry and even less about love.  Suddenly, I now existed.  At least  on the page. As a deaf kid, it was a kind of hearing aid. Before others can hear us, we must hear ourselves.  I could hear myself now.

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 depends on the project.  In the past, I’m just wrote,  then gathered poems or stories until I can see a narrative arc that brought the gathering together. Now that I’m I’m in the grandfather years, I make lists or a fictional table of contents and go to work.  I’m profoundly aware these are the legacy years. Life is so brutally swift and short.

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?
Poetry especially often starts with a word, a musical note like a high C hum, or a discovery in another’s poem or in random research and reading, or daydreaming.I have many points of departure. It seems different every time.  There are many paths to the waterfall, as Raymond Carver once said.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?  
When I started out, readings were essential sounding boa.  I still enjoy hearing and meeting other writers.  As a mature writer, I work in relative solitude and read in many genres and topics including the earth sciences, a lifelong passion.  I’m more content in solitude now. I find workshops tend to distract me from my quiet routine, my mad method.
 
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 shy away from theory and prefer experimentation outside the lyric, including the anti-pastoral,  the dystopian, the noir, and mixing lyric with then dramatic, with “dirty” or documentary realism, or even magic realism . The Italian call me a jazz poet.  I bring as much of the world into my work as I can. My work is not cloistered, so I hope.

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 d believe my role as a writer is to expose the secrets of unacknowledged truths.  Other times, the voice is simply a quiet exaltation or exhalation.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?  I’ve always sought out editors. I enjoy the process.  
A good editor amplifies the work.  I make a distinction here between a proofreader and  a substantive editor. I wish more writers sought out a substantive editor who can take the work to the next level.  I very much enjoy seeing the work grow as we  edit it.  A good editor is a coach who challenges us to do better.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?  
B.C.’s Ron Smith was my very first writing teacher and told us, no matter what anyone says  about your writing, just say thank you.   I believe it’s best to be gracious even if it means gritting your teeth.  It’s not about you but about what capacity someone brings to your work.  And that is beyond your control.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to essays)? What do you see as the appeal?  
I was naturally drawn to longer poems which led to longer narratives so short stories and novels seemed an inevitable step for me.  When I started publishing my pants were baggy and my poems were skinny — all lower case, two words to a line. I’ve come to love the expansive poems that bring in all the world’s rhythms, cacophony and euphony. 

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 need my caffeine, often a workout  and my best time is between 2 and 4 pm. I’m awake, energized and ready to sprint. Then it’s time for supper prep as my wife is still working.  Work/life balance is critical in the long haul. 

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?  
I garden, do research to jog my mind and extend my range.  Our minds need breaks and it’s often doing something away from my desk or home, that gets the brain’s light flickering again Overthinking and anxiety restricts risk taking which is essential for creative leaps that bring our work alive.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

report from the art bar reading series: myself, Jim Nason + Armand Garnet Ruffo,

[Armand Garnet Ruffo, Michael Bryson, a stuffed owl + Jim Johnstone]

It was good to read in Toronto the other night, my first reading at the Art Bar Reading Series in some time, a year to the day I launched my Mansfield Press non-fiction title in Toronto with Stephen Brockwell and Amy Dennis, etcetera [see my report on such here]. Did you know the Art Bar is the longest running poetry-only series in Canada? That is pretty cool: some thirty-some years so far. Currently run by Kate Rogers and Michelle Hillyard, it was a fine evening of readings by myself, Toronto poet Jim Nason and Kingston-based writer Armand Garnet Ruffo, followed by a brief open set of about a dozen poets.

I've read at the Art Bar a few times over the years, at least half a dozen, I'd say, going back to the 1990s. I read with Marcus McCann and Sandra Ridley back in 2010, and with Pearl Pirie and Shannon Maguire a year later, but no other notes from anything earlier, although I've notes from attending a reading back in 2006. I know I read more than a couple of times when it was still held at the old Victory, a Toronto cafe landmark now long, long gone (a venue that also hosted the early days of John Degen's Ink magazine).

Naturally, I hung out a bit first with my pal Andy Weaver (left; at Dundas and University), and we met up with Stephen Cain for pre-reading dinner, which was good. Did you know Andy Weaver has a fourth poetry title forthcoming with University of Calgary Press (in 2025, I think)? And Stephen Cain has a new one out next fall with Book*hug? You should pay attention to those things.

