Q&A with Clea Roberts

by Victoria Festival of Authors |Aug 9, 2017 | 0 Comments | Uncategorized

Clea Roberts lives just outside of Whitehorse in the Yukon. Her second collection of poetry, Auguries, was published this spring by Brick Books. Her debut collection, Here is Where We Disembark (Freehand Books) was a finalist for the 2010 League of Canadian Poets’ Gerald Lampert Award and was translated into German. When not writing, Roberts facilitates a workshop on grief through Hospice Yukon and is the Artistic Director of the Kicksled Reading Series.

by Ariel Gordon

AG: What do you want people to know about Auguries?

CR: It might be good to start with an explanation of the title, which I’ll admit is kind of obscure.

Auguries is the ancient Roman practice of drawing an imaginary field in the sky, observing the types and behaviours of birds that fly through that field, and then using that information to provide advice to decision makers.

I’m also told that auguries can involve the reading of animal entrails, but that would have required a completely different book cover.

I guess I see the poems in this collection as auguries in their own right—my notes and observations regarding the wild and domestic spheres, based on who or what I encounter and what happens during those encounters. I don’t see myself as a purveyor of advice, but I do believe that, poetry, even if it doesn’t result in the reader making a decision, does prepare us for a decision. As Muriel Rukeyser would say, “a poem invites a total response”. In other words, poetry isn’t action, but it prepares us for action.

AG: Tell me about the difference between a first book and a second book.

CR: The poems in both books came together in much the same way. I have my routines and every poem germinates based on the ecosystem of my lived experience. Perhaps I had a better understanding of my subject and my creative process going into the second book, so it took me a little less time to bring the manuscript to the point where I could see it as a whole.

I’ve recently finished collaborating on a Japanese translation of Here Is Where We Disembark. During the process, the translator often asked me questions regarding my intent in certain poems. I became acutely aware in re-reading the poems that I could answer his questions in one of two ways: as my past self (trying to disengage hindsight), or as my current self (using the years since I’d written the poems as a lens of interpretation). I could answer his questions by trying to return to the headspace I was in 7 years ago when I wrote the poems, or I could answer the question based on what I now see in the poems according to what I know and understand of the world and myself.

So, to answer your question, the difference between the first book and the second book is, fundamentally and surprisingly, me.

AG: Tell me about writing after becoming a parent. Has your writing process changed very much?

CR: My daughter was 2 years-old when my first book, Here Is Where We Disembark, came out with Freehand Books in 2010. Now I have a 6 year-old and a 9 year-old, and another poetry book, Auguries. How did that happen? I feel very fortunate.

I’ve heard a lot of women writers (most recently, Laura Trunkey) say that with motherhood, it becomes easier to be less precious about the time of day and the environment in which writing takes place. On the whole, I think this versatility is a good thing, because it points to our commitment to writing—that it endures despite a lack of personal time and space. And perhaps as time and space shrink around one’s writing practice, it allows the practice to stand out and to be more defined by the life that brings it meaning—like a landscape under snow.

AG: We turn to poetry at our highest and lowest points—ecstasy and mourning are the ends of its continuum. How do you write about the death of a parent and the birth of a child but also daily life? 

CR: When my daughter was born, I remember a nurse telling me that it was normal to feel some grief over the loss of my past self. How strange, I thought—what she was saying didn’t align with the rest of what I’d heard about motherhood (that it was All So Wonderful). But sometimes misalignments like these create the crack that lets the light in, so to speak. Becoming a mother is the best thing I’ve ever done in my life. But it altered my identity in a really fundamental way and, particularly at first, that shift didn’t always feel good.

During my mother’s illness and death, despite the sad and frightening circumstances, we laughed a lot and felt a lot of joy together. Knowing I was going to lose her, and that we would no longer be able to communicate, provided a foundation for some very ecstatic and tender moments together. Like when I walked her into the ocean for one last swim, or when I, despite my lack of talent in coiffure, learned how to do her hair and make-up because that was important to her.

My experiences in becoming a parent and losing a parent taught me that our deepest sorrows are often seeded with our greatest joys. And what would our greatest joys be if we couldn’t see the faint, backward letters of our deepest sorrows when we hold up our joy in celebration?

