two recent reviews of World's End, (ARP Books, 2023)

Reviews! I'm constantly complaining that my work doesn't see critical response, but my latest, World's End, (ARP Books, 2023), has already two! Thanks much to both Wanda Praamsma and Billy Mills! And did you see the one-question interview Hollay Ghadery did with me recently on the book as well, over at River Street Writing? Obviously, copies of the new book are available via those fine folk at ARP Books in Winnipeg, but I have a box or two here, if anyone is so inclined. A similar deal to some of my most recent titles: send $18 (via email or paypal to rob_mclennan (at) hotmail.com) ; obviously adding $5 for postage for Canadian orders; for orders to the United States, add $11 (for anything beyond that, send me an email and we can figure out postage); for current above/ground press subscribers, I’m basically already mailing you envelopes regularly, so I would only charge Canadians $3 for postage, and Americans $6 (that make sense?)

Here's the first review of the book, kindly written by Kingston poet Wanda Praamsma as part of a group review (alongside Sandra Ridley's latest, etc) via the Toronto Star! See the original review here.

World’s End
by rob mclennan
ARP Books, 64 pages, $18

These poems take on the quality of measured breath — inhale inhale pause, exhale. Inhale, and exhale. In so doing, they slow us down, a necessary and welcome step for all, but particularly needed while moving through the births of children and their early years, as mclennan is/was. “A circle of latitude, this/rushing force/of birth; of hours. … Days fold, moments. Into/collapse, and/still.,” he writes in “The small return.” mclennan applies beginner’s mind — the ability to address everything anew — to every poem and fragment; he appears a Zen master through his meditative sequencing, though not unruffle-able to the trials. “Oh, you are stupid, death./You’re drunk; go home.” Intertwined are mclennan’s welcome lessons on process and form (“Attempt to see if sentences can breathe, take root, grow limbs.”) and the abundance of clarity gleaned from small children: “I later gift the toddler a small/plastic robot. She names it: robot.” No need to overcomplicate. These poems send that message: Simplify, breathe, look around.

Here's UK poet Billy Mills, who posted this on his blog, as part of a group review (see the original post here):

The Worlds End of rob mclennan’s title is, we are told in an epigraph, is a ‘pub on the outskirts of a town, especially if on or beyond the protective city wall’; a space that is both convivial and liminal and a tone-setter for the book.

As a poet, editor, publisher and blogger, mclennan is a key figure in a world of poets, and this community is reflected in the fact that most of the poems that make up this book have individual epigraphs from writers, the regulars in the World’s End. A sense of poetry as being intrinsic to the world weaves through the book right from the opening section, ‘A Glossary of Musical Terms’:

The Key of S

Hymn, antiphonal. Response, response. A trace of fruit-flies, wind. And from this lyric, amplified. This earth. Project, bond. So we might see. Easy. Poem, poem, tumble. Sea, to see. Divergent, sky. Deer, a drop of wax. Design, a slip-track.

This melding of the natural and domestic worlds (hinted at by the slip-track) with the world of poetry and language is characteristic of mclennan’s work here, with frequent pivots on words that can be read as noun or verb (project). The carefully disrupted syntax calls out the sense of observing from the margins. This can lend a sense of Zen-like simple complexity, a tendency towards silence:

Present, present, present. Nothing in particular.

In the poems in verse, this disruption is often counterpointed by deft assonances:

A gesture: colour match.

Describe, describe. Sarcophagi. Small bite marks
perforate the humerus.

[from ‘Cervantes’ Bones’]

The second aspect of convivial community is family and parenting; the book overflows with babies and toddlers:

Toddler’s outstretched arms,
convinced herself bigger

than she still is, asks: Let me
hold her. Two ducks,

three. The western shoal,

swift curl of seagull, her
newborn deep

and impenetrable.
The contours

of a shapeless day.

Their mother, relieved
she finally out.

[from ‘Two ghazals, for newborn’]

As the book progresses, these themes become more closely interwoven, a process that comes to a head in the penultimate section, ‘mmm’ (the final one is just two pages long, so effectively at the end of the book):

We. Are turning a boundary.

Shush. Shush. Be quiet. Shush. Restrain. Restraint. Abate. Or don’t. Could never. Can’t. I couldn’t. Please. I beg you. Silence, or.

Begat, begat. This is a copy of a document held by the Office of the Registrar General. Begat, begat. Ceaselessly exposed, and hollow. Cyclical, ends. This grown head strikes a ceiling.

