Showing posts with label Olive Reading Series. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Olive Reading Series. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 15, 2020

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Paul Pearson

Paul Pearson is the co-founding editor and chapbook designer for the Olive Reading Series. His poems have appeared in Descant and Event, and the anthology Writing the Land: Alberta Through Its Poets from House of Blue Skies. Raised in a mining town in the mountainous back-country of southeastern British Columbia, Paul has since relocated to Edmonton where he lives and writes with his wife and two children. Lunatic Engine is his debut collection.

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 book, Lunatic engine, is coming out with Turnstone in April 2020. This damn thing took me more than a decade to write so it didn't so much change my life as become my life.  That being said, the book I'm working on now is much more focused. Its kind of like I got all the yips out with the first one and now I can really get down to some serious work.

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

-Its odd, isn't it? As kids we are exposed to much more prose than poetry. Sure there is the obligatory Shel Silverstein we were all read back in the 70's but for the most part, fiction dominated and I always assumed I would be a novelist when I grew up. Then, in Junior High, I won a district-wide Remembrance Day poetry contest that our Language Arts teacher made everyone enter as a homework assignment. I found my price at age thirteen: $50 and the thrill (and corresponding fame, short-lived as it may be) of reading my work in front of an audience.

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 am an extremely slow writer. Big Ideas come quickly but sit and marinate for months as I try out various things, make false starts, fart around. Every now and then though, something will come out pretty much fully formed. Its that adrenaline hit that keeps me going.

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?


- Almost every single poem I've ever written has started with the title. Back in my student days, poems were standalone little things. I found it hard to keep any writing momentum up that way though and very quickly I discovered that I need a frame, a box, some restrictions, a reason, a thing. Nothing I write now isn't part of something larger.

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

- One of the reasons why Andy Weaver and I cooked up the Olive Reading Series was that we believed that poetry needs to be read aloud as much as it needs to be examined on the page. For me, these two facets of poetry are inseparable. I quite often try things out on open stages, see how a piece lives (or dies) when exposed to the open air and an audience. And while I read prose silently, I always read poetry aloud, a habit for which my kids have mocked me endlessly.

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?

- This is a big question. I don't write poetry because I figure I've got something to say. I love playing with language, the facets of sound. But I also don't use language for only its sound, its rhythm. For me, its all about generating the largest emotional impact with the fewest words. I write poetry to try to make a genuine connection through rhetorical tricks other than a logical progression of arguments. I love sound, and play, and multiple (contradictory) meanings, and imagery, and rhythm, and allusion, and non sequitur, and shape, and humour, and hyperbole and yes, litotes, and all the other tools and tricks you learn in English classes - though not punctuation, I seldom use punctuation in my poems. I use all of these not to make a point, not to convince you of something, but to connect to something, to connect to you. To share.

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?

- Ok. My current experience is that there is a desperate dearth of critical thinking in the various public spheres with which I come into contact. The commodification of our very attention now trumps genuine discourse. If it isn't viral consumerism overwhelming your feeds, its someone with an ideological bullhorn shouting at you. With the vast majority of content coming AT you, finding an arena where there is as much listening as telling, as much back as forth, is becoming absolutely essential. Writers are the ones who create that space for discourse, for rhetoric, debate, conversation, exploration. And closer to home for me, it is poetry that attempts to do this on an emotional level.

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


- I find the process of working with an outside editor absolutely exhilarating! Writing is such a solitary pursuit 99 per cent of the time. A good editor, someone who sees and understands what you're doing, what you're attempting to do, is like having a co-conspirator. Chances are no one is going to read your work as closely and as deeply as your editor.  When you have a good one, there is nothing like it.

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

- I was fortunate enough to spend some time with Don McKay when he was writer in residence at the U of A back in the 90's. He taught me to look at each poem as its own thing. Sometimes the title of a poem is also its first line, sometimes it is not.

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?

- Building a career in the civil service and then having kids really put a crimp in my days. "Lunatic Engine" was written mostly in school hallways and poolside at the YMCA and in the observation area at the gymnastics club. It was great! Swimming lessons gave me 90 minutes uninterrupted every Wednesday evening. Choir rehearsals, piano lessons, and gymnastics, were all opportunities for both positive parenting and writing time. Now that the kids are older though and have fewer activities, I find myself having to schedule writing time in my outlook calendar the same way I schedule dental appointments and haircuts. Seriously, can we all just agree and institute a Universal Basic Income program now so that I can quit my job and do what I really love? A close friend of mine reminded me last week, when I was complaining about not having enough time to create, that I'm closer now to retirement than to my 20's and that I'll still have a good 2 or 3 decades left after that. And with that I finally understood the true meaning of "cold comfort."

