London (Ontario) Calling : report from Greg Curnoe's studio, Doctor Who + Antler River Poetry,

In case you hadn't heard, I took a VIA train nearly two weeks ago to London, Ontario for the sake of a reading I was doing through Antler River Poetry, which is pretty exciting. Given the length of the train (five hours to Toronto; an hour's wait; two-plus hours into London), the series was good enough to provide me with two nights of hotel, so I didn't have to worry about reading on a travel-day. I wandered leisurely across a Tuesday west along lakeshore, into, through, and beyond Toronto suburbs and into the wilds of Southwestern Ontario. The new Joyelle McSweeney title (which lands properly in April), I should have you know, is astounding.

I can't even remember the last time I did a reading in London, Ontario (and I seem not to have done notes about such, although I know I read there circa 1998 or so) [but you saw my report on my prior reading, when I ventured in Toronto for Art Bar, yes?]. I spent the train ride there sketching out edits on my book-length genealogical essay (you are following along with posted excerpts of this work-in-progress via my substack, yes?), and the train ride home sketching out edits on short stories, along with moving through a small handful of previously-unread books as I stared out the window. Oh, the cold. Oh, the minus fourteen of London, Ontario.

Once there, I slipped and slid the two blocks from train station to hotel (which was chilly, admittedly, once inside), and had considered venturing out for proper food and a drink or two until I caught that the hotel had a CLASSIC DOCTOR WHO CHANNEL. How was I expected to leave the hotel after discovering that? I'd already been moving the past few weeks through the Tom Baker period, and managed to move further through Baker and into the Peter Davidson run. Some stellar stuff there. Interesting to see earlier stories that are later referenced in the reboot era (my knowledge of Doctor Who began with the 2005 reboot; I was vaguely aware of it as a youth, but I never quite managed to get into it then).

Wednesday morning I sat for an hour or so with coffee, bags and a notebook at a small place on the corner (working on drafts of short stories), and saw a car run a red light, which seemed stunning. Again, minus fourteen. Downtown London has an enormous amount of smoke shops, and businesses you need to ring into, and reminded me of downtown Winnipeg, or Vanier, with nicer/older buildings. I managed a couple of used bookstores, and even found copies of books by myself and Christine (and a copy of Jean McKay's Gone to Grass, which I finished reading while in hospital awaiting Aoife's birth); should I have picked them up? Cheaper than perhaps I paid for my author copies, most of them. Instead, I floated through the historical titles and picked up a couple of guidebooks from Upper Canada Village, hoping there might be some information there I require for my genealogical researches. I ended up at Moxies for lunch, which felt like nonsense, but most of the more interesting places looked a bit dodgy (including a pizza place that hadn't any windows, which is always a bit of a red flag). Stupid Moxies. The food was tolerable, and the televisions were relentless (Moxies requires a safe space, naturally, to allow no distractions while your soul slowly leaves your body). And then, I saw another car run a red light. Um, what?

I had mentioned to Penn Kemp a week or so prior that I'd made a pilgrimage to the late Greg Curnoe's house at the end of July [see my note on such here], not wishing to bother his widow, Sheila, by what would have been a random stranger ringing her doorbell. I lingered on the street for a bit, which I was content enough with, at the time. Kemp (who had been Curnoe's assistant during a brief period in her teens: if you want to know more about that, I recommend James King's 2017 biography, THE WAY IT IS: The Life of Greg Curnoe, although the writing is a bit dry, which was surprising for such a lively subject and subject matter) was kind enough to respond by arranging a visit to the house, and Sheila and Penn picked me up at the hotel mid-afternoon (and we saw another car run a red light: that's three I saw on that day alone doing such). Sheila was such a delightful, generous host, and we sat and chatted the three of us in the Curnoe kitchen for a while before she took me into the studio, where Greg Curnoe (1936-1992) produced some twenty-plus years of artwork before his untimely death. I was there for a couple of hours, and it was completely glorious. We chatted, gossiped a bit (ahem), and Sheila was gracious enough to offer me copies of the original "big little" duo The Great Canadian Sonnet (Coach House Press, 1970) by David McFadden, that Curnoe did all the artwork for (a single reprint edition was produced through Coach House Books more recently; you should find a copy if you can).

