12 or 20 (second series) questions with Carlos Soto-Román

Carlos Soto-Román is a poet and translator. Author of 11 (Municipal Poetry Prize, Santiago 2018) he has published in the United States Philadelphia’s Notebooks (Otoliths, 2011), Chile Project: [Re-Classified] (Gauss PDF, 2013), The Exit Strategy (Belladonna, 2014), Alternative Set of Procedures (Corollary Press, 2014), Bluff (Commune Editions, 2018), Common Sense (Make Now Books, 2019) and in the UK, Nature of Objects (Pamenar Press, 2019). He resided in Philadelphia, PA between 2009 and 2014. During those years, he was a member of the New Philadelphia Poets Collective, studied at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University, obtained an artist’s residency at the MacDowell Colony, and was the curator of the cooperative anthology of U.S. poetry Elective Affinities. He actively collaborates in various visual and musical poetry projects, including the bands "Radio Magallanes" and "Sonora Guantánamo". His work can be found in Apiary, PEN American Center Blog, Capitalism Nature Socialism, Summer Stock, A Bad Penny Review, Crux Desperationis, The American Poetry Review, Mandorla, MAKE Magazine, Jacket2, Pennsound, Tiny Mag, The Brooklyn Rail, Aufgabe, and Asymptote among others. He currently lives and works in Santiago, Chile.

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

I published my first book early; I was 22 or 23 years old, so it changed me deeply because up to that point never occurred to me the possibility of being a “published author”. However, I took it calmly. My next book came almost 10 years later, maybe because I put on that one more time and dedication. I guess I like to follow the ideas of Georges Perec in that sense; I always try to write something different to the work I did before, and try to be constantly changing, exploring different fields or topics, and even daring to write every book against the previous one.

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

I came to poetry through music. When I was a teenager, some friends had a heavy metal band and they asked me to write lyrics for them. I took it very seriously so I began writing pretty weird songs about ghosts, premature burials and creepy things like that. Then obviously, I found myself reading Poe, Lovecraft, and all that stuff. From there to poetry, it was just a spell. I came to translation in a similar way. Since I knew some English then, the same friends constantly asked me to translate the lyrics of their favorite songs and bands. Maybe that is how I acquired the taste of moving words from one language to another.

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?

It has always been a slow process. I tend to work by projects, so every time one seduces me enough I begin an extensive research process. Internet has become a crucial tool in that stage. I navigate obsessively looking for all kind of things related to the topic I’m writing about, searching not only information or context but also language, forms, styles, anything that can be used to shape a new poem. Besides, I am always taking notes about things that hit me in different ways or writing down thoughts that come to me spontaneously. Just then, I begin to create but in order to jump to the next piece, I usually have to repeat the whole process again. Right now, I’m recovering from a long literary drought, the books I published recently were written time ago so I guess I’m re-discovering my writing-self again with new strategies.

4 - Where does a poem or translation 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?

It’s been a while since I wrote my last single poem. Although every now and then an “orphan text” sprouts. However, as I feel more comfortable working on specific projects or since I often think in a whole book from the very beginning, I usually do a lot of research, documenting myself about all sort of things related to the subject I’m dealing with, and only then I begin to write.  The poems that don’t pass the editing part, just die there in the process. I rarely use them for another project. With translations is different. My usual approach to translation is to work on a full book but I also translate single poems or a just a few from certain author, sometimes as a sample for a website or journal, or maybe just as an exercise or for my own amusement.

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

I enjoy doing readings a lot but I don’t get to read in public very often. I usually try to prepare something special for every reading I do, as opposed to just read the same poems over and over again. I like to take in consideration the place, the context, the kind of audience and the other readers, in order to come up with something new. I did this for most of the readings I gave when I was living in the States. Some of those were actual performances since sometimes I incorporated other elements such as audio clips, projection of images, and even a deck of Spanish cards. A few chapbooks came out that way: “Bluff” edited by Commune Editions was originally a set I prepared for Jacob Bennet’s “In the Deck” summer reading series, and “Alternative Set of Procedures” published by Sueyeun Juliette Lee’s Corollary Press was my reading for Mark Johnson’s “The Hiding Place Reading” series. So yes, readings are definitely a special part of 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?

