Social Poesis: The Poetry of Rachel Zolf, selected with an introduction by Heather Milne

Trapped in this high-performance culture, let’s suspend,

all disbelief, ignore the elephants in the room.

I won’t remember that avant-garde chaos frees the writing

machine’s choked circuits.

Our abstractions stink of pure gibberish and no one

notices the false pundits.

Look through the mirror, it’s the information Age, where

every surface is 1793 brilliant urine requests scum wolf,

and nothing shines. (“Human Resources”)

The past few days I’ve been going through Social Poesis: The Poetry of Rachel Zolf, selected with an introduction by Heather Milne (Waterloo ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2019), the latest title in the expansive Laurier Poetry Series of critical selecteds. Editor Heather Milne assembled the collection Social Poesis by selecting from Canadian expat poet Rachel Zolf’s five trade poetry collections—Her absence, this wanderer (Ottawa ON: BuschekBooks, 1999), Masque (Toronto ON: The Mercury Press, 2004), Human Resources (Toronto ON: Coach House Books, 2007), Neighbour Procedure (Coach House Books, 2010) and Janey’s Arcadia (Coach House Books, 2014)—as well as from her online digital poetic project The Tolerance Project (http://thetoleranceproject.blogspot.com). I’ve long been fascinated by Zolf’s project-based work, something that has become more overt as she continues to publish, utilized to examine human interaction, and a variety of social and cultural histories. The book-length Human Resources, for example, was a magnificent examination of human interaction and dislocation through the corporate language; a language, it would seem, deliberately constructed to dehumanize. Zolf might utilize external means to produce work, but her concerns are deeply human, from the intimate to the professional to the historical, and the dark elements that so often are deliberately set aside, as Milne writes as part of her “Introduction” to the collection:

            In one of the poems in Human Resources, Zolf cites fellow Canadian poet Anne Carson, who asks, in relation to Paul Celan’s severely redacted poetry, “What is lost when words are wasted? And where is the human store to which such goods are gathered?” Zolf responds to Carson’s question with a question of her own: “When you ‘cleanse words and salvage what is cleansed,’ so you collect what’s been scrubbed off or what remains?” In other words, do you salvage the grime that has been removed, or do you valorize the beautiful language that has been scrubbed immaculately clean?”

What is helpful in this collection is the sequence of notes presented at the opening of sections that provide some context to the book/project being excerpted, such as the note on Masque that informs that “Zolf has compared this book to a play in which multiple characters are trying to talk at the same time, creating a polyphonic series of poems.” to the note on Janey’s Arcadia, that opens with: “Zolf makes use of optical character recognition software (OCR) that scans PDFs of archival texts into Word documents. OCR often misreads words and inserts strange symbols and characters into the text. Rather than correct these errors, Zolf embraces them as part of her compositional strategy. The glitches disrupt the poems that make them difficult to read, but they also become a site where meaning is generated.” This book exists as both an impressive overview of Zolf’s ongoing work, and a wonderful introduction to what she’s accomplished so far, much of which, I would argue, hasn’t received the attention it so clearly deserves. As Zolf herself writes, to close her “Afterword”:

            One wag famously suggested that “philosophy ought really to be written only as a poetic composition,” and I’ll wag back that the writer of any composition ought to take responsibility for the stance they are writing from and how what they write relates to the world they live in. I am a white-skinned, middle-class, Canadian, secular Jewish, genderqueer lesbian poet and thinker and educator and lover and abuse survivor and also sax player and other identities as well. I am here (like and not like Abraham) cloaked in ambivalence. Do these words matter when forty-nine mostly Latinx and black queer and trans people are massacred in Orlando while they dance? There is the so-called constative and the so-called performative. There is testimony and there are four chimneys blown beyond knowledge to deformed freedom. There is author, vendor, rhetor … all witness and sometimes survivor. There is a poem and there is un essai, a try, a poethical wager. A traviler is made. There is a monster in the neighbour’s face. That alien traumatic kernel of Das Ding in the Nebenmensch adjoins and hystericizes me as the both/and that exceeds and opens thought. yes and no are unsplit neighbours housed in abrasive proximity in the poem. Du liest is you read and you glean. There is a thinking encrypted in silence and a thinking encrusted in noise. There is a listening to what is unsayable. There is blur when I try to see one thing. There is a reach, a touch, impress. There is a limit and a limit and a limit and, peut-être, a threshold, break. As the impure products of America go crazy, there is un éveil, a queerly errant arousal. There is a veil, (im)ovable. No One arrives to witness and adjust. There is an experience that cannot be translated. No One can drive the car. There is an experience that cannot be undone. I am undone. There is a time that could have been then and a time that will have been now and a time always already to come. These coincide. We are what we gain from this disorientation.

