Showing posts with label Haymarket Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Haymarket Books. Show all posts

Saturday, April 26, 2025

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Farah Ghafoor

Farah Ghafoor is the author of Shadow Price (House of Anansi, 2025). Selections of her debut poetry collection won the E.J. Pratt Medal and Prize in Poetry, and were finalists for the CBC Poetry Prize and the Far Horizons Award for Poetry. Her work has appeared in art exhibitions, magazines, and anthologies such as FACE/WASTE, The Walrus, and Halal If You Hear Me (Haymarket Books, 2019), as well as post-secondary course syllabi. Raised in New Brunswick and southern Ontario, Farah resides in Tkaranto (Toronto) where she writes about the intersection of climate change, colonialism, and capitalism.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
Writing this book helped me channel my climate anxiety and doomism into work that can communicate with and educate others. I learned that I needed to process the climate crisis in terms of the tangible, and that eventually led me to dig into concepts of economics and colonialism. Anxiety comes from uncertainty, but there is still so much certainty when it comes to the structures and processes that propel the crisis. Shadow Price gave me an intellectual and emotional foundation for my recent work, which aims to bring economics and individual stories to the forefront.

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

Poetry was attractive to me because it’s concise and conceptually precise. I came to it through a haiku in the second grade in one of those summer workbooks you would complete to get ahead in school. As I continued to write, it always seemed much easier to write about ideas than characters, and I was lucky to be rewarded for my efforts through school/class contests. When I stumbled upon spoken word on Youtube in high school, specifically Safia Elhillo’s “Alien Suite”, Maya Mayor’s “Perfect”, and “Somewhere in America” by Belissa Escobedo, Rhiannon McGavin, and Zariya Allen, I was amazed to see what poetry could do. I was also continuously inspired by other teens writing on the internet, such as my peers in The Adroit Mentorship Program.

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?

There are typically two origins for my work: freewrites and research. I freewrite frequently, and those passages often appear fairly close to the final draft. I also collect research and observations in that same large writing document, so for poems that are explicitly about a concept (such as shadow prices), I have to wait until I have a few key phrases/ideas that would help me approach the topic. This method can take years, but I don’t mind because my interests don’t and haven’t changed for years (which is how long it took me to write Shadow Price).

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?

Poems come from uncertainty – I write to understand myself, the world, and my place in it. I’ll stumble upon something in the world that I’m curious about, and write until I reach a conclusion. Since I’ve only written one book, I feel like it was a combined process – I was writing and collecting shorter pieces for years, and also wrote long poems specifically for the book.

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

I like participating in and attending readings, but find that I’m more of a visual reader than an aural one. I find it easier to spend time with a poem on the page, so I guess I’m more traditional that way. Readings don’t significantly add or take away from my creative process.

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 work is concerned with how we are living at this point in time – specifically during the climate crisis – and what we value. At the end of the day, people are struggling to live in late-stage capitalism because economic priorities have taken precedence over ethical ones, and that has led us to devaluing the earth, which provides everything we need. Questions I’m always pursuing in my work include: What are we paying attention to? What has led us here? And where are we going if we continue down this path?

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?

The role of the writer is to tell the whole, exact truth, as unpopular as it may be.

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

I’ve had my writer friends always point out what I can’t see because I’m too close to the work, and my editor from House of Anansi, Kevin Connolly, always made me reconsider what I was previously too proud to let go of. It was essential (and a little difficult) but you have to let go of your ego to achieve your goals in any field.

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

Jess Rizkallah tweeted out probably 8 years ago: Figure out what you want to say and write it down. I’ve found that this helps bring a poem back to its emotional, truthful centre when it gets lost during revision.

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

Non-fiction is hard because you can’t hide, even a little. I suppose that’s why I write it so infrequently – I’d say I’m a relatively private person.

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 tend to write at night, when my mind’s tired enough to be imaginative. It’s important for me to make a cup of tea that I will forget about and reheat at irregular intervals. When I’m revising or have a goal for the session, I first read work in the tone/style that I’m trying to achieve (lyrical, authoritative, etc.), then get to work. Revision usually takes many nights of rewriting.

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

I’ve more or less given up on trying to write during creative blocks – the best poems that come about during those times are about writer’s block itself. I’m trying to accept my creative cycle – months of block, idea germination, revision – so I'm trying to lean in during each period. I’m always jotting down observations and research though, anything that I read and find interesting.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
This is where I admit my bad sense of smell. I’m going to be cliche but honest here and say my mother’s cooking.