And, oh, this absolutely beautiful dollhouse Curnoe made for their daughter when she was young. Completely the kind of dollhouse that could only be produced by Greg Curnoe. Oh, Sheila Curnoe and Penn Kemp, thank you again for this kindness, this gift, of being allowed into this space. Pilgrimage, indeed. So very very cool. (I was abuzz most of the rest of the day, as you might imagine).

After being dropped back at the hotel for a quick bite (and further Doctor Who), one of the organizers collected me from the hotel DURING WHICH WE LITERALLY SAW ANOTHER CAR RUN A RED LIGHT; THAT IS FOUR TIMES I SAW CARS RUN RED LIGHTS IN A SINGLE DAY IN DOWNTOWN LONDON, ONTARIO. THIS IS CLEARLY A LAWLESS PLACE. The reading itself opened with "local opener" poets Sunday Ajak reading a couple of poems, followed by Katie Jeresky and Penn Kemp, who each read from their contributions to the three-poet chapbook (the third being Jessica Lee McMillan) Intent on Flowering (Rose Garden Press, 2024). Poet Kit Roffey was scheduled to be there to read from their recent 845 Press poetry debut, Civilian of Dirt (2023) [see my review of such here], but was under the weather, so publisher Aaron Schneider read in their stead (it is a really good chapbook debut, I should say). It was very good, also, to hear Karen Schindler read from her chapbook debut (I was startled to realize it was only her debut!) from Gaspereau Press, THE SAD TRUTH (2023) [see my review of such here]. And Tom Cull was there! Very good to meet him. And Jason Dickson! And Sarah Marie! And Tom Prime! It was a solid crowd, honestly.

And then I read!

photo of myself reading, by Misha Bower / Antler River Poetry

There was even a bit of a conversation after, during which host and moderator David Barrick asked a couple of us publisher-sorts (being Karen and myself as features, the evening had been framed as a small press event) about submitting, publishing and other sorts of things: Karen, myself, Aaron and the two Michelles (whom I had not previously met) from Rose Garden Press (I had a chapbook with them a while back; remember?).

After the reading, I convinced Aaron that we should head out for drinks, which was an awful lot of fun; he says we originally met at a pub once in Kingston, but I couldn't think of a time I was in Kingston out for drinks without doing a reading (he says there wasn't a reading; if there had been, he would have been there), so I have no idea when that would have been. Otherwise, it was good to spend time with him and get a better sense of him, his writing, his press, etcetera. I'm curious to see where 845 Press, and, for that matter, The Temz Review, goes next. He's doing some solid work.

And then it was back to the hotel for some more Doctor Who, which began again with first light. Peter Davidson!

And the train again, around 10am. Making notes and reading an interesting collection of collected writings by American poet and critic Susan Gevirtz, among other items. Back to Toronto, briefly. Back to Ottawa. All in all a glorious trip. Have you thought of heading out towards London?

Ongoing notes, mid-January 2024: Karen Schindler + Kit Roffey,

Don’t forget that the VERSeFest fundraiser is still going on, yes? We’re working to get some spring festival happening! There are new perks being added pretty regularly. Oh yes, and you saw there’s an event next week through The Factory Reading Series?

