Phoebe Wang, Relative to Wind: On Sailing, Craft, and Community

A rope on a boat is never a rope—it’s a line, sheet, or halyard. The boat doesn’t turn left or right but to port or starboard. If you’re walking to the front of any watercraft, you’re going forward to the bow. When you’re moving toward its rear, you’re moving aft to the stern.
            You could draw a boat and label it, but why do that when you can pick up boat words the way a child might? By pointing up at the spreaders, the spars that act like crosstrees extending from the mast. By curling your fingers around the shrouds, the boat’s wire rigging. By remembering that the lifelines are the vinyl-coated wires around the perimeter of the boat when you grab onto them to steady yourself. By pestering the skipper with questions—What’s this? What’s this? Your eagerness earns you a spell on the tiller, and you feel the weight of the water streaming against the rudder. Trip over one of the hard, small parts of the boat and land on your knees, swearing and embarrassed at everyone’s quick concern. You’ll remember the cleat, block, or winch like the name of someone you instantly dislike. Not knowing these names is as clear a sign of a landlubber as wearing sneakers that leave skid marks on the deck. Not knowing means you’ll be corrected until you do.

Lately I’ve been reading Toronto poet Phoebe Wang’s Relative to Wind: On Sailing,Craft, and Community (Picton ON: Assembly Press, 2024), a memoir around the author’s experience as part of a sailing crew on Lake Ontario, an experience that seems to provide the author with the foundation to more easily navigate both anxiety and other elements of her life, from attending expectations as a published author, elements of family and employment or even writing itself. “After finishing my MA in creative writing, I couldn’t find full-time work, so instead I tutored in Richmond Hill and Vaughan. I sat on the edge of my train seat, worrying that I wouldn’t make my connection en route, calculating whether I would make rent that month, how much longer it would take to find a publisher, whether it was still worth it to scrawl poems while the Viva Blue bus bounced up Yonge Street. I relieved myself of the pressure to publish as quickly as possible, to instead focus on the vision of my manuscript that felt most true to itself. I was surprised to be making gains, turning out drafts of poems that sounded as close as possible to what I had intended. By easing up on myself and following my intuition, I set a course toward a more natural and sustainable routine.”

This is Wang’s third published book, after the poetry collections Admission Requirements (Toronto ON: McClelland and Stewart, 2017) and Waking Occupations (McClelland and Stewart, 2022) [see my review of such here]. The prose moves easily, at a lively pace, offering a lovely music just underneath the surface, holding the attention with a propulsion and a thrum. I like very much how this book begins with language, using the fact of learning a new vocabulary for this new process as an opening into and through the narrative. “Language can function as both a barrier and an entry point into an identity,” she writes, early in the collection, “and in the case of the language of sailing, it kept me out before it let me in. Its arcane impenetrability felt purposeful, like a code. This inaccessibility maybe a result of its etymology and how its meanings have diverged from English words of common usage.” To engage with the language, and the etymologies of such, of course, is to engage with those histories, and the implications within, as she acknowledges a colonial past, one that, as she is deeply aware, holds a ripple effect into the present. “All of this colonial violence—conscsription practices, hierarchies of rank, naval wars, and transport of raw resources—has steeped into the language like tea leaves in scalding water. These were the same seamen and ships that held enslaved peoples in cargo holds, encountered Indigenous peoples on Turtle Island, mapped coastlines, and claimed harbours for shipping ports. The English language also travelled by sea, as much as import as systems of government, laws, and policies. British ships brough opium to the ports of Hong Kong, the islands where my family lived with the sound of the waves at their doorsteps. Remnants of this history are still present in nautical terms and saying, many of which have entered everyday language.”

She writes of sailing, but also elements of attempting to write, find work and sustain balance, and engaging a space not traditionally populated by women of colour. Approaching both writing and sailing, as well as multiple elements across her life, Relative to Wind articulates Wang’s journey to finding her footing, even in rough waters. Not to wrestle the storm, perhaps, or her own anxieties, but to learn how to navigate them. As she writes: “The air around us is constantly heating and cooling, and periods of apparent calm are only temporary. Our environment may appear still and windless from our vantage point close to the Earth’s surface, but the prevailing condition on this planet is motion.”