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 heavily inspired by nature, science, economics, architecture – processes that we can see and touch and affect our everyday lives. So you’ll see me write more about labour than space, for example. Visual art interests me most when it’s as precise as a poem.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Currently, Solmaz Sharif, Aria Aber, Daniel Borzutzky, Natalie Diaz, Fargo Nissim Tbakhi, and Mai Der Vang. While I was writing the book: Jenny Odell, Andri Snaer Magnason, Craig Santos Perez, as well as all of the other authors I note in the acknowledgments of Shadow Price.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I’d like to write a novel, a song, a short story, and a screenplay. And make a short film and curate an art exhibition and decorate a really beautiful cake. I'd like to try everything.

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 would try to be a forest ranger or an ornithologist, though I’m pretty sure an outdoorsy job wouldn’t suit me. I’d love to experience nature every day – it makes me feel so alive.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Writing is my main tool of reflection and intellectual exploration. It’s a compulsion, like breathing. I feel strange when I haven’t written in a while, full of pent-up energy.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Young Woman Book Job by Emma Healey and Joan Didion: The Centre Will Not Hold.

20 - What are you currently working on?
My second poetry collection, which will have the same themes but hopefully focus on economics.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Saturday, April 08, 2023

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Quenton Baker

Quenton Baker is a poet, educator, and Cave Canem fellow. Their current focus is black interiority and the afterlife of slavery. Their work has appeared in The Offing, Jubilat, Vinyl, The Rumpus  and elsewhere. They are a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and the recipient of the 2018 Arts Innovator Award from Artist Trust. They were a 2019 Robert Rauschenberg Artist in Residence and a 2021 NEA Fellow. They are the author of we pilot the blood (The 3rd Thing, 2021) and ballast (Haymarket Books, 2023).

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

I think anyone’s first book is huge. It’s so difficult to get a first book of poetry published. Most of us have to go through the terrible rigamarole of spending hundreds of dollars on first book contests and/or praying for open reading periods and hoping you stand out enough for someone to take a chance on your work. It’s a deeply inequitable and alienating process.

My new book, ballast, is very different from my first book. It’s not narrative, it’s a long poetic sequence instead of individual poems, it’s very much a project-based book. It’s also not concerned with legibility for/speaking to a white audience or gaze.

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

I actually came to hip-hop first. Poetry, with its interest in sound, meter, and the sonic weight of the line, made it a natural progression once I got disillusioned with rap shit.  

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?

I’m a research-based poet, so I think in terms of book-length projects. It usually takes a fairly long time for me to find something that can support a full-length collection. Most of my writing is reading, so I would say it’s fairly steady. I tend to read/research a lot and then spend time in bursts of drafting actual poems. But the whole process is writing for me.

I’m definitely not a poet that iterates with drafts over weeks/months/years. By the time I even start a poem, I’ve likely gone through ten or so drafts in my head. And by the time I reach the end of a poem on the page, I’ve read it dozens of times and revised along the way. So it’s technically a first draft, but the first draft has 20+ drafts inside of it.

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?

Poems typically begin with images for me (even if that’s not where the poem itself starts, its nascence is owed to a specific image). And I’m always working on a book from the beginning.

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

Readings are great. Poetry thrives in and requires community. There are many ways to arrive at being in community with other poets and readers, and public readings are an important part of that. I definitely enjoy giving readings and being an audience member.

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?

All I have in my writing are theoretical concerns, probably. My theoretical concerns are the same as the theoretical concerns of Black Studies: to observe, document, critically examine, celebrate, and interrogate Black life within an anti-Black world. The question in my work is: how do we live?

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 the writer's job is to pay attention. And to care about things. And to not be a dick, mainly. 

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

Everyone needs an editor. ballast’s editor, Maya Marshall, is a divine gift.

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

That 90% of writing is reading.

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 don’t really keep a routine. Outside of going to work during the week. I write when I can and when I have energy. I do everything I can to have as much energy for my work as possible.

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

Gwendolyn Brooks and Aimé Césaire.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Doughnuts.

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?

Any art that I encounter shapes my own art. If I’m thinking about it or reacting to it or criticizing it or praising it, I’m putting myself in dialogue with it. Which is expanding my thinking and my understanding. Those expansions always show up in some way in my work.

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

There are too many to list. I am indebted to so many Black writers and scholars and thinkers. The first few that come to mind are Christina Sharpe, Fred Moten, GwendolynBrooks, Aimé Césaire, Saidiya Hartman, Marwa Helal, Dawn Lundy Martin, Evie Shockley, M. NourbeSe Philip, Dionne Brand, Will Alexander, Eloise Loftin, Lorenzo Thomas, and so many others.

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

Write my next book.

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?

If I were better at math, I would love to be a quantum physicist.

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

An interest in survival, mainly.

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

The last great book I read was I Keep My Exoskeletons to Myself by Marisa Crane. The last great film I watched was the futurist documentary Wall-E.