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


- Music. Because writing involves so much of both sides of the brain, I find it necessary to regularly switch off the left brain and give the right brain a little slack in the reins. And sleep. Seriously. A few years ago I was finally diagnosed with severe sleep apnea. Testing showed I would stop breathing an average of three times each minute. I was given a CPAP machine to to keep me from dying in the night. The first morning I woke up after a real 7 hour sleep, I thought I had been reborn:  do you people feel like this ALL THE TIME ?!?!?! So much easier to write when you're not falling asleep all the time.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

- There's a certain type of synthetic fibre used in some stuffed animals. The teddy bear my grandfather gave me when I was born smelled a certain way. A couple of my kids' stuffed animals had that same smell. More than any food or environmental odour, a certain polyester does it for me.

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?


- I am a complete omnivore for sensory input. As noted above, music tops the list but I'm also very visual and I spend a lot of time with photography and graphic design. But that's not where I generally get ideas for books. I get ideas for books from other ideas. I listen to a ton of audiobooks and podcasts. I'm a total sci-fi junky and science in general provides me with a lot of inspiration. I really think there is something to the emerging theories of ideasthesia, that semantic representations induce sensory reactions and that is the basis for consciousness. There is no difference between sensory perceptions and thought. Mind and brain are one.

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

- The list of writers or writings that have been important for my work is a long, long list. For poetry, Brenda Shaughnessy's The Octopus Museum has its tentacles firmly wrapped around me right now. I also just discovered the fiction of Claire North. The Sudden Appearance of Hope and The First 15 Lives of Harry August blew my mind this winter. And when is Ada Palmer going to publish the next Terra Ignota novel? Charles Stross is always a delightful indulgence as well. Since his passing last year I've slowly been re-reading Patrick Lane. He was hugely formative for me in my undergraduate years, alongside Sheila Watson. The Double Hook is still my favourite novel by a Canadian. And Tom King's short fiction. Jeepers!  And like you rob, a special corner of my heart has been set aside for Richard Brautigan. I'm also going to play the stereotypical English major right now and say that I am never far from Shakespeare. My beat up copy of the Pelican Shakespeare and the King James version of the Old Testament are nearly always within arm's reach.

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

-  Huh, now that's an interesting question and one that makes a number of assumptions. Publishing a book has been my number one goal since I was a kid. While I've been working towards that I've been really lucky and done a lot of other really cool stuff and have generally enjoyed what could be called success in our culture. The drive to be successful in your career fueled by the constant pressure to consume though crushes like Boethius' wheel of fortune. Its exhausting. And we also place a lot of importance on doing stuff in our culture, don't we? I'm going to push back on this question. I have spent my life striving, working. I've done a lot of stuff. There have been vacations, yes. but I've never really spent a significant amount of time with nothing to do. There has always been a fast-approaching end to unstructured time. I'm also going to be honest and tell you that I've pretty much had it with our culture here in North America. All of our forms of public discourse are broken and I despair of them ever being functional again. I've never been to Europe. The art I came of age in is all English writers, Italian painters, French musicians. My political sensibilities markedly Nordic. Sue is of French descent and trained as a fine dining chef. She's in the same boat as me. What would I like to do that I haven't yet done? Give my house and lot back to the Papaschase from whom it was stolen. Then get the hell off this continent and do nothing. For good. 

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?

-  Rather than go into the civil service and arts administration, I think I would have been a good graphic designer. Another creative pursuit that requires both sides of your brain but one that has a chance of paying more than poetry currently does.

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

- There's no way to answer this question. There's something to do other than to write? I have though been involved in a number of conversations with other white, male, cis-gender writers about privilege. A common question is: Our voices have been prioritized for so long, what right do we have to continue taking up air space? How can we use our power and privilege to address the horrific inequalities rather than to continue to help perpetuate them through complicity? Thus my answer to Question 19 below.

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

- See question 14 for some of the books that have impacted me recently. And see question 19 below for yet more. Film is interesting. I spent more than a decade heavily involved in film in a professional capacity. I watched on average more than 200 films a year. When I got out of it almost two years ago, my eyes were full. I think I may have watched a dozen films in the past year. My appetite for films does appear to be slowly starting to come back. The last mainstream film I saw that I liked was Knives Out. That Rian Johnson knows what he's doing. They really, really should have let him do the last Star Wars film - what an abomination The Rise of Skywalker was. Okay, maybe I'm still turned off film.