Land of hope and glory, : Victoria, part one,

Is that too obscure a reference? The Kinks, after all, their song “Victoria.” Okay, so maybe that is too obscure. Or this Billy Bragg classic, as well (but my point was The Kinks, here), although both pulling from a British patriotic song from the turn of the prior century. I recently had some adventures in Victoria, British Columbia, doing two readings and a podcast in three days, which was a bit of a whirlwind. When was the last time I'd travelled for a reading? Dublin, last July with Christine. Or Vancouver, last year with Christine as well. Or Calgary, also with Christine. I am very fond of reading and/or travelling with Christine, as you might imagine. Do you remember when I read in London, Ontario, some two-plus years ago?

The blossoms [reminiscent, slightly, of our trip to Washington] were everywhere! Thanks to Planet Earth Poetry, The League of Canadian Poets and The Writers Union of Canada, all to help promote my University of Calgary Press poetry title from the last fall, the book of sentences. Thanks predominantly to current Victoria Poet Laureate Kyeren Regehr for bringing me out! I mean, it has been twenty years or possibly more since I've read in (or even been to) Victoria, despite the annual or semi-annual I did for a stretch beginning in 1997 or so. Maybe 2003 was the last time I was through? I can't even recall.

Thursday, April 23, 2026: Had a 3:45am alarm for 4am cab and 6am flight, landed in Victoria by 11am or so, local time. The Ottawa-Toronto part of the flight I think I slept, but the second flight I spent most of such reading through Phoebe Wang's Relative to Wind (Assembly Press, 2024), a really interesting memoir by the Ottawa-born Toronto poet [see my review of her second poetry title here] on being part of a sailing crew across Lake Ontario. The memoir begins with language in a really interesting way, and expands across a whole slew of details on the minutae of working such a craft, and how she's learned to navigate other elements through the lessons approached here. 

I landed, and my pal (from high school, even) Jennifer collected me from the airport, and we had breakfast (I had to eat something, even though I was exhausted) at Spoons, the coolest little diner. It had posters all over of classic (up to early 70s) Marvel and DC comic book covers, some of which I even have, kicking around. Then I had to crash, where I quickly discovered I'd managed to leave my computer cord at home, so my machine (and subsequent phone) were soon to die. I slept for an hour, before I caught up with my host, poet Rhona McAdam, who was kind enough to drive me out to Staples, where they sold me the incorrect cord (I was at least smart enough to also pick up a way to recharge my phone). From there, a short walk to downtown, to eventually meet up for a pub night, organized by the delightful (and Ottawa-born) Victoria writer and journalist Sara Cassidy. I figured, maybe hit a bookstore if possible, sit with notebook and read for a bit, hang about until I met up with them, all good.

The short walk, with my huge bag of books and envelopes (for that pub night, handouts, etcetera) was ninety minutes, so I completely miscalculated on that. Walked by a gallery show (gallery closed) that looked interesting, You Do Not Have to Be Good (apparently a line from this Mary Oliver poem, which is interesting), "a multi-media debut solo exhibition by Mila Rio," but more on that later. I caught C A V I T Y, a curiosity shop, which was pretty cool. Comics, records, books (I did pick up some stuff, including a back issue of The Paris Review, but was gratified to see some Barry McKinnon poetry titles in there; I nearly picked up an extra copy or two, just to carry around). Blasting punk music. Very nice. You should go to there.

From there, I finally made it downtown, wandering by this sign that led into an alley of Victoria's Chinatown Museum and little slips of history, making me aware just how unaware I am of Victoria history generally. I mean, I have a general sense of Vancouver history, but know absolutely nothing of Victoria. The little corners of history was reminiscent of the Hogan's Alley Society over in Vancouver, attempting to salvage a period and geography of Black history specific to Vancouver, most of which had long been lost (and which every city should attempt to do, acknowledging lost histories and spaces).