I have been working with issues related to the search of different modes of representation of historical tragedies in two of my last books, so one of the questions I have had to deal with is about the proper ways to talk about the horror, and the unspeakable.  If it is possible to be truly objective and relentless while at the same time being respectful and mindful of the different stories and voices that get involved in the process. I don´t think I have a specific answer for that, so far I have solved it recurring to my own intuition, but I keep questioning myself about that kind of ethics that I believe should be considered when working with sensitive materials.  

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?

To be faithful and committed to reality. To be socially conscious and responsible. To be mindful of the gift and the power we possess as writers, and be prepared to use it wisely. Although, I’m not sure all writers must hear this call. I really don’t know. At least, I’m moved and inspired by the ones who do.

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

Depends on the editor. I’ve had different experiences. I’ve worked with editors that barely look at the text and others that are very picky, rigorous, and want to somehow put their seal on the work. Some editors don’t take the role very seriously and others do the exact opposite. I like when an editor trusts in me but I also enjoy when an honest and productive working dynamic can take place in order to correct or enhance a manuscript or even to push it to another level. I have learned a lot working with editors but also sharing and discussing my work with peers.

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

One that came in the form of a poem written by the Chilean writer and friend Jaime Pinos, which I translated into English for Capitalism, Nature, Socialism Journal: “To work / to work / to keep your mouth shut and work / The will is the weapon / over poetry as vanity / over poetry as depredation / the will to fight will prevail… / Poetry as understanding / Poetry as a requirement / Poetry as generosity / Poetry as courage / Poetry as honesty / With oneself and with others / In your own life and in the lives of others / That will to fight / day by day / word by word / sooner or later will prevail”

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

Well, translation is just another way of reading and writing, so in that sense the transition is not hard at all. Usually, when I’m not writing I am translating, and that is another way of keeping myself active within a creative practice. Sometimes, I like to see both poetry and translation almost as a mathematical problem, as something I have to figure out in order to come up with a solution. Others, I even use the scientific method to confront a writing project. In the case of poetry, the answer usually comes first by the side of the shape, while with translation is mostly a matter of content, in terms of exactitude and fidelity. But this is just an approach. I tend to complicate everything from that point on, which is fine.

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 don’t have a writing routine. I’m very disorganized. I usually write whenever and wherever “inspiration” hits me. It can be in the middle of a very busy day at work; suddenly a verse or an image comes to my mind, and I stop what I’m doing in order to take notes and elaborate a bit the idea. Then, I resume working on it later that day or months ahead. However, I’m more methodical when I work in a particular project. Then I keep the research going and read related material as much as I can, both for inspiration and for information. But I’m not constant at all. I’m not one of those writers that need a whole ritual in order to write. It doesn’t work that way for me. I guess I am more chaotic but definitely spontaneous.

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

I like to spend time in my library going through my books to see the work and words of others. I open them randomly and pick something up or just check those that I haven’t read so far. It is nice to rediscover forgotten volumes or books you once acquired thinking in a particular project that never found its way out, but then become useful in an unsuspected manner. I love to re-enchant myself with books and readings.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Black tea with a couple of lemon verbena leaves and a tinny stick of cinnamon on it. My grandmother used to make tea like that and so my mother. I do it every time I have the ingredients at hand.  Also the smell of homemade “sopaipillas” cooking in the kitchen on a rainy day, which is like a tradition in Chile (it’s just a deep-fried pumpkin-based pastry). Those are some of my favorite smells of my childhood.

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 totally agree with that but there are multiple sources that can get you inspired or can spark a poetic project. As a pharmacist, science is a field that I’m always looking at, seeking to harvest not only language but also forms and ways to address poetically different phenomena. Same with visual arts, music, and cinema. Also press, media, history. I’m always exploring and searching for new sources. I have even worked with legal and/or bureaucratic documents. “Todo es cancha!” as we say in Chile, all fields are valid.

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

Vicente Huidobro, Nicanor Parra, Juan Luis Martínez and Raúl Zurita are huge influences in my work. They have marked my so-called poetic education. I admire and follow the work of Jordan Scott, Angela Rawlings, Lisa Robertson and M. NourbeSe Philip to mention some Canadian writers. I also feel close to people who transit between literature and visual arts such as Ulises Carrión, Vito Acconci, Sophie Calle and Marcel Broodthaers. The work of Georges Perec has also been a kind of beacon to me. He is one of my favorite authors.