19 - What are you currently working on?

Currently, I am working on finishing a large bag of tiny citrus fruits. 

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Thursday, August 20, 2020

12 or 20 (second series) questions with stephanie roberts


stephanie roberts is the author of the poetry collection rushes from the river disappointment (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2020). A widely published Quebec-based poet, her work has been featured in Poetry Magazine, the League of Canadian Poets, The BreakBeat Poets: LatiNEXT (Haymarket Books, 2020), and elsewhere. She won first prize for Black Mountain Press’s The Sixty-Four: Best Poets of 2018. You can contact her at www.oceansandfire.com, @ringtales Instagram

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

rob, thank you for this opportunity. My first book, the self-published collection, The Melting Potential of Fire, didn't change my life, rather my changing life was the pressure for new expression. That book was all gut intuition and nerve; in rushes from the river disappointment, I reckon I've added a knowledge of craft.

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

Fate.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process?

I have had a miserable time most of my writing life trying to chart a writing routine. I almost never sit down to write new work, instead, I keep small themed spiral pads: notes, quotes, books, and poems that I write in all the time—often full poems. Does that count as writing quickly? I work to revise and edit work when I begin submitting.

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 read that the pilot fish of sharks are so attached to their sharks that they will follow the ship that captures their shark for days afterward. I've never written a poem about that but the image of that true or anecdotal relationship is the sort of thing that ignites me. I have done the former but feel up for the challenge of the latter.

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

I think public readings are translations of the written work and are a related but different art form—more akin to performing than writing. Ideally I'd have the actor Marianne Jean-Baptiste do all my readings and I'd sign the books in the back. I do enjoy the challenge of giving an audience a good performance, and if drinks are happening afterward all the better.

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

Thought-provoking questions, thank you Rob. I find composing poetry pleasurable this is my point A. As I continue, it seems I'm trying to answer the questions: What feels true? What does love mean to me? What does a life of courage look like? I'm terrified of my cowardice; I'm always metal testing my courage. I want to work just over my head within reach of drowning.

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?

My answer is paradoxical. The writer shouldn't give a fuck about their role in culture, and their role is vital. The role of the poet is to, as much as possible, be themselves intensely and remain themselves. Not to say who we are is static. I think the healthy psyche is subject to the same pressures on a caterpillar to become butterfly.

Wallace Stevens believed that poetry achieves more for the knowledge of human nature than history. In an essay on poetry and the imagination, he looked to Swiss historian Jakob Burckhardt for affirmation, "Burckhard considers the status of poetry at various epochs, among various peoples and classes, asking each time who is singing or writing, and for whom. Poetry is the voice of religion, prophecy, mythology, history, national life and inexplicably, for [Burckhardt], of literature." I tend to agree.

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

My experience with this is too limited to comment constructively. Desolé.

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

I am whatever I want to be.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to essays to short fiction)?

I am deeply in love with and energized by writing poetry. I have ten unfinished short stories and a handful of essays but I have no desire to cheat on poetry.

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?

The day cracks open at the whir of my espresso machine after that I could end up on the moon.

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

A nap, maybe a couple of them.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Two levels down on a New York City subway station platform. Inimitable.

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?

Music and visual arts infuse me with emotional energy which I convert into my work, but there is a certain kind of raw brutality in science and nature that catches me most sharply as to resemblances like the previously mentioned pilot fish. I attribute human passion to the behaviour of the pilot fish which I know is ridiculous, or is it? What's the difference between instinct and will when many of us have damn well chased fishing boats after the dead and long gone shark of our desires? Feel me?

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

Emily Dickinson for life and art, Toni Morrison and Marilynne Robinson are exemplars of intellect, courage and compassion, and Elena Ferrante and Patrizia Cavalli are gods. Rilke is The Reverend. I have a love/hate/hate relationship with Wallace Stevens, nevertheless I identify with his insularity and, for better or worse, his way of thinking inspires me. I think Steve Scafidi is one of the most astute living American poets. I relate to the ambition of his work which somehow manages a polygamist marriage of heart-breaking tenderness, the erotic, anger, and humour while tangling (or untangling) intimate relationship, and politics. I am deeply wounded and excruciatingly challenged by his work.

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

Weathered a Tw*tter scandal.

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?

Theoretical physicists or sculptor. I may yet squeeze in the sculpting.

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

I think I was destined to be a writer. In grade four or five, I got into trouble for co-writing with my sister a small graphic comic that dispatched her school enemies. Writing well suits my Hydra-like imagination.

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


20 - What are you currently working on?

My next full poetry manuscript should be ready for submitting by June's end, and I'm finishing a chap-sized collection of erotic anti-love poems. In early stages, I've begun a semi-autobiographical poetry collection that spans the geographies of Panama, Brooklyn, and Beauharnois, I'm thinking of it as my Patterson.


Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Eve L. Ewing, Electric Arches




This book is about my life and maybe also your life. And it is about the places we invent. Every story in it is absolutely true. Some of the stories are from the past and some are from the future. In the future, every child in Chicago has food and a safe place to sleep, and mothers laugh all day and eat Popsicles. Every Fourth of July there are big fireworks and no one shoots a gun, not even police because there are no police, and when you go downtown and look up at the sky, the electric arches stretch so far toward heaven that you feel like you might be the smallest and most important thing ever to be born. (“A note of introduction”)

Chicago writer, scholar, artist and educator Eve L. Ewing’s debut poetry collection is Electric Arches (Chicago IL: Haymarket Books, 2017), a powerful montage of prose, sketches and lyric poems. Given the prose elements of the collection—moving between short fiction and memoir—at first I wasn’t sure why such a collection should be structured as poetry over, say, a more overt prose structure, but there is something about the use of poetry and other lyric elements that open the collection the way pure prose might not have been able to. Electric Arches includes handwritten script, short stories, memoir, images and banner-texts, moving between genre as easily as I’ve seen.

Throughout the collection are a series of “re-telling” poems, opening with a prose re-telling of a personal experience with racism that, mid-sentence, shifts into a handwritten script that alters the narrative entirely, shifting into a kind of magical dream-state, and are some of the most powerful pieces in the collection. In a recent article on Ewing and her new collection in the Chicago Reader, Aimee Levitt writes: “When she was a little girl and had nightmares, her mother would ask her to come up with an alternative ending: the monster wasn’t chasing her so he could eat her, he was trying to warn her that her shoe was untied. This was a way of learning to control the things that caused her anxiety. In a series of poems called ‘re-tellings,’ she recounts a series of potentially traumatizing events—being called ‘nigger,’ a time she saw four boys accosted by cops in Hyde Park—and imagines that instead of feeling paralyzed and helpless, she has magical powers to make things better. And so a racist woman becomes ‘possessed by a mighty and exuberant ghost-spirit’ that makes her dance, and the boys float into the air, leaving the cops grasping at their shoelaces.”

The first time [a re-telling]

I was six years old. I know I must have been six because I was on a two-wheeler bike by myself and my dad gave it to me for my sixth birthday. We lived on Fletcher. I was riding my bike up and down the block. I was allowed to go from one corner to the other by myself because that way my mom or anyone could see me if they just looked for me. The old white lady came down the block from time to time and sometimes she was nice and sometimes she was mean. She had short brown hair and small eyes. She always wore a heavy coat. This time she screamed at me. “You little nigger! You almost hit me with that bike? Go back to your nigger Jesse Jackson neighborhood! I told my mom and she told me the flying bike should only be for weekends, but okay, I could use it just this once. I ran back out and the lady was still there. I flew up on my bike and started going around her in small tight circles until she got very dizzy trying to watch me. Just as she was falling over I scooped her up with my giant net and flew her to the lake. I was going to drop her in the water but I felt bad so I left her on a rock and went home and had a paleta.

Electric Arches is a collection of black girlhood and survival, composing evocative and thoughtful poems such as “What I Talk About When / I Talk About Black Jesus,” “Note from LeBron James to LeBron James,” “what I mean when I say I’m sharpening my oyster knife,” “why you cannot touch my hair” and “one thousand and one ways to touch your own face [.]” She writes in such a way to be completely and critically aware of the space and time in which she exists, and to work to rise above the racism, ignorance and brutality she has both repeatedly witnessed and experienced. Reminiscent of recent collections by Morgan Parker [see my review of such here] and Tonya M.Foster [see my review of such here]. Eve L. Ewing and her poems are clearly a force to be reckoned with, composing declarations that see far beyond mere survival. Writing out the darkness, Electric Arches is ultimately a positive, provocative and even affirming collection.

how I arrived

1.
in flight from a war for my own holy self,
clinging to a steamship.

the old farmhouse one day fell in cinders
but today, first, burned into my corneas
still visible when I close my eyes.
a tangerine aura with no center.

I told them I would not fight.

2.
they mailed me from Mississippi
in a metal ice chest.

I taste salt at the sight of honeysuckle,
recalling some kind of way
the last bacon grease to touch
the back of my hand.

I danced, once
from Alabama westward
the longest cakewalk.

3.
I rode in on a bumblebee.

4.
I fell out of the dirt.

5.
I disguised myself as a painter in a time of artless men.

6.
I remember every note you ever wrote to me.

7.
when you pull all day from the coldest water you can find
and do not mind carrying your bicycle up the stairs,

July twilight comes so late
you might forget to end the day at all.