The alley threaded between buildings with slips of site-specific history of Chinese immigrants in Victoria, amid a sequence of quaint little shops and curious other spaces. It really is a remarkable (and very cool) array of small spaces, intersliced with histories that deserve not to be forgotten.

Given Ottawa has a Royal Arch (in that we are capital), I've been curious to see Chinatown arches in other Canadian cities, having caught Vancouver (years ago), Montreal (once, while completely lost) and in Winnipeg [during this trip, but I appear not to have taken a picture].

I eventually found my exhausted way to The Drake Eatery and Craft Beer Parlour, where I figured I could decompress with notebook and some reading before heading over to where Sara Cassidy had organized a pub night with a few local writers for me to meet. She'd originally picked one spot, and then relocated to another, neither of which I could remember properly, so when I presumed the Drake was the original spot, so I landed there (thinking this would allow me to see two different Victoria venues), asking Sara where we were ending up, and she said I was already there? So that's on me. A delightful spot, and even, at one point, Sara's teenaged son slipping through to deliver me a computer cord, so my machine wouldn't die. This is from Sara, he said, handing me a cord and disappearing. Relief for the save (but he was like a ghost, albeit far more polite).

I first met Sara [waving, in the pic on the left] back in 1998, after Rhonda Batchelor had told me if I could get myself to Victoria, she'd give me a chapbook and a reading, so, thanks to the ottawa international writers festival's 1998 Via Rail Tour (I participated all the way to Vancouver), it was a quick hop and jump to Victoria, as Sara and I both read from our newly-published Reference West chapbooks (the press ran from 1990 to 2000, co-founded by Batchelor and her husband, the late Charles Lillard). I hadn't seen Sara in more than twenty years, and then the extra delight of being able to meet poets such as Julie Paul [see her '12 or 20 questions' here], Melanie Siebert (both photos, on the left) [see my review of her latest] and Maleea Acker (above, right) [see her 2009 '12 or 20 questions' here], as well as an appearance by Kyeren Regehr and her partner. A lovely evening! Maleea landed early, followed close behind by Melanie, so it was very good to hang out with them, especially given the years we've been interacting over email (and through writing). And honestly, not only are Melanie and Sara extremely cool, but Maleea is an absolute delight (and completing a new manuscript, by the way, shhhhhh). I was worn out by the end of the night, naturally, as I'd probably been up for some uncountable array of hours. Next up? Two readings [part two to follow].

rob reading and podcasting in Victoria, April 24 + 25.

I seem to be doing a whole slew of events in Victoria, British Columbia later this month, in case you are around. Reading twice, and even on stage doing a podcast! Who can keep track of it all. Promoting the book of sentences (University of Calgary Press, 2025), with most likely a handful of chapbooks as well. Might we see you?

April 24, 2:00pm: reading at the James Bay New Horizons Centre, 234 Menzies St James Bay, open set sign-up 1:30pm. hosted by Anna Cavouras. 

April 24, 7:30pm: reading with Anna Yin and Phoebe Wang as part of Planet Earth Poetry, Russell Books. Doors and open mic sign up, 7pm.

April 25, 5:30-7:30pm: The Poet Laureate Live Podcast: rob mclennan and Kyeren Regehr. Be part of our live studio audience! Tickets required. Haus of Owl Creation Lab, 780 Blanshard St 4th floor. 

The Unpublished City, curated by Dionne Brand

She moved back all her books and belongings. In our apartment she would look at me from underneath the bed sheets, her bottom half covered, her diary in her hand. She would ask me not to look at her diary. I never have—I remember once she left it on the bed and I stared at it for five minutes. It had a black cardstock cover. I opened it and read the inscription, her full name, the year, how much of a reward she would give if it was returned—20 bucks. I closed it and let it lie on the bed. Her diaries would be here in a closet. I wonder if they might be with the parents. Would they read through them? I wanted to ask her parents to let me move in to her room and let them take care of me.

