Ongoing notes: late August, 2012

Do you know where summer disappeared to? I had rather hoped there’d be a bit more of it, around. But with autumn comes so many other things that a boy can look forward to (some forty days to the wedding, she tells me…). This past weekend, I was able to spend a day or so with my sister’s wee children (as she and her husband went to a golf tournament). A later August day, too cool for the swimming pool, so they played on a mound of dirt. Really?

And I’m sure you’ve been following my progress as editor during my month-long tenure at TRUCK, or the current above/ground press magnificent summer sale, celebrating our nineteen long years? Or the fact that I’ve now posted information on the fall 2012 ottawa small press book fair, now eighteen years old?

And why is it I get so many American chapbooks (which I love) and so few Canadian ones (which I would like to have the chance to also love)? Most of the chapbooks I receive by Canadian writers, it seems, are those produced by non-Canadian presses (Corrupt Press, Tinfish, dancing girl, unarmed). What’s even that about? I ask, I beg, I request…

Corvallis OR: From Sacrifice Press, I recently received a small handful of chapbooks they were attempting to produce monthly (the press is currently on hiatus), including Trick (March 2010) by Chris Kraus, 32 SNAPSHOTS OF MARSEILLES (April 2010) by Guy Bennett, whomeanswhat (June 2010) by Lars Palm, and Proverbs, From the INBOX Project (November 2010) by Jonathan Ball. Over the past few years, Winnipeg filmmaker and writer Jonathan Ball has been producing increasingly interesting works, and there’s already a new title forthcoming (but you just have to wait for it).

Possible Interpretation: Here talk means carries weight, in the sense that

it is influential. Life’s a bitch and then you marry one. Love is blind. Drink

deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring: There’s no accounting for taste.

Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves. Jove

but laughs at lover’s perjury. Rules are made to be broken. A coward dies

a thousand times before his death. The valiant never taste of death but

once. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. What you see is what

you get. You can’t run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. A good

surgeon has an eagle’s eye, and lion’s heart, and a lady’s hand. All’s well that

ends well. People who live in glass houses shouldn’t play golf. There ain’t

no such thing as a free lunch. Rolling stone gathers no moss. Fools rush in

where angels fear to tred. You can’t get there from here. Advice when

most needed is least heeded.

Ball’s chapbook Proverbs, From the INBOX Project suggests that this is part of a larger, book-length project, and the collage aspect of the work makes me interested to see how the work will hold together as a larger manuscript. Where is all of this leading?

Possible Interpretation: A need kept a secret will never be addressed. A

fellow describing the distinction between coral and king snakes. Life’s a

bleach and then you dye. It’s not the size of the boat.

The back of Los Angeles writer, translator, publisher and editor Guy Bennett’s 32 SNAPSHOTS OF MARSEILLES includes the note: “32 poems of 32 words on 32 places in Marseilles. Each poem can be read in 32 seconds or less yet contains thought enough for 32 minutes of reflection or more. The author accepts that only 32 people will ever read or see these poems but would not be disappointed to be proven wrong.” It’s a bold statement, certainly, that each poem “contains thought enough for 32 minutes of reflection or more.” The poems are quick and certainly sharp, with a meditative quality I quite liked. There’s far more than here than meets the initial eye.

place de lorette

      where the wind is

      good the wall

  flat plastered

      with paintings children

made elderly women hobble

      the slope smooth

samba trombones

  with

  flies buzz

hand stuck out

window shakes

        handkerchief

Los Angeles CA: Nearly a year later, tricklings of dusie 5 kollectiv items appear still, with the appearance of Larkin Higgins’ poetry chapbook of materials, implements (2011). I’m very intrigued by the poems included here, intrigued by the stretches of open space, the lines pulled apart from themselves to understand the pauses and gaps inherent, echoing some of the rare spaces of poet Emily Carr.