It was good to see Khashayar Mohammadi, although very briefly. A new title by Mohammadi appears very soon with Pamenar Press, by the way. Jim Johnstone was there also, but you already know about him, right? I've been reviewing his books all over the place lately [two books this year! see here and here]. And Michael Bryson! I haven't seen him in a while (although I'd literally mailed him a package the day prior, so there you go), so I appreciated the opportunity to catch up. His substack, where he posts fiction reviews, is worth following (so you should go do that now).

Jim Nason (above) read from his latest, a poetry title with Frontenac House that even includes some of his artwork on the cover, as well as some newer work. It was especially nice to read with Armand Garnet Ruffo (left), as he'd moved from Ottawa to Kingston a decade or so back (I recall him gifting us multiple bags of baby necessities around the time Rose was born), which means I hadn't really heard him read as often as I had prior. It was good to get a sense of what he's been up to, and he offered a bit of an overview of a handful of his recent titles (including his Governor General's Award-nominated 2019 Wolsak and Wynn title, which I reviewed here), which I appreciated.

Ted Landrum (newly landed in Toronto from Winnipeg) read in the open set! I hadn't met him prior, and learned he had a full-length debut back in 2017 with signature editions. Did I know about this? I did interview him in my '12 or 20 questions,' so I clearly must have, although I hadn't seen the book before now. I spent part of the following day going through it, and there were some interesting structural things within, playing with lyric form from the perspective of architecture (something he teaches, by the by). After the reading, a couple of us (joined by Toronto poet, translator, critic, editor and publisher Mark Goldstein, which was lovely--everyone needs to read his Part Thief, Part Carpenter collection of essays that I reviewed here), we wandered over to a small tavern (cash only? god sakes) for conversation. We considered Grossman's Tavern (where Milton Acorn was presented his People's Poetry Prize back in 1970, you know), but we theorized they might have a very loud band happening.

Oh, and a couple of folk captured some photos of me reading. Here's one by Jim. I focused on reading from the latest poetry title, World's End, (ARP Books), the prior poetry title, the book of smaller (University of Calgary Press) and the opening half or so of the prose sequence "snow day," a chapbook reprinted as part of groundwork: the best of the third decade of above/ground press, 2013-2023 (Invisible Publishing).

As well, I did get bored a few nights prior, and created some ridiculous memes as publicity for the reading. I think the Batman one and the first Star Trek are the most effective. Either way, I'll leave you with those.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Anvesh Jain

Anvesh Jain was born in Delhi and moved to Calgary when he was one year old. His poems have appeared in literary magazines in Canada, United States, United Kingdom, Portugal, India, and South Africa. He was an editor at The Hart House Review from 2018 to 2021. Anvesh is a chai enthusiast, and loves cricket. Pilgrim to No Country, published by Frontenac House Press in fall 2022, is his first book.

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

When I was younger—though I am still young—I had certain milestones in mind that seemed to suggest fullness, a life well-lived (or at least, better-lived). I wanted to produce a movie, perform a hit song, write a book. At the time of this interview, my debut poetry book, Pilgrim to No Country, is one month away from shipping. I suspect having it in my hands will fill me with relief; the kind of relief that comes with physicality and undeletability. My first book will be a physical tether. An indicator, I hope, of a life in the process of being better-lived.

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

In my choice of reading, I’m obsessed with building my foundations and reading lengthy classics. Perhaps it’s an immigrant’s impulse—to demonstrate mastery in the language of the new country, to ingratiate oneself in the traditional canon, to build roots through literature. Whatever it is, I gravitate towards poetry in my writing because of its inherent liberty. Poetry frees me from the trappings of classical foundation.

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?

In Ottawa’s Byward Market there’s a see-through craft noodle shop by the name of Le Mien. Sometimes I take a moment to peer through the windows and appreciate the process of twisting and pulling and shaping. It’s a fantastic metaphor for writing poetry: starting with the dough of an idea and stretching it to the limits of its possible shape. Some days the kitchen is overflowing with dough, and other times you’ll have to be content settling for ready-made cereals and bread-jam. I’m not sure if I’m still talking about poetry. Perhaps I’m just hungry.

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?

My poems are inspired by my experiences or through interactions with other art and artists from across mediums. I will give an example. The other day, a wasp drowned itself in my drink. So I wrote a poem about it. An hour or two later, a friend happened to join me and the incident repeated itself. This time he fished the wasp out of his drink, and it flew away, grateful for the temporary reprieve. So I changed the ending of my original poem.

I never wrote with the intention of publishing a book. I simply wrote, and one day I realized I had more than enough content to justify a manuscript. Pilgrim to No Country reckons, in large part, with my familial past and the cultural schema in which I’ve been raised. If there is a next book, I will endeavour for it to be more forward-looking in its principles and theme.