19 - What are you currently working on?

- The next book is called "Tarzan and the Robot Gods at the End of Time" and I figure I'm about half way through. The major bits of source material include Burrough's Tarzan books, history and criticism of Surrealism and mainstream books about quantum mechanics and string theory. This project is absolutely bonkers and I love it!

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Saturday, April 06, 2013

The Olive Reading Series: season thirteen,



Anyone following this blog for any amount of time might already be aware that I’ve long been a fan of Edmonton’s Olive Reading Series [see previous posts here, here, here, here, here and here], currently held at The Empress Ale House. With a featured reader (or readers) monthly during the academic year, each event also features a new chapbook, which also sees limited distribution within the English and Film Studies Department at the University of Alberta. Frustratingly, I don’t have a full run of the chapbooks, but here are some of the recent ones Olive member Jenna Butler has been good enough to send along:

Season 13-1: Iman Mersal’s Anger in its back roads. (Tuesday, September 11, 2012)

The author of four poetry collections in Arabic, poet and editor Iman Mersal is currently anassistant professor of Arabic literature at the University of Alberta, with one collection of poetry translated into English, These Are not Oranges, My Love (New York NY: Sheep Meadow, 2008). Anger in its back roads. is a short selection of her prose poems from three different translators, including this one, translated by Youssef Rakha and first published in English in Banipal 38 – Arab American Authors:
LOVE

            A man decided to explain love to me. Leftover wine, and noon is crossing over to the other side. He was doing up the last button on his shirt as darkness edged into the corner.
Directionlessness, like the moment the screen fades out, and the viewer has to start looking for the exit. In this way he decided to explain love to me, placing the glasses firmly over his ears while I was still naked.
            The room fogged up when he said, “Love is the search for…” I opened my eyes to see hordes of Spaniards looking for gold in Chile. They were hungry and empty-handed, while a Red Indian hid, terrified, behind a rock. When he said, “Love is being content with…”, my fingers started caressing a mountain of dark chocolate, while Ella Fitzgerald’s wailing slipped into my ears. “And it is happiness…” Then I imagined absolutely nothing.
            It must be that I never saw him again, because I don’t remember ever asking him whether love was forgetting his watch by the bedside.
Mersal’s poems weave their way underneath the skin in the most magnificent ways. Her short, meditative poems also manage the difficult tightrope of prose narrative while maintaining the unmistakable cohesion of poetry. One can only hope that a Canadian publisher might be smart enough to take on a collection of her work.

Season 13-2: Sheila E. Murphy’s I don’t often write on purpose I just write (Tuesday, October 9, 2012)
I don’t often write on purpose I just write

A skein of lariats defames heraldic acquisition
Just right for a glut of storage sheds
Where history will not find them
Or their innards
Or the mind beneath them.
Phoenix, Arizona poet Sheila E. Murphy has been developing quite the relationship with Edmonton over the past few years, triggered by her ongoing collaboration with Douglas Barbour, collected now in two trade books (and counting), their Continuations [see my review of such here] and Continuations 2 [see myreview of such here]. During my time in Edmonton, they were not only launching the first of their collaborative books, but reading together for the first time. Through multiple trade books, chapbooks and other ephemera, Murphy’s solo work is expansive, very much part of the bpNichol mantra of “the poem as long as a life.” Everything, it would appear, fits into a single, never-ending project; but a fragment of something large, the scope of which we can’t yet see.
One Hundred Ninety-Fourth

Tired eyesight, redaction of inaction, as if dream
released its legs, lived on invisibly as the mute key.

The specific horn lived in worn velvet blue
dented where the bell and valves had pressed too hard.

Imprimatur, wisdom presumed accessible
via remote, next best to pure absorption.

People, non-neighborly, refer to brandnames
of their weaponry, in hope of sharing that taut bond.

In music, a challenge occurs, and the conductor
oversees the change in seating for the innocent.
There is always such a lovely cadence in Murphy’s poems, and her language brings such an unexpected music. These are poems that might require to be heard.

Season 13-3: Titilope Sonuga’s Snapshots (Tuesday, November 13, 2013)
Fearless

Tonight
we are fearless

we will run
with scissors

stare down
a spitting cobra

play chicken

with a high speed train

we have known

our share of pain

swallowed a deeper

kind of poison

we are not afraid
to crash

We will walk
naked

into
the eye of storm

call down lightning

and dare it
to touch us
One of the strengths of this series is very much the cultural range of the writers featured, not simply repeating the same English-language Canadian poets again and again, such as Nigerian-born spoken word poet Titilope Sonuga, who left Nigeria at thirteen to live in Edmonton, where she later achieved a Bachelor of Science degree in Civil Engineering. Author of the self-published Down to Earth (2010), the fierce clarity of her poems in Snapshots are striking, and show just how powerful these poems must be when they’re performed.