No Sinecure : influenced by aire

was not tied                    was not sealed    flew

open from the force of the impact

Duplicate boxes

 already packed                                          and

in my pocket

                                                                 three things to-

gether in my hand?

   bee-brooch

   too puzzled

   too keen

the cheapest shot in the game                  dear

ones

                        fool’s errand

   some things are worth pay-

ing                   certain risks

Ongoing notes: early November, 2011

[last week's McLeod Street maple off our backyard stoop, the loveliest candy apple red] Another ottawa small press book fair, November 5 (with the pre-fair reading the night before, featuring Lillian Necakov, Leo Brent Robillard and a rare appearance by Nicholas Lea, with special mystery guest); just a matter of days. By then, might you have recovered from your ottawa international writers festival hangover?

Of course, coming up as well, two launches of my most recent poetry collection, A (short) history of l. (BuschekBooks); in Toronto at the Art Bar, November 22, and in Ottawa at Collected Works, November 23. And have you seen my blog posts starting to appear on The Capilano Review blog? I'm posting alongside George Bowering, Lisa Robertson and Pauline Butling for another two months or so.

Ottawa ON: For her recent forty-eighth birthday, Ottawa poet, editor and publisher Amanda Earl gave out copies of this new, intangible something (Ottawa ON: AngelHousePress / le Temps des Cerises, October 15, 2011), produced in an edition of forty-eight copies “for dear friends / on the occasion of my 48^th birthday.” Written in a montage of prose-blocks and lyric sweeps and breaks, the poems build into something that stops just short of explanation, letting the poem make sense on exactly its own terms. In this newest work, the prose blocks feel as though they are the meat of the sequence, with the other sections existing almost as the “Greek chorus,” the mortar that somehow holds it all together.

there are many lost. socks in the

laundry. cotton blends. with holey

heels. empty & expectant. for feet.

for their homologue. kindred soles.

i like. the idea of a pun. it is silly. i

am delighted. by unexpected

twists. in language. they are

harmless. i take on the quality of

doing no damage. of being

undamaged. i wear body armour.

Earl's writing over the past couple of years has emerged in the form of larger projects, each with another element of the magpie, picking up structural elements and incorporating into her own repertoire. What is this new, intangible something, and is it the beginnings of another larger project, alongside book-length works on Kiki of Monparnasse, “All the Catherines,” and her more recent sequence-in-progress of ghazals? Part of what has always appealed about Earl's writing is her ability to explore, and her willingness to try on different structures, to see what works. There are very few poets around with her sense of daring, and her curiosity.

on the tombstone there were no

flowers. it was unmarked &

dateless. i like the idea of

November. there is something

about seeing the bare bark of a

tree. i listen to Pachelbel's canon. a

rediscovered. i like the idea of art

being immortal. the basso

continuo. i take on the qualities of

a voice. i speak into the

megaphone. everyone walks by. i

have something important to say.

but no one is listening.

Kāne'ohe HI: The fifth in Tinfish's monthly “Retro Series” of chapbooks (check here for my review of some of the previous in the same series) is Yellow by Margaret Rhee, a wonderful mix of sound and image. As she writes in the last stanza of the poem “Nectarines,” “My parents made love sometime in the year of 1983. I was born in the Hollywood hospital. I have dad's / mouth & mom's eyes. I'm a crossbreed. Or a hybrid. Magnificent mixed breed. Am I a nectarine?” I love the mix and mash of this, the stylistic variety in such a small space, and wonder what she might be able to do on a larger canvas. Who is this Margaret Rhee, and is there a trade collection of some sort on the horizon?

At The Blue Moon Cafe

We met at the Blue Moon Cafe Friday

Behind his seat was a blue painted moon

A date or not a date I think I pray

I gaze into his eyes and think of June

The gurl I used to love, whose brown eyes mowed

My heart into lumps of red wet clay

His eyes were still the same—as Derrida

Would say—only body part that never

Changes, even as you age. June now Pete.

Pete, with his hands folded strong, like men do.

Pete, who doesn't like most people, but me.

Pete, who has a partner, but isn't happy.