Matthew Gwathmey, Our Latest in Folktales

Second Anniversary

On the outskirts, at the end of a one-way street,

a blind fiddler recreates our stroll down the aisle.

Two flower girls dance together—twirling redheads

secured by translucent strings, one to bow, one to scroll.

A pause for vows. We jig to Scottish ceilidh tunes,

the tracks we had chosen for our reception.

The program’s there on a stand in front of him,

toasts and cake-cutting about to come. Bouquet toss pencilled in.

The shopkeep, committing, ends our nuptuals with a broom;

he’s going to sweep away the petals for a new trinity—

fragrant perfumes, compact mirrors, stoles of fox fur.

Jonathan Ball’s blurb on the back cover of Matthew Gwathmey’s full-length poetry debut, Our Latest in Folktales (London ON: Brick Books, 2019), might describe such as a “mishmash,” but it seems obvious from the first poem onward that this book, consistently throughout, is occupied with time. The impression from the first half-dozen or so of these formal, first-person narratives, “Franklin the Icebreaker,” “At Arcadia Dump, Later On,” “Turning Thirty,” “Turning Thirty-Three” and “Sister Album,” suggest a gaze that is impossibly fixed on time as a multiple, gazing forward or backward, but never exclusively on the matter-at-hand. Once one makes it through further of the book, it becomes obvious that, as a unit, Gwathmey’s poems explore a progression of time—the coupling of poems such as “Turning Thirty” and “Turning Thirty-Three” to “Second Anniversary and Ninth Anniversary”—but individually seem to explore time as something that exists separately and concurrently. His sense of past, present and future exists as both weight and lightness, tether and foundation, existing in ways that are impossible to extricate from, nor would he ever wish to, if he is to remain whole. Moving from short lyrics to prose poems to slightly longer stretches of lyric sequences, Gwathmey revels in revealing that he (his narrator, etcetera) is in possession of knowledge greater than what is being presented, but also that such knowledge is woefully incomplete, writing poems that both tease and strive, revealing and furthering an impossible reach. What is it he’s reaching for?

At Arcadia Dump, Later On

We meet a shepherd amid a trail of discarded electronics, his staff assembled out of PVC pipe. Impressive, his change from a parabola of methane to a camber of mercury, summing up the whole landfille season that stretches before us. “When I started,” he says, “I had everything I needed in the cloud.” The smell of Sulphur caught in the art of natural selection—a breezy genetic drift. We watch a few beady-eyed sheep play off the dumping ground (darting noses, probing hooves against the slag-heap edge, wool newly wet). Avian swimmers dodge steam-powered waves. Country folk dressed in hazmat suits search the undershow, snoop through garbage bags. At a yelp they huddle to marvel at a crunched statistic or a shiny zippo. The siren signals the next level of hide ye mouse and seek ye cat. Soon, the falling sky will be close at hand.

For Gwathmey, his consideration of time includes the Acadians, psych wards, fishing, video chat, ageing and the Franklin Expedition, elements and stories and tales passed through generations that exist throughout time, moving backward and forward, at times reconsidered and rewritten, whether the opening poem “Franklin the Icebreaker” writing of “Only pummellings / of gossip roam free, / wafting through stalled boats /waiting for the icebreaker.” or to the closing poem, “Les Mimes de Paris,” that offers a reconsideration of history from a small group of (presumed) youths in the Metro, writing: “In steel-toed boots, laces untied, / they depart at Invalides / to question Napoleon’s tomb / about his contribution / to the war effort.” His are poems that wish to not only pass along those stories, but add some of his own, for posterity’s sake.

Jan-Henry Gray, DOCUMENTS

Maid Poem #1: The Housemaid

In the center of the concrete room there is a pink plastic water basin, wobbly, full, and brimming. On its side is a faded sticker of a smiling elephant with a fat ribbon around its neck. Three boys, wearing only shorts, sweating, stand around half-daring each other to jump over the basin without breaking its water. Outside, the housemaid, faded floral duster, a scar underneath her eye, lines empty soda bottles with the tops cut off side by side along the wall to the back door. In them go soil or rocks or rainfall. She sits on a miniature chair. She is waiting for stormcloud, homecoming, miracle, or for one of the naked boys to run toward her, their open mouths full of blood and laughing. And when the bark of the dog rises from the other side, her eyes dart to the fence—to a gap from plank to plank just large enough for a dog’s head but not hers. She knows this. on the day she tried, the dog, a smudge of black and brown, flanked by wild grass, no leash, hungry, rose to its three legs and did not bark.