Season 13-5: Anna Marie Sewell’s Dark Season (Tuesday, January 22, 2013)
things you give up

arranging six small cups on your kitchen window sill so that
the plum blossom design arcs from cup to cup around
a perfect curvature

wondering whether the world has a place for you
that curvature is now perfected
Author of the poetry collection Fifth World Drum (Frontenac House, 2009), Anna Marie Sewell is Edmonton’s fourth Poet Laureate. The strongest pieces in her small collection Dark Season are the shorter pieces, where the strength of her meditative narratives are boiled down to their essence, keeping to the bare bones.

Season 13-6: Jeff Carpenter’s affordances of fear (Tuesday, February 12, 2013)
1:30 AM, November 12, 2012
North Saskatchewan River, Emily Murphy Park, Edmonton

1.

I fear you least of all the fears afforded me. Your ice narrates and
forgets. Its advent meanders through the forest you forged, in the
valley you forged, through the city you forged. I feared my walk here,
alone in the woods at night. I was relieved to step out of the trees onto
your shore. I could see your other side where all the lights downtown
projected an orange nimbus above us.
During my tenure as writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta, I was fortunate enough to see the emergence of Edmonton poet Jeff Carpenter. All potential, raging and exploring and seeking, it’s fascinating to see how his work has been developing since, from a publication in The Peter F. Yacht Club and sound-collaborations (as Tonguebath) with glenN robsoN to work in the manifesto issue of The Capilano Review [see my review of such here] and a chapbook with Red Nettle Press, his malachi on foot (2008) [see my review of such here]. What is compelling about Carpenter’s work is its constant movement, even restlessness, not knowing exactly what might happen next. In this small chapbook, poems include title, notation, visual and text, the latter of which exists as a kind of poetic shorthand, whether sketch or notebook offering, all of which cohere into something difficult to explain or trace, and yet, one can’t look away.
3:00 AM, October 27, 2012
My backyard, Old Strathcona, Edmonton

5.

The concerned firefighter drove down to Emily Murphy Park on his
day off to find me. I was trudging uphill to work. He rolled up beside
me and said, were you walking on the river? My beard was frozen
over. I said, why do you ask? and faced him. It was Brad, Glenn’s
brother-in-aw. He recognised me too and said something that
sounded like the ice talking to itself. He gave me a ride up the hill and
explained the dangers of the frozen river, its inconstancy, especially
in the city. He told me not to walk on the ice anymore.


Tuesday, January 01, 2013

Ongoing notes: early early January, 2013




Another year begins. As one might hope the Mayans meant, not a complete ending, but a new beginning.

Paris ON: For those who don’t know, poet and bookseller Nelson Ball is a Canadian small press legend (see Cameron Anstee’s recent post on him here; see my review of Ball’s most recent trade collection here), and those in the know are thrilled to see the quiet release of new work, however long that might take. Two Ball items were recently released into the world—the self-published ORPHANS (Rubblestone Press, 2012) and The Continuous Present (2012), produced through Stuart Ross’ Proper Tales Press. Here is a small poem from that second collection:

TIES

We’re adrift
and as free

as the earth
in space

tied to
the sun

by astro-
mechanics

Nelson Ball’s poems has long been known for their appreciation of brevity, carving poems so sharp they become nebulous, and nearly invisible, yet capturing new kinds of essential moments. In some ways, Ball’s poems end before they begin. Subtitled “16 Poems,” ORPHANS includes this note at the back:

An author’s poems often appear in chapbooks prior to being gathered into longer collections.

It’s also true that a chapbook may, you might say, rescue poems left out of longer collections.

That was the case in the publication of With Held (2004) which contained poems omitted from, or not considered for, The Concrete Air (1996) and At The Edge Of The Frog Pond (2004).

I printed Nine Poems in 2011. They were recent poems eliminated during the editing of In This Thin Rain (2012).

The Continuous Present (2012) is a selection made from earlier poems not in any of my previous books or chapbooks.

Orphans completes this course by presenting all of the poems not chosen for The Continuous Present.

The poems in Orphans were written from 1971 to 2011, the majority during the period from 1998 to 2002.