The fact that day-to-day life happens in between and within the moments of ecstasy and mourning is what continues to amaze me. I think those things are worth trying to capture in poetry. I think the poets main job in that sense, is to be present in the small moments—which usually turn out to be much more significant than we think.

AG: What has teaching writing about grief taught you?

CR: First and foremost, I have learned that whether you are a “teacher” or a “student”, it is a great comfort to gather and talk about grief and loss with other people. Perhaps the commonality of suffering makes it more bearable, but I think seeing vulnerability in others leaves me with an incredible sense of awe. Expressing vulnerability requires so much bravery and strength, that I’m completely humbled by the people who sign up for the workshops.

I’ve taught two kinds of workshops for Hospice Yukon on writing and grief—the first focuses on using poetry as a tool to heal from grief, while the second uses journaling for the same purpose. I decided to teach both because I often use journaling as a way to get to poetry. In my writing practice, I often start by getting the details down with journaling and then winnow the poem from there.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that the journaling workshop tends to attract people who are experiencing grief over a very recent loss, and that the poetry workshop tends to attract people who have had some time to process and consider what they are thinking and feeling about a particular loss. It’s my impression that the journaling workshop participants are dealing with grief in a very raw state—they come to unleash the unsayable and to weather the storm just by finding an anchor in words.

Conversely, the poetry workshop participants come to learn the tools that will help them craft a fully-fledged response to their grief. They might have, at least temporarily, entered a clearing in the dark forest of mourning and they are looking to draw a map using words.

At first, this struck me as interesting because poetry is often considered a form of expression that we turn to in times of high, unreserved emotion (political strife or triumph, celebrations of life, life transitions). But then I realized, I don’t write a poem from a chaotic state of mind–the waters have to be calm before I can plumb their depths. Wordsworth said “poetry is emotion recollected in tranquility”. If this is true, then it makes sense to say that journaling is emotion in the midst of the chaos. Both are really important points of practice for me.

What makes poetry so powerful (and what we reach for at our highest and lowest points) is that it refines vulnerability to its essence and makes universal, abstract emotions very personal and accessible. There is nothing impulsive about poetry and the extreme compression afforded by poetic devices (metaphor, onomatopoeia, caesura, alliteration, metre etc) makes every word count.

AG: How does grief write differently than other emotional states?

CR: I like the idea your question suggests very much–that grief may write differently than other emotional states. Grief can have many nuances and is often a lot more complex than just being really, really sad that someone has died. Sometimes grief is shadowed by our own fears of mortality. Sometimes a death of a loved one can bring us unexpected relief and/or guilt. Sometimes we are not grieving the person we lost at all, but the person we wish they had been or the love they never got. Sometimes grief contains another, older grief that must be processed, and once that older grief is opened up we discover yet another grief—like a set of nesting dolls.

The different stages of grief, as articulated by Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, encompass so many different emotional states—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I’m not sure that we have mapped out other emotional landscapes as clearly as we have mapped out grief. It makes sense, therefore, that the state of grief—whatever the source—should be a wellspring for the most profound writing from our deepest selves.

Clea Roberts will appear Friday, September 29 at 3:30-5:00 at the Greater Victoria Pubic Library with Gregory Scofield and Julie Paul.

Ariel Gordon is a Winnipeg writer.

Q&A with Steven Heighton

by Victoria Festival of Authors |Sep 20, 2016 | 0 Comments | Q&A | , , , , , , , ,

Steven Heighton’s latest collection of poems “the Waking Comes late” is highly evolved work from a writer who “in the early evening of a life”, is a master of form and sound. The poems integrate with other texts, some anonymous or obscure, others more well known, Celan or Akhmatova for example. Heighton engages with and pays homage to these voices to create a new level of work “beyond gravity, grave, ego”. From one of Canada’s finest lyrists, here are beautiful, wise poems glittering with music, echoes and subtle rhyme.

by Miranda Pearson

MP: How did you arrive at the title of your latest book of poems, “The Waking Comes Late”?

SH: It’s a phrase in the book, and also the title of the poem in which the phrase appears. Sleep and waking–on both literal and metaphorical levels–have been preoccupying me for a long time. I could see that preoccupation arising often in the manuscript, so the title seemed right. (It only now occurs to me that the title of my next book, a novel–“The Nightingale Won’t Let You Sleep”–is closely related.)

MP: Could you speak to the notion of “approximations”? My understanding is that they are not translations as much as responses, or homages.