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

Many things. Take a year off from work, maybe two. Go to Iceland. Spend some time in Antarctica. Drink Absinthe. Try Ayahuasca. Learn French, German, Italian, Russian. Go to the Guča Trumpet Festival. Make my own beer. Work in a vineyard. Live a couple of months in a lighthouse. Write an essay. Experiment more with sound and images. Play abroad with Radio Magallanes (the poetry & music project that I have with some friends), among others.

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 love to be a full time writer. To be able to spend my whole time reading, writing and translating (travelling too!). Unfortunately, that is not an option yet. Maybe someday.

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

I actually do something else, most of the time. I write in order to survive from the other thing.

I am a pharmacist so that is what keeps me busy and prevents me from writing and translating even more, or as much as I would like, at least.

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

Books: MOTHERBABYHOME by Kimberly Campanello (a stunning book!) and Alphabet by Inger Christensen.

Films: I enjoyed Parasite and The Lighthouse very much. Also The Invitation some time ago, but my all-time favorite is Tod Browning’s Freaks.

20 - What are you currently working on?

2019 was an incredibly productive year for me. I published “Common Sense” with Make Now Books in Los Angeles CA, “Nature of Objects” with the newly wonderful Pamenar Press in London, and “Antuco” in Chile, written in collaboration with the poet Carlos Cardani. Also my translation of Charles Reznikoff’s “Holocaust” finally appeared with Das Kapital editions in Chile as well, so I guess I should be done with poetry, at least for a season. However, I am working on several projects now. Currently, I’m finishing two interesting translations that received funding from the Chilean Department of the Cultures, Arts and Patrimony: “I Have Never Been Able to Sing”, a chapbook by Alexis Almeida and “The Consequences of My Body” by Maged Zaher. I was hoping to publish both during this year but given the actual circumstances, who knows. I’m also working on a new manuscript that for now I’m not really sure where is heading, but we will see. I’m not in a rush. 

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

hey! a new review of my Mansfield Press poetry title! what?

American poet Mary Kasimor was nice enough to review A halt, which is empty (Mansfield Press, 2019)! Thanks so much! I have copies, of course, or you could pick up a copy via the publisher (who is great, obviously). (Full disclosure: I'm doing a chapbook soon by Kasimor, but didn't know she was doing this review...). Here's the review! whooooo!

A review of rob mclennan's A halt, which is empty

ISBN 9781771262200
$17.00 CDN/USA
132 pages
Mansfield Press

rob mclennan’s new collection of poetry, A halt, which is empty, reflects the poet’s sense and feeling for the land. and how humans construct and interpret our world and place. Do we ever really experience that what is in that world as constant, or does it change through our human experiences, or are these experiences the same but different? I wonder how we experience the emptiness of place, which is never really empty, nor is it ever completely full. Even though we may not have words to describe it is —whatever it is, we see it again—and it changes and becomes something different. Place shifts and then shifts again. This place, this locale, this space, this ground and sky all become something known after we have seen it and after it has become an experience.

According to mclennan (and history), in the early 1800’s people began exploring and living on this land in what were the early days of Ottawa, Ontario. In this collection of poetry, mclennan gives us a descriptive feeling of what the land means through the description of the men at this historical place in time: “Voyageurs and kinsmen” and Brand of hearty, men,” who live with “the boiling water,” and we are told what these hearty men have become or becoming as part of the history. Besides the discovery of “new” land, mclennan takes us away with his scattered but concisely chosen words. He uses “parable/ of chance” perhaps to inform the reader that many experiences can be construed from within the language and place. One can describe a place as beautiful and interesting through the choice of words, or one can make it empty and without a hint of breath, and simply a void. mclennan gives us the dream of what we might want to see through metaphor or function—through poetry and prose, giving the reader vignettes of place, fact, and emotion, and all that relates to human beings. We gather meaning through poetic meaning: “Artichoke, a stump. Break everything. Opposing mobs, they met at Sapper’s Bridge: ”A town, I wonder.)” The reader is given some direction of where this place is and how the poet suggests his attitude toward this place. Part of this place is specific—Sapper’s Bridge, and then a vague and shadowy place is only identified as “A town, I wonder.”