Until a separation, there can be no relation. Is this true?

Parthenogenesis. Maternal instinct, strikes. If you the only one. Trade for passage, ours. Delighted. Like it was the day before the day before. Slips through the fingers.

Former mother. Birth. My wrong grammar implicates.

It’s a quietly powerful conclusion to a book that benefits from, and fully merits, careful rereading. At the start of this review, I listed some of mclennan’s many roles in the world of poetry. Let there be no doubt, the primary one is poet.

Elizabeth Robinson, Thirst & Surfeit

 

Mary Reade

While I was captive,
I saw that horizon rhymes with reason.

And like so, the shape of the roof
beckons the hull of a boat.

It’s the sun who decides, in the end,
whether the sea is a plateau or a well and how
such will clang on the atmosphere.

I was captive until I fell off the edge where the great heat
made me captain

of its lull and its whitecap.

I am mistress, now, of similarities.
My reason is to take and take now
as the horizon takes from me

or toward:

the bowed edge of a vessel never
secure or heal. The untoward advance

of light arrests

this surface as given.

Zig-zagging freedom to illumine
what I’ve wrested.

Reason rejects the curve.

The latest from American poet and editor Elizabeth Robinson is the collection Thirst & Surfeit (High Point NC: Threadsuns, 2023), a collection that follows a sequence of historical threads, offering themes-as-section titles, seven in all: “The Bog Traverse 1200-600 B.C.E.,” “Hovenweep 1200-1300 C.E.,” “Anne Hutchinson 1591-1643,” “Two Pirates 1690-1782,” “Ferdinand Gregorovius 1821-1891,” “The Canudos Rebellion, Brazil 1893-1897” and “2023,” a section that holds but the single poem “Legion.” There’s an incredible precision to these pieces, an extended stretch of poems on exploration and response across the veil of what might appear to be a scattered list of historical moments and eras. What holds these different time-periods together? “What we’ve shared in common / has made us sink.” she writes, to open the poem “Disappearance,” set as part of the penultimate section. “The earth floor, / swept clean so many times / clings to speech. Ubiquitous // sunlight / shows us these particles // as we dwindle beneath them.” Again, what ties these periods together? “History,” as the cover flap of the collection offers, “like ‘light untied and undone,’ disperses itself across time and memory. The poems in Thirst & Surfeit reach into these fragments to interpret and sing interactions of human and environment, spirit and subsistence.” One might suggest that the connecting tissue between time-periods and their resulting lyrics are simply Robinson’s approach and attentions, striking lyrics on how so much remains unchanged between such temporal lengths, such as the weight of a moment, or how uncertainty and accountability are as much explored as the details of each particular era, as the opening poem of the second section reads:

You are not now what you were meant to be. And this is why mirages are without irony.

So hurry: the precipate falls hard onto forgetful dirt. The external, like rain, jars you.

There are stretches of miles, of the unexpected; they menace and recant. You prefer that the haste drop you off like a passenger, into tedium. You are in brambles that annoy but do not scratch.

 

A cartoonish body waits outside yours, whistling and smirking.

The precipitous

falls sodden-to-itself, to shoulders like yours, piggyback.
Hard. Finally, hurtful: this patience.
The trees named for Joshua pick up their arms, plainly out of obedience.

There is an interesting structural shift in this collection, beyond what she’s worked in some of her more recent collections, composing a handful of collections via short lyric response poems, each titled on the variation of “On _____,” from her Excursive (New York NY: Roof Books, 2023) [see my review of such here] and On Ghosts (Solid Objects, 2013) [see my review of such here]. The poems of Thirst & Surfeit offer a blend of structures, from the fragmented long-poem effect of the second section, the self-contained compactness of the prose poems that make up the book’s opening section, to the dual pirate poems that deliberately work to play off each other. The effect is curious, akin to an anthology of sorts, as though the form through which she responds is as important a shift as her temporal zones and subject matter. “We measure vastness by the limit of our mortal life.” She writes, to open the poem “Salvation,” set as part of the “Anne Hutchinson” section. “I would have you look, as example, at the face of the clock. It is a face, // even as it cherishes its own absent mouth and closed eyes. Its example we // should emulate.” It is almost as though she is attempting to capture something larger, and ongoing, with each collection that preceded this one all part of what went into this singular and multitudinous work, a heft of lyric across eighty pages.