London ON/Kentville NS: It was interesting to hear Baseline Press publisher Karen Schindler read the other night in London from what was described as her chapbook debut, THE SAD TRUTH (Kentville NS: Gaspereau Press, 2023). The notion of the “debut” surprised me, as I’d somehow simply presumed she’d had a chapbook or two by now, but apparently not. I’m intrigued by the framing of Schindler’s poems, fourteen first-person lyric narratives prompted by titles that each begin “The Sad Truth About,” offering a kind of echo of, for example, Anne Carson’s classic Short Talks (Brick Books, 1992); some of Schindler’s titles include such as “THE SAD TRUTH ABOUT ENGINEERS,” “THE SAD TRUTH ABOUT FOUR SMALL THINGS” and “THE SAD TRUTH ABOUT FAIRY TALE ENDINGS,” a poem that begins: “Once there was a swan maiden who rose / from the lake to find a young woodsman // standing on the moonlit shore. Is that a heart / in his hands? Or this one: your name // is Charlie and you’re waiting in a bar.” Moving from poems set as prose-blocks to poems set as couplets, there are some interesting variations on how she utilizes space between lines, and there is something that the spaces between her lines allows that doesn’t seem to hold as well in the prose blocks: a halt, a pause, that sets her phrases and moments to sparkle just a bit more; these pieces allow for a finer sense of pacing, of ease, somehow. As the first poem in the quartet “THE SAD TRUTH ABOUT FOUR SMALL THINGS,” “TREE FROG,” writes:

I discover it, as I have to, in mountain-top cloud forests.
Ranked with those from other parts of the world,

this one is smallest. Three toes, two fingers.
A head not big enough for ears. They say it hears

through its mouth; its call is a heart-breaking wraak
Looking at it, I struggle to keep my balance. Six pence,

button, mustard seed. Its grief will not be determined.
A creature so humble, hopelessness is its reason why.

The “THE SAD TRUTH ABOUT” prompt she has designed herself suggests a larger project, and it would be interesting to see if this chapbook translates eventually into a full-length collection.

London ON: Another debut presented the other night in London was Kit Roffey’s Civilian of Dirt (London ON: 845 Press, 2023), a selection of thirteen poems of clipped lyric, some of which are dense prose poems, and others stretched-out sequences. “I’m objecting to oblivion.” the poem “Paring Knife, Elastic Bands, Soon” opens, “Wobbly hands resurrecting a crum- / pled aluminum foil ball. Faith-folded inwards. De-compress / until the surface area becomes bigger than my palm.” There’s a propulsive quality to these lines I quite like, a staggered, staccato, swagger impulse that pushes across and down each page, one that manages to continue, almost point-form (or pointillist) across the seven-poem sequence “Ruby-Chewed, EveryDay,” the sixth section of which reads: “None of this trust me there will be no more of self this.” I’m startled by this small collection; you should read this small collection. You should be watching for the poems of Kit Roffey.

Roaming Skin, 2014DropOut

I know where I melt like plastic
over a Bunsen burner. I know where
I deplete like fog. Nothing that comes
and goes is untrue. Temporally lace
like. The grade school cult devoted
to earthworms. The height of my
kicks measured our teeth. Puddling on
the carpet. I know where my skin will
settle when final forms are overrated
and the best I can give is a wound.

 

rob reads next week in London ON at Antler River Poetry with Karen Schindler!

 

the ottawa small press book fair (part two,

[jwcurry's Room 302 Books table]

‘Tis the season of small press fairs, it would seem [see my first post on our 25th anniversary fair here; my fourth post on the Meet the Presses Indie Literary Market here; my posts on the Toronto International Festival of Authors’ Small Press Market here]. And you saw my recent post on who came to our first fairway back in October, 1994, yes?

Ottawa ON: I’m charmed by the array of small mini-chapbooks that Dessa Bayrock produces through her post ghost press, with some of her most recent offerings including the wishing well: a suite of found poems (2019) by Rose Hunter, brilliant blooming voices (2019) by mj santiago, Monster (Girl) Theory (2019) by Kanika Lawton, and Blessing (2019) by Victoria Nugent (and did you see they now also have poetry socks?). Producing more chapbooks over the course of a year than most, post ghost press focuses, it would seem, pretty heavily (but not exclusively) upon emerging authors (which is often the case with such enterprises; working to support and produce writing and writers not necessarily being supported otherwise). There is an energy to these small publications that is quite charming, from the DIY cut-up design to the confidence that only comes through from emerging authors. As Kanika Lawton writes in her small chapbook/sequence:

I am good enough to bring to your mother’s house.