One of the most interesting images that mclennan “creates” is “Eternity. A printed image.” I will interpret that as implying that eternity is created when we are able to describe it. It parallels the idea or question that simply asks: if there is no one in the forest when a tree falls, does that mean it never happened? Is it humans who become entangled in their words and thus forcing ourselves to stay focused on the subtlety of language? I do not know the history or the landscape of the land/place or culture, but I get a sense of the history and the geography of the place. mclennon alludes to words as describers, despite the words appearing to be random, or perhaps the poet has a reason for creating this text. Depending upon our life experiences, we do get some sense of place through visual language.

Ultimately mclennan’s poetry tantalizes, and it creates more possibilities in so far as how area, space, and land become familiar through suggestion and thus opens up the place to other interpretations of all that is possible. The language is set up and located on the page so that the readers can find themselves in the text and part of the text while developing strategies to read and interpret the page. While reading mclennan’s book, I was reminded of William Carlos William’s book, Paterson, which opened up many possible interpretations as his poetry was very innovative and new. I also see and read mclennan’s collection of poetry as being experimental, and I don’t expect everything—or anything to be linear and logical—and it isn’t. The language and the layout of the language suggest ideas in a non-linear way. I have enjoyed the playfulness of these poems, evoking place and history. I have followed mclennan’s places as people and their poetry made the land their homes and the land became dirt beneath their fingernails..

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Mary Kasimor

Mary Kasimor has most recently been published in Yew Journal, Big Bridge, MadHat, Horse Less Review, Altered Scale, Word For/Word, Posit, Otoliths, EOAGH, and The Missing Slate. She has three previous books and/or chapbook publications: Silk String Arias (BlazeVox Books), & Cruel Red (Otoliths), and The Windows Hallucinate (LRL Textile Series).  She has a new collection of poetry published in 2014, entitled The Landfill Dancers (BlazeVox  Books). She also writes book reviews that have been published in Jacket, Big Bridge, Galatea Resurrects, and Gently Read Literature. She considers her work experimental—both her poetry and ink/water colors.

1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first book or chapbook did not really change my life. It was exciting in a way, but each time I begin a poem I feel as though I am writing  for the first time. What I am saying is that it didn’t increase my sense that I had “made it” in anyway.

My work has become more experimental and organic than my earlier poems, even though I was moving in that direction even with my first book.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I wanted to be able to write quickly, and that is easier to do with poetry than fiction or non-fiction. I also feel closer to the spirit of poetry, and it is more magical to me. It is also more visual than fiction and non-fiction, and my poetry is visual.

I did not read much fiction for a long time because I wasn’t very interested in fiction. I now enjoy and read novels and non-fiction. I read non-fiction that is philosophical or scientific.

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 rarely procrastinate when I begin a project. One reason for that is because my writing is usually very spontaneous. It is difficult for me to decide to write about a specific idea or theme, and as a result, my writing is about what is on my mind at the moment. In the chapbook entitled Duplex, I wrote about my children and how I related to them. That book is not as interesting to me as my other books and chapbook because it was somewhat planned and focused. I think that my writing is best when I am not focused on a theme or idea or even style.

My drafts change during the course of my writing. I first write in a notebook and revise in a notebook. Then I transfer it to a computer and revise over and over again. The revision process is important in my writing.

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?
A poem begins with something that I am usually thinking about. Sometimes a line is very random and that is the beginning of a poem. It is rare for me to work on a “book” from the beginning. I want to be able to explore ideas, words, images, sounds, and I don’t want to be limited by structure or theme.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I don’t do many readings. I am always concerned that people will either dislike or not understand my poetry. I think that my poetry is better read than listened to by an audience.

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?
In my poetry I am trying to get into the essence of where we as humans began and how we fit with other sentient or non-sentient matter. Several years ago I read Lynn Margulis’ essays on evolution and I found them fascinating. I continue to try to understand her theories through my poetic form.

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?
The writer should be telling people what they don’t want to hear about themselves—the cruel and ugly and stupid, and also the surprisingly wonderful things about being alive and/or human.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Since the editors whom I’ve worked with have given me complete freedom, I do not find it difficult working with an outside editor. The editors have been from small presses, and maybe that is why I feel that I have a great deal of freedom.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
When I was working on my MA in English, I was planning to write a thesis on Deconstruction as it applied to Barbara Guest’s poetry. Several good friends advised me to write a creative thesis instead, and I decided to follow their advice—and it was good advice.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?
In my opinion, writing both poetry and critical prose requires creativity and deep thinking. I do write reviews of poetry, and I have found that I become part of a creative process while I am writing it and throughout all my revisions, and there is something deeply satisfying about writing reviews. However, writing poetry is more creative and more difficult. 

