HIJ : ONE, TWO and THREE

After twenty years of attending literary events of all kinds and hosting a few ourselves, Hazel and I have come to realize that what we like best are gatherings at which the “ten people who give a shit” (famously said by Bill Kennedy at another recent gathering) show up. We have decided that the place where this should happen is our home, where we read books and make books and make a living in and among bookish things – why would we not love the idea of gathering people for literature and talk here at our centre? It is all very Salon de 1846, if you catch my drift this sort of small, off to the side, do-it-yourself culture – what our teenage son will hopefully agree is very punk – is exactly what we wanted to be a part of when we started HIJ, and so it seems fitting as grownups with all sorts of grownup stuff to think about like kids and a house and work and such, to loosely pay homage to our youthful efforts by welcoming people into a house poetry built to experience some literature by people we like. (Jay MillAr, “HIJ: SOME HISTORY”)

From the house of BookThug (quite literally) in Toronto comes a charming, exciting and highly enviable new reading and chapbook series, loosely built as a continuation of publications BookThug publishers Jay and Hazel MillAr were producing some twenty years ago. With their fourth gathering now under their belt, the first three publications of HIJ include chapbooks by Fenn Stewart and Mat Laporte (“ONE,” 01/19/2014), Daniel Canty and Liz Howard (“TWO,” 02/23/2014) and Jenny Sampirisi and Pasha Malla (“THREE,” 03/23/2014). It’s an intriguing idea, and one that I’ve considered hosting/curating over the past few years as well (Hoa Nguyen and Dale Smith have been hosting house readings in Toronto for a while now as well through their Skanky Possum, but haven’t yet paired such with publications), but haven’t quite managed to piece together yet, so I’m completely envious of what they’ve been doing. It’s interesting to see the authors selected for the curated series, a nice mix of emerging and more established authors, some of whom have been in and around the BookThug circle for some time, and others, included here for the first time. Each publication holds two chapbooks in an envelope, published in editions of fifty copies or less.

See past ageless faces

Landfills in green, they wryly drill

& Countless masses are now fast upon them

They are now covered with these fortress people

with shards of tenderized opinions

The ageless faces sideways, sighing

All retrospectively like me

            It’s here injected into the spine

My day’s endeavor is to be complete

For me, an audience is impenetrable

No gleaming James am I

No trencher analects (Fenn Stewart)

The untitled chapbook by Fenn Stewart appears to contain an extended sequence, “from WALTZING,” set to a particular cadence of fits and starts striking out across a wide canvas. The author of a couple of small items so far, including chapbooks through above/ground press and Ferno House, I suspect that when she finally releases a full-length trade collection of poetry it will strike like a punch to the sternum. Really, that could be said about a couple of the authors listed here, such as Mat Laporte and Liz Howard, both of whom have been publishing in bits and pieces over the past few years, hopefully (he says) working up to trade collections. For example: influenced by the work of Margaret Christakos, Toronto poet Liz Howard’s poetry has a wild, almost savage, energy and an engagement with language, philosophy and history, as well as a very physical attachment to the landscape of Northern Ontario. The second part, “[CONTACT],” of her opening piece, “excerpt from OF HEREAFTER SONG” reads:

she rested back unto the lakes and marshes

into the light dialysis of heron and arrowy

swallow with all the trees of silver tongue

gently from the melting lakes and streamlets

into the sweet radiation of the earliest flower

in the Northland intolerable toward

the red stone the stem a reed

into the puffed metastatic coal became the water

into the affirmative action embryonic mortality

of the loon summit  robin glazed

into the bigger than the big-sea-water

bioaccumulation became us Athabasca

sweet reconciliation spoke in

mercury, arsenic, lead and cadmium erotic

as the archaic physiognomy of a fishhead

we descended

the women of bitumen looked over  tailing ponds

like a cloud-rack of a tempest

rushed the pale canoes of wings and thunder

to kill the wilderness in the child

sweeping westward our remnants

sulphur infinite, sorrow extracted tuberculosis

under the jurisdiction of ravens

in the covert of pine-trees

or an education of thieves in the evening.

I look forward to seeing how this series develops, and perhaps, possibly even be able to attend one at some point.