 

12 or 20 (second series) questions with John P. Portelli

John P. Portelli, originally from Malta, is a professor emeritus in the Department of Social Justice Education at the University of Toronto. He has taught in Canadian universities since 1982. Besides 11 academic books, he has published ten collections of poetry (four in Maltese and English, one in English and French, three in Maltese, one in English (Here Was, available from Amazon) and one in Greek, The Loves of yesterday), two collections of short stories (one translated into English and published as Everyday Encounters), and a novel, Everyone but Faiza (Burlington, ON: Word and Deed, 2021). His literary work has been translated into Italian, Romanian, Greek, Farsi, Arabic, Korean, English, Spanish, Portuguese, and Polish. His latest collection, Here Was has been translated and published in Romanian by Rocart Publishers in June 2023. Five of his books have been short-listed for the Malta Book Council Annual Literary Award. He now lives between Toronto and Malta, and beyond! See, www.johnpportelli.com

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, a poetry collection (2001), introduced me to a different audience than what I had been used to since by then I had published 7 academic books. It gave me a sense of freedom to express my emotions and thoughts  without the restrictions of the academia. My most recent work, Here Was (poetry, 2023 published by Word and Deed Publishers in Canada, and Horizons in Malta), while still very personal, is deeper and more mature, and also more emotionally adventurous.

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

I started writing poetry at the age of 16. Most probably because I lack prolonged attention, and given that poetry allows for strong feelings, I swayed toward poetry.

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?

During the 40 years that I worked as a professor, given my academic focus, writing poetry and fiction did not come easy as it requires concentration, and I did not have that leisure. In the last 8 years or so, writing has become easier (but not easy) since I am able to dedicate time every day to writing non academic stuff (which now I find very boring). I have learnt that good writing usually requires lots of edits. I have been revising a 240-page novel for two years!

4 - Where does a poem or work of fiction 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?

Usually writing begins with an existential experience of some sort, even a very mundane or at face value insignificant occurrence. I never really know where the first line will lead to! With regard to poetry, I have written mostly shorter pieces – although recently I composed a longer piece (about 40 pages) consisting of smaller pieces written in sequence (almost dialoguing with each other). With regard to prose fiction, I have written a published collection of flash fiction (Every Day Encounters), and a collection of full length short stories, and a novel (Everyone but Faiza). Writing the novel was a completely different experience than writing poetry or short stories. I had it all planned before I started writing. Of course, after the first draft was completed, I had lots and lots of revisions and changes.

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

In my view, art is primarily a social event. There is no art without an audience that cares and engages. Hence, for me, public readings followed by genuine conversations are essential. I enjoy reading and also, of course, hearing others read.

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?

Writing is always a social/political activity, that is one that involves some sort of power relations (good and bad). It is never disembodied! Yet, I do not belief that good literature should be written to pass along a particular, specific message or moral. Literature primarily is meant to give pleasure both to authors and readers by creating a dialectic between text and textuality. Having said that, in my writing, as I critically reflect on it, certain themes emerge: migration and exile; belonging and lack of belonging, home/not home; the sea; existential encounters; anger toward injustices; death and memory. Writing (poetry and fiction) can be a form of social activism and also genuine research.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

An astute/delicate observer and sympathetic critic of life through an expression of genuine feelings-thoughts which may give rise to usually unnoticed insights about the ordinary.

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

Not difficult as I was lucky to always find a suitable editor who was not afraid to be critical of my work. For me, it is essential to have an experienced and courageous editor.

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

It is exactly in those moments when you think you are wasting time that, in fact, you are gaining it – an advice I encountered and cherished since I was an undergraduate when I read the Confessions of J.J. Rousseau.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to short stories to the novel to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?

Although I have moved from one genre to another, it is not easy to move from one to the other. Poetry takes a lot of very  concentrated, relatively short spans of time – but it can be very exhausting. Even when I write prose, I get distracted with poetry.  And I suffer from a short span of attention. In fact, I am surprised that I have written two novels.

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?

Until I retired from full-time work in academia, I had to struggle to find time to write between meetings, between classes, in boring meetings etc. Now every morning, after praising the supreme being for giving me life, I meditate for just 5 minutes, drink lots of water and then 3 strong espressos, and then I write for an hour or two.

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

Re-reading of authors I love, meditate, and observe people in coffee shops. When I am in Malta I visit the sea and converse with it!

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

The smell of the Mediterranean Sea! And the orange blossoms.

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?

Definitely existential encounters, aspects of nature, and music.