Until his reappearance in the early 1990s, Ball had quietly slipped away from publishing for a number of years, and one might even suspect there are more wayward, orphan poems hidden away than he might admit to. With brevity, too, comes an eye for precision, and perfection as well, meaning that these might be all that remain. Still, the decisions made in saving, collecting and/or salvaging these wayward poems is an interesting one, and provide an interesting series of margins to his already-published books and chapbooks, some of which go back to the 1960s. Consider these chapbooks, perhaps, the short form of a selected poems from one of your favourite authors, a master of the short form, except focusing on poems you just haven’t read yet.

BASIC CONSTRUCTION MATERIALS

For and after bpNichol

            a bcd e fgh i jklmn o pqrst u vwx y z

Always a proponent of the small poem, most of the pieces in ORPHANS seem considerably smaller than the poems in The Continuous Present, almost as though he is collecting a thread of poems attempting to make themselves as tiny as possible. Just as Stuart Ross’ journal of one-line poems, Peter O’Toole, I’m fascinated by Ball’s exploration into just how small a poem can be, and remain, still, a poem. Here is a poem from ORPHANS:

CURT

rudely
brief

briefly
rude

Here is another poem:

THE EVANGELIST

dog yb deggod

Edmonton AB: On December 11, 2012, Edmonton poet Sarah Lang returned to The Olive Reading Series to launch her small chapbook from For Tamara (Olive, 2012). It has been a few years since the appearance of her first trade poetry collection, The Work of Days (Coach House Books, 2007) [see my moons-ago review of such, here], so the mention of a second collection forthcoming with Anansi in 2014 is very exciting. What I’ve seen so far of Lang’s writing favours the extended, sweeping sequence, composing fragments that weave their ways together into a larger canvas of loss. There are echoes of Lang’s epistolary that remind of Michael Holmes’ own james i wanted to ask you (Toronto ON: ECW Press, 1994), another poetry collection that worked its way through sweeping, fractured lyric strands and sections, and an overwhelming letter of heartbreak. Given that a section of another longer work appeared not long ago in the fifth issue of seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics, might this be the work forthcoming with Anansi, or is this something entirely other?

Do you like your hand? / The rest of your arm? / I am way too tired to do an amputation today. / Do you think that blood infection can wait? / My Darling Dearest, My Beautiful Idiot: know I will never, ever forget you. / T. I am very very tired. / Even if your Dad were here. / Simply too much work. / I need to sleep.

Tamara, suicides will not be uncommon / I do not want you to think of them as irrational. / Try and help / but these people have lost everything they’ve got. / N times over.

I haven’t written enough about how to protect yourself. / Don’t scream. / Take a breath. / Jam a screwdriver in his eye.

I know after 9 years I’m supposed to be over you. / Sadly no one can compete. / Plus Tamara still wants to meet you.

New York NY: After going through Mary Austin Speaker’s 20 Love Poems for 10 Months (Brooklyn NY: Ugly Duckling Presse, 2012) [see my review of such here], I’m finally able to go through another chapbook released at the same time, her partner, Chris Martin’s ENOUGH (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2012). As Speaker’s chapbook was dedicated to Martin, his, in turn, is dedicated back to her. Martin’s ENOUGH is a series of poems composed as dedications, collecting fourteen poems with deceptively descriptive titles such as “the weather,” “the air,” “the cloud,” “the light” and “the horizon,” and dedicated each to a series of fellow poets (I’m uncertain if all those listed are poets, but a number of them certainly are) including Dorothea Lasky, Emily Pettit, Matthew Rohrer, Elizabeth Willis and Dana Ward. The final poem in the collection, “the balloon,” is dedicated, again, to Mary Austin Speaker. Each poem exists as a single strand of thread, stretched just beyond a page as a line of abstract observances, cadences and articulations. Just how far is Martin willing to go with this particular form? Not knowing anything else about his writing; is this a singular project, or is there a book-length work working to reveal itself, somewhere soon?

the snow

Dad’s Buddha
clad in
a tank-top
of fresh snow
accepts our laughter
as later the rumble
strip lined with ice
chimes back to us
its long silver ribbon
is how weather wakes such
a drowsing head to blossom
like the Christmas tree worm
slowly creeps back to frill
the world is as full
of jokes as the snowflake is
stuffed with cold and ingenuous charm
like the flying farolito that streaks
past a lone and baffled coyote
these mysteries persist at song’s loss
and return when our eyes unfurl
so the you you were
is suddenly less and more
full like the sky is
in the ache before dawn
we’ll put on our boots
our hat and gloves
breathe a little smoke
there is no death
out of reach
as John says
there is only
this hiss
before broadcast

                        for Courtney Martin