Windsor Review: Best Writers Under 35, ed. Jenny Sampirisi

A Sparkle-Scale Sunrise

A sparkle

so tiny

and in its brilliance

so brave

took

what there is

left

of light

and threw it

high

paying

no mind

there wasn’t

a sky

that could hold it

here (Souvankham Thammavongsa)

Guest-edited by Toronto writer Jenny Sampirisi, the spring 2013 issue of The Windsor Review (Vol. 46, No. 1), is a collection of twenty-one Canadian writers of poetry and fiction under the age of thirty-five. I’m always curious to see compilations of “new” and/or “emerging” writing and writers, simply to get a glimpse of what authors might be producing the next wave of stellar writing. Editor Sampirisi spends a good part of her introduction explaining that the caveats of “emerging” and “best” were ones pitched to her (as opposed to being pitched by her), and her discomfort at either idea as being anything more than particularly arbitrary. As she writes in her introduction:

            But I was asked and I was excited to root around in the submissions, to think about each work on its own first, then in context of the issue. I’ll tell you why I chose the pieces that I did: they made me giddy. They had a turn of phrase that required me to take a break to keep listening to it in my head. They contain images and ideas that followed me through my day, long after I’d gone onto other tasks. I can’t shake a.rawlings’ acute vignettes that are both seeing and seen; Aisha Sasha John’s vivid and evolving repetitions; Spencer Gordon’s piercing moments of self-reflection; Claire Lacey’s carnivorous bird and textual overlays. I can go on. Each piece in this issue kept me thinking. Each of them brought me joy. The writers I’ve chosen to highlight here are brave. They take risks in their work. They have distinct voices. And they are young. Let’s not forget that this issue is dedicated to the best writers UNDER 35.

[...] The word “emerging” also means “to come into view”. I like that better than the aforementioned connotations. All the writers in these pages ARE coming into view. Professionally, many of them have published a book or two, others have done performance work, shown in galleries, published nationally and internationally. You may not have heard of them before, but you will. These are the “lifers”. They’ll be here when they’re 40/50/60, though they may have to check a different box on the grant app.

Having edited an anthology or two of “new writing” myself over the years, I’m curious to see, given Sampirisi’s assertion, just how many of these writers really are still active after a decade or three more has passed; curious to see what she thinks in hindsight of her choices. Like any selection of this sort, you can only hope, as an editor, for the best for those writers you want to see more from. One can easily think of what most if not all of the poets in Al Purdy’s classic anthology Storm Warning: The New Canadian Poets (Toronto ON: McClelland and Stewart, 1971), but very few of those who appeared in the follow-up, Storm Warning 2: The New Canadian Poets (McClelland and Stewart, 1976). Sampirisi’s list is impressive, and the issue includes work by Cris Costa (Toronto), Andrew Faulkner (Toronto), Ryan Quinn Flanagan (Elliot Lake ON), Spencer Gordon (Toronto), kate hargreaves (Windsor ON), Ray Hsu (Vancouver), Aisha Sasha John (Toronto), Claire Lacey (Calgary), Mat Laporte (Toronto), Andrew MacDonald (Toronto), Andrew McEwan (Toronto), Jacob McArthur Mooney (Toronto), Leigh Nash (Toronto), a. rawlings (Iceland), Nikki Reimer (Calgary), Rebecca Rosenblum (Toronto), Brandy Ryan (Toronto), Gillian Sze (Montreal), Souvankham Thammavongsa (Toronto), Aaron Tucker (Toronto) and Lindsay M. Williams (Galiano Island BC). While I understand part of the reasoning behind such a Toronto-focus (the geography of the editor does give her a particular advantage to knowing who the younger Toronto writers might be), it does make the issue seem a bit Toronto-heavy; might this have simply been a lack of submissions from other corners of Canada? Apart from two writers in Calgary, there aren’t any writers at all from the remainder of the prairies, and but two further emerging from anywhere west. And no one from the east coast made the list? There are certainly names I would add to a list of the thirty-five and under set, including Ottawa poets Cameron Anstee, Marilyn Irwin, JM Francheteau, Brecken Hancock and even Christine McNair, as well as, I’m sure, dozens of others who could have made such a list. I look forward to seeing where many of these writers might end up.