I will eat from her china plates and wipe off the crumbs.

I will be the perfect false-daughter.

I am bad enough to show to your friends.

Don’t act so shocked. You know I only look innocent.

I promise I’ll only break your neck with my teeth.

Some of the strongest poems of this assemblage comes from mj santiago; for example, “Anything that emerges from my body / becomes my responsibility / the moment it is visible,” is just stellar. One can see the emergence of something working its way up to some very fine sharpness:

my mom says, this is how we die

For the fourth night in a row

I vomit overcooked meat onto the floor.

It does not slip out easily while I sleep

but is hacked out onto the tile

surrounded by my history made tangible

Through the lining of my esophagus.

Anything that emerges from my body

becomes my responsibility

the moment it is visible.

I dream all of the ways

I will clean up after fate.

Ottawa ON: I’ve been very impressed with the quality and attention of the literary and community work that Canthius journal has been doing over the past few years, whether in print, online (such as Manahil Bandukwala’s recent interview with Baseline Press editor/publisher Karen Schindler) or as part of one of their expansive multi-city launch parties. Managing editor/founder Claire Farley, with a recently-shifted assemblage of writers and editors in the editorial collective, have been working on their semi-annual “feminism and literary arts” journal long enough, now, to have released their seventh issue, featuring the work of Pearl Pirie, Sanna Wani, Jade Wallace, Terese Pierre, Kirby, M. Brett Gaffney, Annick MacAskill, Melanie Power, Kari Teicher, Sanchari Sur, Margaret Christakos, Émilie Kneifel, Karen Schindler, Jane Shi, Barâa Arar, Allie Duff, Natalia Orasani and Jesse Holth, as well as artwork by (and accompanying interview with) Rowan Red Sky. While I am familiar with more than half the names here, I am intrigued to be introduced to the luscious and powerful prose of Émilie Kneifel, such as the second half of the poem “Sharing Again,” that reads:

hanging silence, not even bye. you sit on his bed which holds in a breath. it collapses toward you; it tumbles him down. he of the drowsy hands, dulled-out reaching, pulls you to the peak of him. he clasps your head with the whole of his hand, your hair his veil, rumbling like a rock bed because you unleashed your old braids. he says i’m sorry like he always does like he always sleeps closest to the ground. which is its own kind of pattern. you nod, nod, nod. the dog tucks into the statue that still isn’t yours and you saddle your hand on him because he is just good. pungent as colour. your dad thumbs your steep face. arcs the crag of your nose. like a worry stone. says. “my pounpoun” (your oldest nickname. butchered french) “always so joyful on the outside, always so— thoughtful. on the inside.” he rustles your hair as your head accrues all the room’s static. “so many thoughts.” so he can see the roiling. “i wish i knew what they were” is what he mouths as you think it.

Part of the appeal of Canthius, apart from simply being a journal of some strong writing, is akin to what I mentioned in my notes on post ghost press: their continuing engagement with the work of emerging writers, and there are an enormous amount of writers from across Canada (and, occasionally, beyond) coming up that Canthius has been publishing and championing. The strength of Canthius comes from their ability to provide space for an array of literary voices, moving from the performance lyric to short bursts of prose to the boundaries of language poetry, holding their interest across a range of narratives and narrative lines, as Kari Teicher writes to open her poem “i told raw. –”:

he asks me for a story.

I can tell him anything, new or old

with Easter candy, we lie naked

feet-up, feet-down

and I tell him about the first grade

when Miss Moss sent me

to the principal,

made me show how I twisted

my shirt around, made my

tank top

into a

bra.

how to explain

Shania Twain is your idol.