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 try to write every day, and writing in the morning is the best time. My writing process is not terribly structured. I will leave the beginning of a draft, returning to it many times with new ideas.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I read other poets whose poetry I greatly admire. Several examples would be Anne Carson (of course) and Lyn Hejinian.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Lilacs remind me of Minnesota, which is where I grew up and consider home, even though I live in Washington now. It reminds me of home because lilacs bloom after a hard and cold winter.

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?
Visual art and jazz influence my poetry. I love abstract art and the great jazz musicians (Coltrane, Davis, Parker…)

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
I enjoy reading books about science, as long as it is written for the non-scientist. I am catching up on many of the great novels—I just finished reading The Idiot.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I would like to travel more. I also want to continue writing and writing.

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 find science fascinating. If I had a scientific mind, I would have loved to go into research.

I taught writing and literature courses, and I usually looked forward to teaching.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I loved music, but I realized my limitations. Writing poetry worked for me. I never know what I am going to do next, and that is part of the beauty of writing.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I have read many great books, and the last great book that I read was The Idiot. The characters and situations that Dostoyevsky created were intriguing. His interpretation of human nature was ultimately tragic.

The last great film that I’ve seen was The Artist. I can only describe it as being charming and delightful. I have actually seen other great movies since The Artist, but this is one of my favorites.

20 - What are you currently working on?
I am working on a new chapbook, and I am letting the poems lead me. I don’t know what I will do with the chapbook once I am finished with it. Maybe someone will publish it or maybe it will just remain in my computer files.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

I've a new poem, "Life, Sentence," now online at Otoliths,

I've a new sequence of prose poems, "Life, Sentence" (part of a longer, larger manuscript of prose poems) now online at Otoliths. 

Another sequence from the same manuscript appears in the current issue of The Capilano Review.

some brief poetry (book) reviews

I know I’ve been way behind on my reviewing; what is it about Alberta that’s kicking my ass? Here are some brief reviews to make up for my (relative) silence on the matter lately.

1. Christopher Janke's Structure of the Embryonic Rat Brain

In the beginning was the rat and the rat was with god and the rat was god and the rat layed itself down to be picked at by onions. For the end or there is no end, or for the man with no description for he is not a bear and is not lipstick and is not the regularity of nature nor the fundamental pillar of all creation swinging from the stars or shaped like a curlicue.

Deeply prejudiced but gentle rat. Legislative rat. Rat beginning and ending with a bang. The lord rat running from our eating of him as he hurls all things towards their inestimable nothings, towards miracle somethings, into miracle peristalsis, miracle throat, towards Sam Dordoni in the belly of a rat. Glory be to the graviton, to the rubber-slinged and soulful. Glory to the beard. We've come here to contemplate one life, with the Lord our rat sitting in his own stomach chasing his tail, in a hall of mirrors in tactile 3D where you can fall into the mouth of a reflection and find deep inside another one to fall into. At the bottom of the mouth is another mouth.

For the word that changes one life. (pp 35-6)

One of the oddest poetry collections I've seen in a while is Turners Falls, Massachusetts' poet and editor Christopher Janke's Structure of the Embryonic Rat Brain (New York NY: Fence Books, 2007), winner of the Fence Modern Poets Series. Very striking in his use of language, the collusions in the ten prose-poem structured pieces that make up this collection provide an extremely compelling mix of texture, and read as though something that is meant to be heard (or read aloud) much more than simply seen on the page. How do you contemplate a poem written from the point of view of a rat brain that has not yet fully formed?

2. Jonathon Wilcke’s pornograph

Returning to Canada after three years in Japan, Calgarian (now a resident of Vancouver) Jonathon Wilcke released his first trade collection of poetry, pornograph (2004), published by Red Deer Press. It makes me wonder about Red Deer, with rumours after Wilcke’s collection was published, that the press isn’t publishing poetry anymore. Considering only this and Ian Samuels’ premiere collection (to my knowledge), Cabra (2000) have appeared from the press over the past seven years, I become unsure as to what the difference is.