The first thing I noticed about Chicago poet Jan-Henry Gray’s debut, DOCUMENTS (BOA Editions, 2019), was having to tear the tops of unbroken pages near the beginning of the collection, opening immediately to D.A. Powell’s introduction, “Foreword: Documents Unsealed.” There was something appropriate about having to tear at his pages. Winner of the A. Poulin, Jr. Poetry Prize, as judged by Powell, DOCUMENTS speaks from the perspective of an author who lacks legal status in the United States, a country he moved to at the age of six, when he and his parents left the Philippines. As Powell writes in his introduction:

Rarely would I chose to begin a discussion of someone’s poetry by delving into their biography. But a concerns this particular collection, these biographical facts are the supporting architectural elements upon which the house is built. The collection is both a documentary and a documentation organized around facts and necessities, forgeries and truths. Court cases and legislative battles—and their ensuing ripples across the social fabric—pull at the substance of this book’s art. what is the difference between disclosure and admission? Between hiding and omitting? These distinctions matter fundamentally in relation to identity, a commodity that can be stolen, erased or threatened with sanctions both legal and social.

This is a striking and impressive collection, one that shifts between the prose poem and the lyric, composed both as an assortment of loss and displacement, as well as a place where displacement has become, itself, the place where one is forced to exist. An undocumented status is one I’ve not seen explored through poetry prior to this, so I’m unaware if or how much writing or by whom pre-exists on and around the subject, but Gray’s DOCUMENTS emerges, obviously, during a highly-charged period in American politics, when the conversation is both more necessary, and far more fraught. DOCUMENTS is constructed as a kind of collage, utilizing narratives of and around the undocumented in America, from the multiple numbered “Maid Poem” series, tales of migration, paperwork, escape and capture, to the poem titled “Answer No,” a four-part sequence of questions, each of which point back to other poems in the collection, including:

14. Do you plan to practice polygamy in the U.S.?

Define practice.

See “A Love Poem with a Hole in It”

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Terry Doyle

Terry Doyle is from the Goulds, Newfoundland. In 2017 he won the Percy Janes First Novel Award and was a finalist for the NLCU Fresh Fish Award. His work has appeared in Riddle Fence, untethered, Leopardskin & Limes, and The Newfoundland Quarterly. Terry’s debut short story collection, DIG, is out now from Breakwater Books.

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

This is my first book!

But it has changed my life. This weekend I was asked, “What do you do?” and I answered, “I’m a writer,” without qualifying it with, “well, I used to be a plumber…”

So that’s nice.

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

I guess I was always attracted to the idea of writing a novel. I think I would feel too confined writing non-fiction. And I am intimidated by poetry, knowing next to nothing about it.

Fiction is very liberating. I try to write really fast and free-associate between ideas and images without worrying about how it’ll work out, until I finish the draft. Then I go back and discover all the weird and wonderful things my subconscious created. And I tidy them up, add connective tissue.

Fiction, for me, is akin to flying. Once you get the basics down it can be very free and wide open.

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?

This book is a collection of stories, and with short stories I draft very quickly. Often the stories begin as a single idea supported by a torn page full of random notes and images.

I’m working on a novel now—have been working on it for almost three years—and it, sadly, does not develop quite so quickly. There is more plotting and planning involved. And while I still try to engage my subconscious, the process just takes a lot longer, so those serendipitous connections happen less frequently. At this point I’d even say that writing a novel is less joyful than writing short stories. It’s really too bad publishers don’t generally feel that way too.

4 - Where does a work of prose 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?

I definitely know when I start if it’ll be a story or a novel.

I’ve written one novella and even then I could tell it didn’t really have the legs to be a novel.

So far I’ve only had one idea so large a story couldn’t contain it.

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

I’m not sure enjoy is the word I’d use, but I do appreciate an opportunity to share my work, and to perform it. St. John’s is host to an incredibly supportive writing community, so I’ve been very fortunate.

Reading out loud is, as we all know, a wonderful editing tool, so in that way I guess it is part of the 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 write about my community. Newfoundland has the lowest literacy rate of all the provinces, so part of my goal is to make my work accessible and entertaining, while hopefully not sacrificing too much along the way. I’m not an educated person, so I try to not assume my readers are either. I strive for clarity, with the hope that maybe someone who isn’t really into reading will read this book, and then read others. Or, heck, I hope someone who isn’t really into short stories will read it and then find other story collections.