A small Vans shoebox on the desk that I know is full of mementos from our relationship. It’s black, small, frayed. A note might be in there. (Adnan Khan, “All I Can Tell You”)

While at the most recent Indie Literary Market (hosted by Meet the Presses) in Toronto, I was intrigued to recently discover a small anthology of emerging Toronto writers, “Curated by Dionne Brand,” The Unpublished City (Toronto ON: BookThug, 2017). Constructed as an introduction to a multitude of Toronto-based writers prior to their first trade-length works (although two have since released first poetry titles), the anthology includes work by Ian Kamau, Nadia Ragbar, Chuqiao Yang, Rudrapriya Rathore, Sofia Mostaghimi, Kathryn Wabegijig, Doyali Islam, Adnan Khan, Phoebe Wang (see info on her first collection here), Canisia Lubrin (see info on her first collection here), David Bradford, Laboni Islam, Sanchari Sur, Shoilee Khan, Nicole Chin, Diana Biacora, Dalton Derkson and Simone Dalton. As Brand writes at the offset:

The Unpublished City was conceived to show the (Multipli)City of writers that call Toronto home; that the City of Toronto might hear the wonderful voices of the Citys own true imaginaries. The idea here is to read ‘unpublished’ not simply as not in print, but as the narratives, and imaginations of the City that are present, and not yet fully realized, nor acknowledged. In these stories and poems we apprehend what lies on the surface of the City’s glass walls, in the depths of its rapidly and perennially urbanized landscape, and in its bristling and multilingual streets.

How different such a collection is than some of the Toronto-specific (or really, Canadian) anthologies of the past, whether Plush (Toronto ON: Coach House Press, 1995), the book that introduced myself and many others to the work of Lynn Crosbie and R.M. Vaughan (for example), or Blues & True Concussions: Six New Toronto Poets (Toronto ON: Anansi, 1997). The focus on diversity becomes an important part of the conversation of literature to engage in, no longer automatically pushing certain writers further into the margins. While I’m familiar with a couple of the names in The Unpublished City (Chuqiao and Dalton from their Ottawa days, for example, Doyali Islam is well known for numerous activities, including her recent appointment as poetry editor for Arc Poetry Magazine, and I recently reviewed Canisia’s latest small publication here), but most names are new to me, sitting just under the radar, it would seem, over there in Toronto. While my own sensibilities might have wished for more poetry than the collection holds (the bulk of the collection is made up of short fiction), one of the highlights had to be the work of Rudrapriya Rathore, such as her short story “Canaries,” that includes:

Grief is a heatstroke stumble through a coalmine. Find me with my parents, thirty years deep. History has gone slower here. The cheese comes in a tin. The bougainvilleas burn like fires. The glass of milk I am given grows a skin of fat.

Everyone calls my mother Baby. Later, I will watch Dirty Dancing and never not think of these things together. My mother’s mother sits on a straw mat in the middle of her home, which is crawling with relatives. A circle of women rock and pray and talk around her. Their heads are covered, eyes downturned, but the children have memorized the patterns on their saris, which is how they clamber into the correct lap. My grandmother, newly widowed, wears pure white. When she hugs me, I don’t recognize her earlobes. Stripped of jewelry, they’re fleshy and naked.

I would be curious to know the selection process for such a collection (Brand’s introduction is no longer than that paragraph quoted above), and where she discovered such a grouping of writers, or even the purpose/argument for the collection itself at this particular moment, but otherwise, the argument (as Brand writes it) is quite clear, quite strong, and quite remarkable: the wide variety of emerging voices that make up Toronto’s writing scene, one that can’t be reduced to a single sensibility, personality or perspective. And this is (beyond the introduction of a whole collection of emerging writers) a very good thing to be reminded of.

Wheezy stardust sucking on gold cellophane

Where they buried the garrison in a gravel pit.

And we are all friends till the snacks run out. (David Bradford, “Why We Can’t Live Together”)

Ongoing notes: Meet the Presses (part two,

[view from my table]

I’m sure by now you’ve seen the first part already, but here are some further items I picked up at the recent Meet the Presses fair in Toronto last weekend; might we see you today at the ottawa small press book fair? I mean, there might even be cookies!