SH: Some are traditional translations and some are much freer, looser, to the point where, yes, you might call them responses or homages. I see “approximation” as a rubric that’s roomy enough to comprise a wide range of approaches, from more or less faithful to extremely free.

MH: How did you arrive at the particular poems you worked with in your “approximations”?

SH: Some are poems that I love. Some are poems that I don’t love but that engross and intrigue me and make me want to dig into them farther. Some are poems that I invented, though no one ever seems to notice.

MP: You have been travelling lately, for instance to Scotland. How was that?

SH: Terrific. I love both Edinburgh and Glasgow. Great walking & pubbing cities. And such welcoming people.

MP: Lastly could you talk about your teaching style and any plan or hope that you have for the workshop in Victoria?

SH: I guess you’d have to ask someone else about my teaching style. As for plans and hopes, that’s easy: I want to get writers thinking about poetry and prose in a slightly different way and I want to get them writing in the workshop. Above all, I want them to enjoy it, in the sense of an enjoyable and exhilarating challenge.

Steven Heighton will read Friday, September 23 in Pure Poetry. His Masterclass is now full.

Q&A with Carla Funk

by Victoria Festival of Authors |Sep 20, 2016 | 0 Comments | Q&A | , , , , , , , ,

On Fire, the Afterlife, and Breaking the Line: an Interview with Poet Carla Funk

By Leah Callen

I talked to Carla Funk, former Poet Laureate of Victoria, about her latest collection, Gloryland. When I finished reading these poems, I felt like I had been in church: humbled, weirdly emotional, and longing to do something more with my life.

LC: There is so much music in your poems. There’s the literal music in the lines (and I did feel compelled to read Gloryland aloud to enjoy it properly). But there was also this recurring motif of music, from the homeless dogs who are an “opera in tooth and fur” to your mother’s voice “like a low radio.” And just the general idea of the verb “tuning” – tuning our darkness “to brighter thought,” the soul or life being a song and tuning ourselves to be closer to God. Is music is a big part of your life or worship as a poet?

CF: Absolutely. I feel like before I found the language of poetry, the music was being taught to me, partially because our house was filled with music. My mum had her collection of folk records and Elvis Sings the Hymns and my dad had his Country Crooner collection, and there was a schmaltzy lounge room jazz album my mum had, and every once in a while the mood would strike her and she’d put that on. And of course, sitting in church from infancy, you’re always singing. And then at about five years old, my mum started us in piano lessons. So there’s just always been music and that felt more foundational to me even than literature. I can’t help but gravitate to music as its own entity but then the music inside language. I’m just a sucker for a turn of phrase that carries assonance or grooves along with the iambic pentameter mode. And for about the same reason, I still love the Shakespeare sonnets and Robert Frost and those poets who are unabashed in their musicality.

LC: There’s also a lot fire imagery.

CF: Yeah, my editor was like can you get rid of some of the flames?

LC: No, no. It’s great. Would you say fire is your element or The Element?

CF: I think for me… light and darkness, always that motif is coming up. Whether you’re looking at Greek mythology, whether you’re looking at Biblical narrative, whether you’re looking at the seasons. And to me somehow fire occupies both of those realms because it is light, but it is also a destructive force. It’s both illuminating and obscuring. And if I think about fire, you can be burned, but you can also be called to safety. There’s that element of danger and also of illumination. And then also, of course, the Book of Revelations and every mention of Hell that happened during my childhood, sitting in church service.

LC: Well, you read my mind because my next question was going to be: the interplay between dark and light and that chiaroscuro you mention in one of your poems seems to be the overarching theme or effect throughout, and I wondered what you are most trying to convey about the dark and light in life.

CF: I don’t feel like I have any sort of proclamation about dark and light except that I love this idea, it’s sort of the ancient Biblical narrative. For the Jewish culture, all their traditions have day starting in darkness. And I think in our Western minds we often think of it as beginning in light and heading toward darkness. Day begins in darkness and moves into light and it may sound like a simple, almost a semantic shift, but for me that’s the sort of trajectory that I was trying to explore. What if things begin in darkness and move toward light instead of we begin in light and move toward darkness? And I’m thinking of, on a personal narrative level like family and dysfunction and turmoil of home life as a child – but what if it moves toward redemption? And, you know, looking at the dying world around us and instead of just seeing it winding down, what if it’s actually moving toward redemption? That’s, I guess, what the big question is: what if everything is moving toward redemption?