knock! knock!

and there is a certain sadness he knows now

when he answers the door and there’s no one there

especially not a woman with hair stabbing the wind like keystrokes (Aaron Tucker)

Editor Sampirisi has done an interesting job putting together an issue of some fantastic writing. Some of the highlights of the issue include the precise poems of Souvankham Thammavongsa, the expressive play of Claire Lacey’s work, bold and confident poems by Aisha Sasha John, the poem-fragments of Aaron Tucker, Mat Laporte’s relentless prose, and, really, just about everything a.rawlings has been producing over the past few years (her work is absolutely incredible; I’ve been awaiting a second trade collection for some time now).

VESSAR

I sit down and bow. I close my eyes as I breathe. In my mind, I see one woman in the place where I most picture one woman. She looks ready to leave at any moment. In my mind, one woman leaves. I follow her through many places we have been together. (a.rawlings)

Another highlight of the issue includes the six poems by Jacob McArthur Mooney; I’m intrigued by the sentences in his poems, such as “Excerpts from the Future Memoirs of Roger Ebert,” that includes the lines: “One day, I blew away into the ocean. Amoeba mated with my hair. / I ceased to exist. I anthologized myself.” There is also this poem by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, that appears to be playfully directed at American poet and editor Matthew Zapruder:

Damn You, Zapruder!

The truth

will be buried

like acorns

if there

is any.

Squirrels

will know

and chipmunks

will know

and a few shells

will turn up

(now

and then)

on the back stoop

of sliding doors

in desperate need

of sweeping.

Margaret Christakos' Influency: A Toronto Poetry Salon

SPRINGFLUENCY: A Toronto Poetry Salon will run April 8 - June 17 (ten Monday nights) in Toronto, featuring 8 savoury guest poet-savants Lillian Allen, Oana Avasilichioaei, Adam Dickinson, Nyla Matuk, Jenny Sampirisi, Gillian Savigny, Matthew Tierney and Natalie Zina Walschots, conducted by Margaret Christakos. Register at www.learn.utoronto.ca

This unique lecture-reading course features a series of lectures and readings by eight contemporary Toronto guest poets in person. Course features an intro by facilitator Margaret Christakos, an original 40-minute lecture by one of the participating poets on the work of one of their colleague poets, and a half-hour live reading by the poet under discussion. An exchange of responses and ideas then takes place among the discussant, poet and course registrants. The class reads an assigned book of poetry each week in preparation for the evening's guest poet. Registrants compose written responses to the poetics and ideas encountered during the class and during their own consideration of the poetry being studied. Registrants may return for multiple Salons as the roster of poets changes each term.

The texts under discussion will be available at the first class for $130.

For further information, check out the Influency Salon.

dANDelion 37.3: POETS GALORE!

Words for the House

(After Kate Hall)

The house has gone missing. It’s called a warbler.

Warbler takes paint chips from her beak, makes a dinner.

Warbler points north for the winter, the windows closed.

Warbler tight in the sheets, picking nails.

Warbler with eyes wide and hiccupping asks for spaghetti.

Warbler can’t keep the windows closed.

Warbler pantomimes a throat wound up.

Warbler sees wood paneling in the bed and makes a boat.

Warbler swallows the pillow and spits out the lint.

Warbler rips a hole through the screen and points the ship.

Warbler makes a bath of dishwater.

Warbler sheds bones from the neck down.

Warbler puts the boat in the water and screams.

Warbler finds a man’s tie a formal ending. (Jenny Sampirisi)

When British Columbia poet kevin mcpherson eckhoff was in Ottawa to read for the AB Series a few weeks ago, he did an afternoon talk that focused on some of his interest in art produced by people who don’t necessarily self-describe as artists, ranging from amateur art to folk art to the unintentionally bad. Part of what he used to discuss that interest, and the incredible possibilities that come from such, was the recent issue of dANDelion magazine that he edited with frequent co-conspirator, Jake Kennedy, the “POETS GALORE!” issue. According to eckhoff, part of the call for the issue included self-described professional artists providing work, as well as work by someone they knew, whether a family member, random friend, or the man who ran the grocery store down at the corner. As they write in their “Editor’s Note”:

The issue contains works by some writers. [When we write “writers” we mean folks.] It also contains works by some folks who are either shy writers or who don’t identify as the writer at all. [When we write “folks” we mean writers.] Please, for a moment, forget that superficial differences exist! [I suppose our hunch is that community exists prior to and just after the fact of its naming; mostly we could be acknowledging that as folks and writers and writers and folks we are sharing all the time.] Now, in this same moment, please tear through the writing throughout, forgetting that you’re a reader, but remembering that you, too, are a poet! [We are grateful to all the magical producer-contributor spirits herein; songs poems wanted / songs poems found… (big old fart sound); we bow to the realaccidents, we bow the accidentalreads!]

Some of the results are quite compelling, with contributions by Claire Donato, Elizabeth Donato, Jeff T. Johnson, Kate Mercier, Peter McDonald, Michael Vorhies, Emily Fedoruk, Debbie Bouska, Jenny Sampirisi, William Ashman, Chantal Neveu, Angela Carr, Pierrette Valois Neveu, françois luong, Alicia Escott and Dave Dyment. The mix is interesting, and the idea behind the guest-edited issue is equally interesting, both of which were covered during eckhoff’s Ottawa talk, something I hope he might eventually expand upon in print at some point. Unfortunately for the journal itself, this issue holds as the final issue of the long run and shifting history of dANDelion magazine which, since its re-boot a few years back, has emerged as one of the most compelling and engaging (if occasionally uneven, what with the slate of guest-edited theme issues these past couple of years) literary journals in the country. I don’t know if they have managed to release a long-rumoured “official statement” at all, but I mourn the passing of dANDelion. What the hell happened?

MIAMI

August 23^rd, 2011

Is there area code in heaven?

How do I

Erase you from my head

Let alone your number

In my Blackberry

Its not like its of use

Anymore

Is than a new number up there?

How can I send you

Lover texts

I will never again see you

When I need to

Be reminded that

No one prances

Better than me

On the dance floor

Until I met you. (William Ashman)

There is something really quite magical about Alicia Escott’s work in the issue, her “Love Letters Sent Sometime Before the Continents Split.” As she writes in her short introduction:

This project began in January of 2011. The letters are written for people I care about, to animals that are now extinct, and are sent through the post office without the recipient knowing. The letters approach romance in geologic time scales, collapsing the lineage of evolution.

If you feel that you may need a love letter, you may contact me direct at aliciaescott.com. Briefly tell me something about yourself and provide your mailing address.

Included as scanned, printed letters, the letters are interspersed with archival photographs, and the letters open up something marvelous and unusual. There is something hopelessly sad, haunting and lyric to these letters to the already-lost. I can only hope to see more of this series, and perhaps at some point in trade book form.

January, 20, 2011

Letter to a Thick Billed Ground Dove. Extinct 1927.

My love,

Last week I set the clock on my iphone to December, 18^th 1914.

I was hoping I would be able to find you there.

But it did no good. Everything was just the same as it is now. And you were gone. So I am sending you this letter via post because I see no other way, it is too long to send in text, if that were even an option these days.

So much has happened since you left. Where do I begin? Not long after, the stock market crashed. Then they fixed it, but it would happen again. Then after that we discovered a relationship between mass and energy, but man alive, this has some drawbacks.

Then came rock n roll. More than anything I wish I could show you rock n roll, you would love it, I’m sure.

And there was the telephone, and then answering machines and call waiting and then caller id, and now you can have that with you always. Honestly.

There would never need to be these distances anymore.

But really, that’s not what I want to say.

How do I explain; you weren’t the only one to leave…. It’s been quite a time.

We’ve tried to stem the tide now, but… well…. I read they have little hope.

I was foolish. The last time we saw you, no one thought it was goodbye forever. Did you know then? I think sometimes that you did.

We looked everywhere for you in 2004-2005. Of course that was much, much too late… I’m sorry.

The little lines under my eyes don’t seem to go away when I stop smiling anymore. What I mean is, it happens so slowly that you don’t even realize how quickly it has passed by.

There are rock doves everywhere, as those places we used to know are mostly concrete now. They remind me of you…. these pigeons.

I can never forget,

Yours always,

Alicia Bainbridge Escott