Keep in mind, also, that this is one of the journals affected by Doug Ford’s government deciding to cut a section of funding to the Ontario Arts Council, which left Canthius without necessary funds to continue publishing, so I will suggest that, yes, you should totally subscribe.

Christine Walde, THE BLACK CAR, Reflections on Lethe

One of the first three publications by brand-new chapbook publisher Baseline Press, run out of London, Ontario by Karen Schindler, is THE BLACK CAR, Reflections on Lethe by London, Ontario poet Christine Walde, writes between the mythology of Lethe and the poems of Sylvia Plath. As she writes in her “Afterword”:

In Greek mythology, Lethe was one of the five rivers of Hades that flowed around the cave of Hypnos and through the underworld. Some ancient Greeks believed that souls were made to drink from the river before being reincarnated, so they would not remember their past lives. All those who drank from it experienced complete forgetfulness.

I first encountered Lethe through the poems of Sylvia Plath, who first mentions it in her poem “Two Campers in Cloud Country (Rock Lake, Canada),” which she wrote during her 1959 camping trip across Canada and the US with her husband, poet Ted Hughes. Overwhelmed by the landscape, at the end of the poem she writes: “Around our tent the old simplicities sough / Sleepily as Lethe, trying to get in. / We’ll wake blank-brained as water in the dawn.” I was compelled by Plath’s usage of Lethe, since it suggested to me the idea of the Canadian landscape as the underworld. Plath makes reference to this imagery again in her poem “Crossing the Water,” in which she directly names Canada: as “two black, cut-paper people” cross a black lake in a black boat, “cold worlds shake from the oar.”

Later in her writing career, Plath visited Lethe in two Ariel poems, including “Amnesiac” – “Sweet Lethe is my life” – and “Getting There,” where Plath likens the “gigantic gorilla interior” of the river to a train car – a black car – that she steps up from, reborn as a newborn baby. What profoundly resonated with me was the idea that a river in Hell could be both a source of death and rebirth.

As part of a larger work-in-progress that deals with Plath and Hughes’ trip to Canada, many of these poems directly reference some of Plath’s words and phrases, often placing Plath and Hughes directly in the landscape of my imagining. Others are meditations on forgetting, and visit other poets’ work on the subject of Lethe, including poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay, H.D., and Charles Baudelaire.

There is something about the combination of Lethe and Plath/Hughes that I find intriguing in these poems, that, individually, I would find less so. The amount of poetry collections centred around either a mythological or historical figure over the past decade or two have been frightening, with so many doing little more than replicating previous material in fairly mundane, and repetitive, ways. Here is the first section of the six-part “Underworld,” that writes:

black water

cutting

beneath the boat

wishing you

had taken the oars

instead of him

wishing you

had done

so much more

Part of what is intriguing about this lovely small chapbook, limited to an edition of seventy-five copies, is in Walde’s movement through different styles, fusing her poetic line with those of a number of other poets, providing an interesting range, but, in only nine poems, one that doesn’t really give too much of a sense of where the final manuscript might be headed. 

With such a project, it could be quite easy to get caught up in the limitations of influence instead of using influence as a springboard towards something far greater. I am enjoying the teasers of these small poems, and the thoughtful lines and line breaks of some of these pieces, intrigued to see more.

The Old Simplicities

They are the accrual

of the ancients: dilapidated

sins. They push

and pull

at my meager points, dullards

of insistence. O how

they tease! To be more than

this. While I reckon eternity

in a handful of dust.

The insubstantial drifts

Before their complacency,

The soft slough of time.

Sweet Aeneas!
I moult and moult, a pedigree

of shades, perfected

by lies. Each night

they resurrect me

to their temple:

a paradise of yawns.

Numb, I acquiesce

my capture

to the beige menagerie

of the wild. There is

nothing left to do. Sleepily

I dream and falter,

making myths to the end.