So there’s that. And also I try to be honest. With myself, what I put on the page, and with the reader. I’d like the work to feel real. If I achieve those things I feel like the rest will work itself out.

Chekhov said, “A story doesn’t have to solve problems, it just has to formulate them correctly.” And if pressed to answer which problems I’m formulating, it would be questions about work and wealth and austerity. Newfoundland has been a “have-not” culture for pretty much my entire life. Except for a short boom period where we got drunk on oil money, then pissed it all away on a shady hydro dam. Now we are almost 13 billion in debt and our population is half a million people. So I write about the people who work, who are trying their best, finding their way despite the barriers placed in front of them. In this book there are a lot of sub-economies. Ingenuity grown out of desperation.

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?

For me, I feel like the writer’s role is to hold up a mirror. Observe and report. Craft a compelling, readable story that our community can look to, see ourselves in, and let it inform or influence how we then engage with the community.

I think about February by Lisa Moore, and how beautiful a book that is. How it humanizes a tragedy, lets us spend time with something we might otherwise shy away from, and heal. The sinking of the Ocean Ranger is still a very raw wound in Newfoundland, but Lisa’s book, while heartbreaking, is like a balm. That is the kind of achievement a writer can strive for, in my opinion.

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

I guess it depends on the editor. It definitely feels essential, but at times it can be less productive than one might hope.

I have received feedback that improved my whole skillset with just a few paragraphs of notes, and I’ve had feedback that laboured over a comma and not much else. But in general, I can’t wait to share new work and get feedback on it. What a blessing beta readers are!

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

I worked at the Banff Centre one summer, at the front desk. I checked in Yann Martel, and probably gushed a little. Told him I was trying to write a novel. His wife invited me to his surprise birthday party. It was all very lovely. Then, when he checked out of the hotel I had a day off, but he left me a note. It said, “Good luck. If I have any advice, it’s don’t ask for advice, just write like you only have a month to live.”
That was what I needed to hear.

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?

I bring my son to the bus stop, I have breakfast, then I sit at my desk until it’s time to go get him from the bus stop again at 3pm. What I do at the desk changes week to week, but I have to put in the time. I have to be at the desk, and be present with the work. I have to think of it as work.

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

I usually just try to take a different approach. If I’ve gotten stuck drafting (I hand write everything) then I’ll turn to transcribing. Usually that does the trick. If I’m editing, like this past summer, preparing the book for its final form, I’ll take my dog for a hike in the East White Hills, in St. John’s, and wander aimlessly around the trails up there. That always sparks something helpful.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Seabreeze. Salty air. Black spruce.

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?

Nature for sure. I get a lot of writing done in my mind while I walk. And fortunately, in St. John’s, nature is never far away. I can drive for 5 minutes, park my car, and ten minutes later be in silence, among trees and water.

I’ll post photos on Instagram that I’ve taken on my hikes and loved ones will see them and say they’d like to come with me next time, and I’m like, No! That’s work for me. That’s part of my process.

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

Lisa Moore has taught me, and so many of my peers, so much. She gives endlessly to our community.

I’m also really inspired and influenced by Michael Winter, Megan Coles, Jessica Grant, Robert Chafe, and, moving off-island, I love the work of Kevin Barry, Raymond Carver, Amy Hempel, George Saunders, and Colin Barrett.

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

Finish my novel.

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?

Well, I was a plumber. Before that I worked in retail, restaurants, bars, hotels, farms, grocery stores, movie theatres, airports, call centres, and dog kennels. I like writing.
If I were to do choose something else it would probably be visual art. Painting. I do it as a hobby and it’s a wonderful feeling when you finish a painting and you don’t hate it and you can step back and feast on something beautiful you made.

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

I tried to write as a young man and then I stopped.

Then, in 2016 my best friend was diagnosed with Glioblastoma. He was sick for nine months, and it was during that time I turned back to writing.

I would give it all up in a heartbeat if I could get Justin back, but his sickness, his passing gave me a gift: the courage to try again. To realize nothing was guaranteed.

It forced me to reevaluate, and my conclusion was: leap.

Go for it now, and don’t live with regret.

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

Small Game Hunting at the Local Cowards Gun Club, by Megan Gail Coles.

19 - What are you currently working on?

I’m still plugging away on the novel I started back in 2016. It keeps changing and evolving, but generally I’m happy with how it is progressing.
And thank you, rob, for the opportunity to answer these questions.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;