Toronto ON/Vancouver Island BC: Vancouver Island poet and critic Sonnet L’Abbé’s latest title, produced through Carleton Wilson’s Junction Books, is the beautifully designed and bound poetry chapbook Anima Canadensis (2016). Composed as part of a “larger project,” Anima Canadensis opens with the sequence, “PERMANENT RESIDENTS’ TEST,” a poem that speaks to Canadian cultural and historical contexts, referencing Indigenous displacements and European settlement through, among other means, discussing flowers (“Identify the native species in this passage.”) and other “agricultural products.”

Answer the following questions.

In order to stay in what form? In order. In order to keep the nuclear grazing, the gentle seep? In order to keep? To keep order. The way and flow and the way of things. The order of things. The will to keep, to keep on, to go on, to sustain. To keep out of trouble. To maintain. Love your ability to sustain. In order to sustain in what form? Please complete this human form. This formal question. How will you stay? Is the order complete? What form sustains? Where there is will some will remains. How will you sustain order? Prove your ability to sustain. Please fill out this shape. Take a new form. Prove your ability to love.

I’ve been utterly fascinated to see the shift in L’Abbé’s work since the publication of her first trade collection, expanding outwards from metaphor-driven lyric to more experimental works that attempt to navigate and explore issues around race, identity and colonization [see her recent Touch the Donkey interview that touches on some of the same]. Her work, in both form and content, has become more socially and politically engaged, more open to alternate forms and, to my mind, has become far more compelling, putting her on a Canadian poet shortlist of required reading. As she writes to open the poem “LOVE AMID THE ANGLOCULTURE” : “Is it not of the same gravity / as going to war, / the decision to love?”

BRAIN STEM

Strong neck the channel through which your roots become branches. Strong neck the trunk through which your impulses flow, tides of perception and reaction. You are a battery of cells, positive of material, anti-positive of nervous potential. You, a dyad of bunches of waving branches and bundled branches, of bunches of searching roots and rooting roots. The spine of your decision-making: a flexible tension between head and heart. The moving tree grows in more dimensions than knowledge: in its reach, yes, in its span, but also, if it is lucky, in its rootedness, in its density, in the neck’s rough skin thickened to injury, that lifts above its heart a head of power—ever spring-fond, ever fall-wise—a tender, leafy power to love light.

Toronto/Picton ON: New from Leigh Nash and Andrew Faulkner’s The Emergency Response Unit is Toronto poet Phoebe Ka-Ir Wang’s chapbook HANGING EXHIBITS (2016), a title constructed of poems that respond, predominantly, to visual art. Obviously, ekphrastic poems (poems that respond to other creative works, including poems, visual art, etcetera) have been around forever (works by Diana Brebner, Stephanie Bolster and Robert Creeley come to mind), and far too often simply describe or explain the artworks they claim to be “responding” to, but the narratives of Wang’s poems seem to respond sideways to the original works. She seems to compose intriguing little narratives that emerge from, or are even influenced by, the originals. As she writes at the end of the poem “STILL LIFE WITH ANCESTORS”: “She’ll tell us there’s more to the story.” Wang’s poems do seem to suggest far more than what they say, offering both alternate considerations and even addendums to their source materials.

STILL LIFE WITH SURFACES

after Matisse, Goldfish and Sculpture, 1912

She’s gone in ahead of us, testing

the bathwater. When she winces

we feel it too. The heat applies

its deep vermilion to her knees,

her thighs, the tract of her tummy,

forcing them to bloom.

We slough off cotton

socks and tank tops, climb in

as if into a second skin,

first my sister, then me.

we’re slippery as fins.

The light amniotic, rinsing us

in cerulean, and even when

we’re clean and we don’t emerge.

Outside, the air is frigid

and hostile. We’d rather live here,

inside the dance of chiaroscuro,

where the hour’s tropical.

Mom passes something to us—

a scrap of cloth, a white pill of soap

(her impulsiveness, her innate talents)

gives us no choice but to use them.