Keeping options open, I see no inch

Of gurl in him anymore, only man

Who sits before me, smiles like the moon

Some things you cannot change

Some things you just have to hope and pray

France: There is something of the poetic style of Fredericton poet Joe Blades in Swedish poet Lars Palm's trade collection, road songs for (France: Corrupt Press, 2011), specifically the notetaking journal entry poems of Blades' open road west (Fredericton NB: Broken Jaw Press, 2000). Writing shorthand as poem, Palm's collection, unlike Blades, exists more as a montage of considerations, travel and other experiences, travelling through not only geography but his own experiences as a reader.

it feels like

friday. it feels

like ridicule. it

feels like hanging

out to dry. it

feels like fishing

lines. it feels like

a hook. it feels

like captain or

doctor. it feels like

a reverend father

& his ill begotten

reverend son. it

feels somehow like

a hammer

In a collection of travel poems that move their way across various ports of Europe, many of these pieces feel directly like shorthand journal entries, and Palm seems most effective in the shorter poems, the tighter ones. Still, these aren't only poems composed in response to travel, but in response to other writers, dedicating poems to Charles Bernstein, Christian Hawkey, Eileen Tabios and others while adapting their forms, making this a collection composed in direct response to various kinds of exploration.

(small treatise on

the habits of balls)

for Jonathan Ball

bouncing. paris was closed cold dark & rainy. more annoying than romantic. another jumper writing notes on how to fly dogs out of the islands. entry blocked by elephants. their drivers say nobody here even heard of mutual aid. or wolves. rolling. the navy base is quiet. a little too quiet. let's riot. & possibly general health. or cathcart. if he ever got himself promoted. not with a bang. but with fangs bared. barred the door. flying over fences. barred the door. flying over fences. fending off airplanes. he fancies himself the bane of all things winged. & rosie rings. a ring of roses. hoses pose as toasters. causing a small diplomatic brouhaha. all but forgotten three days later. when finally the ball is set rolling. bouncing all over the square. where had it been made of metal instead of leather. perish the thought. though the thought was tougher than that. just sat down on the ball & said diddly squat. hurting when squeezed or kicked. swear by your nearly extinct balls. calls back immediately. rosie says she rang a bell. bell calls from his resting place saying do not disturb him. he will get back to work when he feels like it. in the meantime do what you will with the roses. or go to paris in the spring. & spring that trap. now clap. one hand

ongoing notes: Easter Sunday, 2008

Is it Easter where you are? It seems to be Easter here.

Have you been keeping track of the “12 or 20 questions” series? There are plenty more up over the past little while. Will I see you in April, when I launch my collection of essays (while talking about Sheila Watson + Elizabeth Smart) at the ottawa international writers festival (despite the fact that, I recently found out, it won’t be ready yet), & later, at Audrey’s Books? Did you see the John Newlove review that Paul Vermeersch did in the Globe, the interview in The Danforth Review with the editor of same, this review I did of a recent George Bowering chapbook, or the other reviews I did for Verse? Or this new poem of mine, & this other one? These photos of some recent Edmonton/Ottawa/Red Deer adventures?

Pearl said nice things about me recently (she told me not to link, but it was so sweet!); also check out links from John W. MacDonald and Charles Earl. Or what Billy Little said about John Newlove? Or this link referencing me Ottawa book?

St. Catharines ON: The new version of Brock University’s literary journal, The Harpweaver, renamed pRECIPICE, is perhaps the closest any Canadian journal has come to the goals and accomplishments of the late-lamented Queen Street Quarterly [see my note on same here], as far as form and content. It’s magnificent to see former Ottawa resident and Montreal scribe Wanda O’Connor [see my earlier note on her here] publishing again. And who is this Kate Eichorn, publishing odd mixes of poetry and prose that I would love to see in larger form. Is there a book coming? The issue also includes some quality work by Stephen Cain [see his 12 or 20 questions here], Jay MillAr [see his 12 or 20 questions here], Maureen Hynes, Aaron Giovannone, extremely interesting visuals by derek beaulieu [see his 12 or 20 questions here], Camille Martin, Stan Rogal [see his 12 or 20 questions here] and others. Editors Gregory Betts [see his 12 or 20 questions here] and Adam Dickinson [see his 12 or 20 questions here] are doing a fantastic job; I can’t wait to see more.