There’s a giant question mark inhabiting light and dark and for me that question mark tugs me in to think about how do these two interact and could darkness come before the light. I feel like it’s probably the resurrection motif, I mean… my father had just died and I kept having all these dreams about him and in all these dreams there was so much light or fire that kept happening and they weren’t dark dreams, they were actually light dreams. And, ah, interesting. What if at the end, it’s just light. And what if at the end, there’s actually beauty. What if light is actually on the other side of the darkness?

LC: The afterlife is always present in here, the idea of the “two realms, the green and the gold” and what’s to come next. Listening to you talk about this, it can be a metaphor for redemption in life as well as a literal afterlife. Do you think that believing in a Heaven is, in a way, a sweet kind of death wish or homesickness? Not in a bad way, but a yearning almost?

CF: Yeah. Homesickness is a really interesting way of putting it. I hadn’t thought about that, but I think there is in humanity this desire for something beyond what we have and, you know, one person might name it aspiration. One person might name it drive. And I would probably name it eternal homesickness. I think back again to childhood and how formative all the hymns we’d sing about in the sweet by and by and Beulah Land and all of these strange names for the afterlife which I didn’t really understand what they meant, but there was so much longing, a sort of pilgrim mentality that was ingrained into everybody standing in the congregation singing about well, things are bad, but one day… and I think that’s just been in humanity regardless of the culture, regardless of the religion. It’s just eternal homesickness. And it can’t help but come out in my writing, I think.

LC: Reading your poems, I felt you have a mystical incarnate god who’s not afraid to get His hands dirty. Even though there is the afterlife and this beautiful return home, He also seems to be in the people and places around you. I have a bit of a heavy question, but do you think the Kingdom of God is more within us or without? Because there’s this far away land, but it’s also like you’ve cast the people in your life as Biblical characters in here as well.

CF: That’s a good question. I need to go to seminary for a couple of years and then come back. I would just love to study theology. I guess if I think about when I sit down and I’m writing a poem, and what I’m believing to be true, I’m seeing the Kingdom of God everywhere. I’m seeing it in that snail. I think that the universe is like a book open for us to read and everywhere there are signs and symbols and messages, whether it’s a fly traveling around the cabin of an airplane or a snail crawling up a fencepost, I think we can read all of that. And if the Kingdom of God is within a person, then a person has eyes to see the Kingdom of God that’s all around.

LC: Do you think that’s the true role of a poet: to be a mystic and basically “crack the code of Heaven” in life?

CF: I can’t speak for all poets and I think every person walks around in the world with something inscribed in the very depths of them that is their purpose in the world, and I’m guessing every poet has a little inscription too. I feel like one of the parts of my inscription is to listen and to pay attention. And I would hope writers would do that no matter what they believe or what kind of writing they are producing: listening, paying attention like a kid who is full of wonder at the universe and not jaded and not cynical. I feel like one of the things I want to do is point at the kind of wonder of what’s true and what is beautiful.

LC: This book is dedicated to your father and Elegy is a very powerful poem. I cried after that one specifically. Just beautiful. Is writing the way a poet works through mourning?

CF: One thing I’ve found to be true about writing poems is that they force emotion into objectivity – especially in the revision process. And just like the language goes through the furnace of revision, emotion and memory and family relationships go through a revision process. And time can be the great reviser and death can be a catalyst for that revision. And I found that through writing these poems after my dad died, that it was this redemptive act where I began to remember him differently, see him differently. You know, I wouldn’t have dedicated the book to my dad five years ago. But leading up to his death, that sort of slow drain of negative emotion or hurt, it happened. And what was left initially was sort of this vacant space of not feeling hurt, of not feeling anger, just feeling nothing. And then, gradually, it was flooded in with some love which shocked me. And these poems came out of a completely different emotional space where I could actually say that I loved my father. Though he might not have read these poems had he been alive, in writing them I felt like that darkness was moving toward light in the end in my response to him and memories of childhood, which was miraculous for me.