An impressive first collection, pornograph is made up of breaks and fragments, chunks and clusters of prose and overlapping texts as a single unit, woven together nearly seamlessly through seven sections: heads of senate; boeuf (for Fred Wah); fits all’ parfum; jaw; debut; and jackbooty.

Insert tab A into slot B. English teeth. Removable ass-fangled seat for
sitting. Forgot my ass at home. Front stoop escalators. A pregnant pause.
What’s the weather like. New York nostril for sitting. Jean jacket from
the suburbs. Tennis shoes don’t date Oxfords. Martha your wrist is
showing. Virtual beefsteak, sperm bank and perm.

[. . .]

Pauses pregnancy. My other car is a chassis. Bill Cosby appears in my
living room making him okay, just like me. Easy chair, easy peasy. Steel
toes. First it’s a pet and then it’s guts. A pet gut. A gut rot. Morning
make-up, two-faced at the office. The breast is a miracle of modern scientists.
Populace as diverse as soup. (pp 17, 19, boeuf (for Fred Wah)

viagra offers depression a flag pole.a flag pole
a pole vault an obsolete computer called “WANG.”
(sorry). i can’t say anything beyond mentioning two wheels
and racing back. an ergy desk. a yuppie rake. myself i have a
bouche a terminal a carpal tunnel a syndrome. you should wear
that signifying chain more often. (p 66, jackbooty)

And did you know he’s been shopping around a second manuscript as well?

(-apologies to Wilcke for letting this sit in my draft pile for so long…)

3. Nicole Brossard’s Notebook of Roses and Civilization, trans. by Robert Majzels and Erin Moure

Recently, Montreal author Nicole Brossard [see my previous note on her here] was in Calgary to launch her most recent book of poetry translated into English, Notebook of Roses and Civilization (Toronto ON: Coach House Books, 2007). Originally published in 2003 as Cahier de roses et de civilization, Brossard remains one of Canada’s most important innovators through the movement of language and gender through language, and the lyric abstract (and in both “official” languages, no less). What is it about her language that overcomes, like a slow wave, sweeping in and drowning you? What is it about her language that makes you welcome the process of being overcome?

once again the exact time the street
the cigarette we don’t light
again the time the sex of lips
existence silence that deafens
another metamorphosis
arms open




sudden taste of the sea around the arms
with one toss of the lasso
a scent of life and sweetened peanuts (p 21)

4. Sheila E. Murphy’s The Case of the Lost Objective (Case)

When she read in Edmonton recently [see the write-up here], Phoenix, Arizona poet Sheila E. Murphy read from her most recent poetry collection, The Case of the Lost Objective (Case), published by Australian-based Otoliths. There is something about the quickness, quick turns and seemingly random deftness of her poems that I quite like, moving from short poems to prose pieces and even full-colour visuals (which almost never happen in trade poetry books). Although, being an American poet, they’re probably full-color visuals.

all of his indifference turned to her

and she, a shell, filled with what void
he could afford, that she could
barely hold or re(f)use,
midway through the coup if
it was that, e(r)go the summary
included not a shred of judgment,
and his candor flopped
during the delivery, which
exercise emitted revelation
after revelation pointed else-
where she could disassociate
in fewer words than he

5. Noah Eli Gordon’s Novel Pictorial Noise

Noah Eli Gordon’s newest poetry collection, Novel Pictorial Noise (HarperCollins, 2007), was chosen by John Ashbery as a winner of the 2006 National Poetry Series Open Competition, and combines prose poetry with small epigraphs that exist almost as a binary reminiscent of the Greek chorus, and almost in the way Lisa Robertson slipped her own version of binary texts in The Weather (New Star Books, 2001). There is something about the way Gordon works a “perfect stillness,” while at the same time writing through a flurry of activity that can never be contained. How can one compose stillness and unsettled movement into the same series of lines?

Somewhere, a garage door goes down. Thus, a fiction begins. Clouds gather, disperse. Let this suffice as a working formula for working a formula; what I’m coming to terms with—repetition’s liberating constraint. What occurs in the courtly world has little currency to those taking up arms against it. What I’m coming to terms with builds what which contains the components to construct an evolving sense of entropy. The grand narrative the end of narratives had had had had no grandiose ending. It is as though in removing its mask the landscape shows on its face an expression one recognizes but is unable to immediately place.