Barbed Wire and Wild Roses

I swore sex was a word
we were not allowed to say. Our parents

held it away from us
when we played hide’n’seek with homework due

while frogs sang late in the evening
and train whistles narrowed the distance of neighbourhoods.

One clear, spring day, Cole, Jessy and me
ducked over the fence of a dead end street,

crossed the tracks, and the farmer’s field,
to the old cow pond. Cole

had a magazine from his Dad’s dresser.
We sat behind a barbed wire fence of wild pink roses,

studied a landscape of mushrooms and flowers. But,
Jessy’s sister had followed again with her friend.

“Like allergies,” He said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
We hid the book, sank stones in the murky water.

Until Donna screamed, “Look what they got.”
She went swimming. Cole followed.

In the noon sun, we played truth or dare
in the stubble wheat. (Keith Inman)

San Francisco CA: In the mail recently, I received the first issue of a very svelte and very gracefully-produced little journal from San Francisco called Mrs. Maybe, edited by Lauren Levin and Jared Stanley.

DEVOTIO MODERNA

Who but us
could know wisdom’s cut,

the pain of pain’s
leaving, same as you?

Who would smooth us to
a circle? You would. You would.

You and your planet. You
and your flagrant blue room. (Graham Foust)

As the magazine itself states, “MRS. MAYBE, after whom this journal is named, is the medium who conducts the séance in Robert Duncan’s play Adam’s Way.”

APOTROPAIC UNIFORM

Let’s stand together on the soft ground
I will give you these things which will protect you on the journey.
White bird has feathers as one thousand inverted ribs
he’ll stand lovingly on your head, there now
hold up this vase and its small swamp
like a lantern with a dirty glow.
Thin piece of foil trimmed into the shape of a sickle
and pasted to your chest.
At your side the thin deer with the asshole shriveling like a rose.
Opera glasses dripping with paint, and
birch cane hooked on the forearm.

You’re ready to gallop into the infinite stage
of a city garden. (Jessica Savitz)

A fine publication (with, unfortunately, no biographical information on any of the authors), the first issue, produced in a run of 100 copies, features the work of a number of writers both new and familiar, including Jessica Daniels, Stephanie Young, Aaron McCollough, Marisa Libbon, Catherine Theis and Avery Burns. One of the pieces that immediately jumps out is Aaron McCollough’s [see my review of his most recent book here; see his 12 or 20 questions] poem “FOURTEEN,” that includes

the pigeons on the wire
up in the canada wind
look headless

Malmö, Sweden: I just got two little publications from Lars Palm, Swedish poet [see what he wrote about me once here], including the seven poem riot and Death Is (Lake Country BC: by the skin of me teeth press, 2007). What really intrigued me, apart from the Canadian publication by our own Kevin McPherson Eckhoff, is the seven poem self-publication, made in an edition of 40 for a poetry festival in October last year. Not all of them work, playing with and twisting old standards, but when they do work, they do with such a lovely ease. What is it about these small pieces that compels?

(be or bee)

to
or not
that
question

slingshot
pebbles
(not arrows) at
the forces that
occupy

shake spears
only in lower
case of
emergency

or he
whispered for
poking fun

Toronto ON: If you are at all interested in concrete/visual poetry, you have to get a copy of Jenny Sampirisi’s other clutter: an and-thology (other clutter, 2007), featuring the work of Gary Barwin [see his 12 or 20 questions here], Nico Vassilakis, Chris Major, A. Rawlings, Jesse Patrick Ferguson, Darrell Etherington, Johnny Smoke, John Barlow, Aaron Tucker, Dan Waber, Derek Beaulieu, Michael Murphy, Jeremy Hight and Mike Freeman. Coming out of her other clutter website and produced in a numbered edition of sixty copies, this graceful little production has one of the finer selections of concrete/visual that I’ve seen in quite some time. You should definitely start paying attention.