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

Publishing one’s work is paradoxical. I want my work to be read, but not by anyone who knows me. I like public readings, but would much rather read to strangers than to family or friends. I’ve recently begun going to and performing at Jeff Blackman and Bardia Sinaee’s 2-for-1 poetry nights on the last Thursday of each month. Hearing from other writers undoubtedly inspires. I keep reminding myself to bring a notepad, though I seldom remember to follow-through.

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?

Is it trite to answer a question with a quote? In my cover letters to various publishers, I frequently mentioned one by Hanif Kureishi:

And indeed I know Pakistanis and Indians born and brought up here who consider their position to be the result of a diaspora: they are in exile, awaiting return to a better place, where they belong, where they are welcome. And there this ‘belonging’ will be total. This will be home, and peace.

My writing, like Kureishi’s productions, is animated by what it means to be a result of a diaspora. Exile is an anguished word, holding vast resonance in the Indic tradition. Our Lord Rama endured vanvaas for fourteen years; like him, we await our return to that place called Ayodhya, synonymous with the concept of total belonging. In the diaspora, we say that India is our Janma-bhumi (land of birth), and that Canada is our Karma-bhumi (land of karmic destiny). We owe a responsibility to both. I write poetry of place, which attempts to reconcile this home-making with myth-making, and this Canada with India.

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 see a role for the writer analogous to that of the professional documentarian. My work is meant to preserve in literature certain essential facts: that there was an Indian community in Canada in the 1990s and 2000s, that we lived in certain places, practiced our faith and culture in certain manners, believed in certain ideas, and contributed to Canadian nation-hood in our own multifarious ways. Though writing ought to be universally resonant, I believe it has to be grounded in the local and the particular in order to achieve true authenticity.

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

Editors and bureaucrats—can’t do with them, can’t do without them, and together constituting the twin banes of one’s existence. Working with an editor is anger-inducing. It’s a savage and adversarial process. That being said, I am eternally grateful to my editor John Wall Barger for his patience and his immense expertise. He knew when to push back, and when to relent. My book is better for his involvement, full-stop and without question.

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

That unconventional outcomes require unconventional inputs. I heard that this summer, in an entirely different context to writing, and have since made it my new mantra.

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 never force my writing. When it comes, I give myself to my poetry. I allow myself to be subsumed by it. Then there are long and desolate stretches where it never seems to arrive. I took a one-year hiatus after editing Pilgrim to No Country that lasted until this past July. I’m glad to say I’m writing again, though never with any routine in mind.

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

Writing is my distraction from the stresses and strains of daily life. There are times when I need a distraction from my distraction too. I don’t overly concern myself with dry veins or stalled writing. In those times, I turn to the energetic business of the day-to-day; investing in my legal studies, in my friendships, in cinema, in good books, in social occasions, in religious healing. When the vein runs dry, there is no shame in turning to the replenishments of quotidian being.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Tulsi, neem, sandalwood powder, agarbatti incense sticks. A vacuumed rug. My mother’s cooking. Fallen pines and prairiegrass.

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?

Every interaction has the potential to spark new creative undertakings. Being open and observant allows you to draw inspiration from all the sources you’ve mentioned, and more. I, for one, am especially fascinated by Indian street food vloggers on Facebook.

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

Hindu liturgy and scripture comforts me. I’m in the process of getting my hands on a faux-leather bound translation of the Valmiki Ramayana. The post-colonial literature of Salman Rushdie, A.K Ramanujan, and V.S Naipaul are of perpetual delight. Mordecai Richler’s work has instantiated Canada within me. In poetry, I like Margaret Atwood, Seamus Heaney, Billy Collins, Bänoo Zan, and Matthew Olzmann.

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

I have a dream of taking a sabbatical from my career one day to write a full-fledged fiction novel. I think I would really, truly like that.

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 suppose it’s too late for me to become an international cricket commentator. Whatever line of work I end up in, I’d like to travel. I want to meet interesting people in interesting places. I want to construct the good-life, well-lived and well-worn.

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

We write because we are compelled to. It’s as necessary as that. Writing helps us box in our many insanities and neuroses.

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

Over the past months I’ve managed to get through my first great Canadian novel, that being Solomon Gursky Was Here by Mordecai Richler. The last great film? Probably Superbad (2007).

19 - What are you currently working on?

Law school, finding an internship, finding a suitable answer for my parents when they ask me why I don’t have a girlfriend yet. Getting back into writing poetry and appreciating all the other sources of beauty for which we ought to express thanks.

To keep up with my comings and goings, please visit me at https://anveshjain.com/.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;