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

Tahar Ben Jelloun, Laila Lalami, Suheir Hammad, Albert Camus, Mahmoud Darwish, Maria Grech Ganado, Elena Stefoi, George Seferis. Italo Calvino, Adonis.

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

Visit Japan and Latin America.

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?

Pizza maker and owner of a pizza place.

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

Dealing with the angst of life! I found freedom in writing; it allowed me to dialogue critically with myself.

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

The Present Tense of the World (poems) by Amina Said. Film: Babylon Berlin.

20 - What are you currently working on?

Two collections of poetry, a collection of short stories on the theme of sexuality, and the novel that I mentioned earlier.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Sandra Ridley, Vixen

 

Clover and laurel and thistle
velvet and sumac
muskroot and sundew and baneberry
crocus and cherrychoke
eyebright and bindweed
moonseed and coltsfoot
panic grass and bloodroot and hyssop
loosestrife and boneset
goldenseal and sedge and lady fern
devil’s bit and daisy and aster
violet and ivy—every leaf will wither.

 

You will suffer the same.
(“THICKET”)

For her fifth full-length poetry title, Vixen (Toronto ON: Book*Hug Press, 2023), Ottawa poet and editor Sandra Ridley blends medieval language around women, foxes and the fox hunt alongside ecological collapse, intimate partner violence and stalking into a book-length lyric that swirls around and across first-person fable, chance encounter and an ever-present brutality. Following her collections Fallout (Regina SK: Hagios Press, 2009) [see my review of such here], Post-Apothecary (Toronto ON: Pedlar Press, 2011) [see my review of such here], The Counting House (BookThug, 2013) [see my review of such here] and the Griffin Prize-shortlisted Silvija (BookThug, 2016) [see my review of such here], the language of Vixen is visceral, lyric and loaded with compassion and violence, offering both a languid beauty and an underlying urgency. “If he has a love for such,” she writes, as part of the second poem-section, “or if loathing did not prevent him. // A curse shall be in his mouth as sweet as honey as it was in our mouths, our mouths as / sweet as honey. Revulsive as a flux of foxbane, as offal—and he will seem a lostling. // He came for blood and it will cover him.”

Set in six extended poem-sections—“THICKET,” “TWITCHCRAFT,” “THE SEASON OF THE HAUNT,” “THE BEASTS OF SIMPLE CHACE,” “TORCHLIGHT” and “STRICKEN”—Ridley’s poems are comparable to some of the work of Philadelphia poet Pattie McCarthy for their shared use of medieval language, weaving vintage language and consideration across book-length structures into a way through to speak to something highly contemporary. As such, Vixen’s acknowledgments offer a wealth of medieval sources on hunting, and language on and around foxes and against women, much of which blends the two. A line she incorporates from Robert Burton (1621), for example: “She is a foole, a nasty queane, a slut, a fixin, a scolde [.]” From Francis Quarles (1644), she borrows: “She’s a pestilent vixen when she’s angry, and as proud as Lucifer [.]” Or, as she writes as part of the third section:

Find her in pasture till all pastures fail her like hawthorns. She will run well and fly.

She slips out of the forest and when compelled she crosses the open country. When she runs, she makes few turns. When she does turn to bay, she will run upon us and menace and strongly groan. And for all the strokes or wounds that we can do to her, while she can defend herself, she defends herself without complaint.

She will spare for nothing.

Take leave of your haunt and hunt her down—

Till nigh she be overcome.

There is something of the use of such language to allow a deeper examination into dark paths that seem unrelenting, and, as the back cover offers, “compels us to examine the nature of empathy, what it means to be a compassionate witness, and what happens to us when brutality is so ever-present that we become numb.” Her lines through each section, each individual poem-suite that accumulates into this full-length lyric suite, extend with such courage, grace and connective tissue as to be by themselves book-length. Saskatchewan born-and-raised Ridley has always worked with the structure of the long poem, and this collection further highlights an ongoing attention to lyric and structure, offering not a book but a poem, book-length; one that extends across a landscape that includes works by Sylvia Legris, Monty Reid, Andrew Suknaski and Robert Kroetsch, among so many others, reaching to see just how far that lyric landscape might travel. And yet, her poems also give the sense of a lyric folded over and across itself, lines that collect and impact upon each other from a multitude of directions and into a singular, polyphonic voice. This is a stunning collection, and deserves to be win every award. Approach with caution, please. Or, as she writes as part of the third poem-section:

Look not in the eyes of any creature. The same creature runs with different names: wolf, vixen, vermin, heathen, honey, harlot, bitch.