LC: In one poem, What Flowers Few and Bright, you talk about a bumblebee and its “methodology as exquisite a jeweller’s tooling at the gem,” and it made me remember you telling us in class that that’s what a poet does. It’s like a jeweller working on a tiny gem and getting it just right. How much do you obsess or do you obsess over perfecting the small things in a poem like enjambment or punctuation or diction? Do you feel that a poem can be perfect and how do you know when you’ve gotten it there?

CF: I can only speak to what my process is like. But, yes, I do obsess in the final stages of revising. That’s when the obsession with minutia takes over and I labour over the comma or the em dash, the line break here or a line break there. Not at the start, I don’t. I let it just go and sometimes it’s just messy, muddy writing at the start. But as the poem finds its shape, then the minutia comes into play.

I always picture this ideal, true, whole poem existing already. I just read a headline about some famous Vancouver magician’s house burning down. And I was like, oh, I have to write a poem about this. So, in my head the poem about the magician’s house burning down is already there. It’s already perfected somewhere. My job is just to get as close as possible to what that poem, that ideal, true poem is. And so I feel like I’m getting closer when I start to obsess over the minutia, over the punctuation and line breaks, the syllable shifts… that tells me I’m getting closer. And is it ever perfect? No. But I’ll get as close as I can.

Q&A with Adrienne Gruber

by Victoria Festival of Authors |Sep 12, 2016 | 0 Comments | Q&A | , , , ,

Unabashedly Human: a conversation with poet, Adrienne Gruber

Interviewed by Emily McIvor

Buoyancy Control (Book Thug) is Adrienne Gruber’s second full length book of poems. This work is raw, sharp and visceral. The poems explore the strange confluence of physical and emotional being with urgent language but also with humour and kindness. I chatted with Gruber recently via email. This is what we both said.

EM: Buoyancy Control is divided into two parts: land and sea, but whether or not they are explicitly about the sea, the poems are juicy, full of liquids and melting and dripping and of the all too human experience of permeability. Were the poems written as a body or did you look up one day and realize that they were related?

AG: The poems in Buoyancy Control have gone through so many revisions and have moved around in the book so much that it’s hard for me to say when exactly the book found its cohesive structure. I was definitely writing poems with the intention of having them in a book together but at least half of the poems that were in earlier drafts of the book were cut and newer pieces found their way in. Every poem was related in some way thematically but I didn’t quite have the narrative structure of the book figured out until years after I had written most of the poems.

EM: What is your favourite revision strategy (or several of your favourites)?

AG: I don’t have any strategies. What I tend to do is workshop poems with some very trusted poets who know my work and are able to tease out the crucial lines and point out the weak sections or redundancies. While this sometimes happens over email, I get a lot out of in-person workshops or conversations over the phone. Those conversations are lifelines for the work. The rest of my revision process involves coffee, line/stanza Tetris, printing out the manuscript and laying it out on the living room floor so I can move pieces around and get a feel for the book in its entirety, tinkering with line breaks and form and punctuation, getting irritated, putting it away for three or six months to work on something else, more coffee and probably cookies, the realization that my work is garbage and then the hopeful optimism that comes with just needing to finish the thing.

EM: Both sections begin with a prologue but the prologues are poems. Why?

AG: These poems had different titles originally. As I was restructuring the book later on, I realized I wanted an introductory poem for each section. The book is divided into two sections, the first focuses on land and the second focuses on water. The first prologue poem takes place in the small community of El Llano in Northern Mexico and examines how landscapes, while beautiful, confines us. The second prologue poem takes place at Lake Superior in Northern Ontario, where water is introduced as a source of fluidity and letting go.

EM: The title, Buoyancy Control, refers to a piece of equipment used in scuba diving; it allows the diver to control her own buoyancy and thus the rate at which she ascends or descends in the water. Writing poetry is also very controlled, even while drawing upon wild imaginative leaps and peripheral associations as well as the sloshiness of human experience. Is that what you meant?

AG: I was making reference to the device that helps a diver control his/her buoyancy in the water, but I was also going for something a little tongue and cheek. Diving is meant to be a very serene and gentle activity, but in order to achieve that calm, one must be very controlled in the water. The idea of control within a body or an identity is fascinating to me, as impulses and desires tend to be fluid. It seems as though we need to let go of our need for control in order to truly explore and experiment with identity and sexuality, yet there is a false sense of security in that control, a feeling that we are safer staying within the confines of the status quo.

EM: In the interview you gave for Book Thug, you say that at the time of writing, you were engaged in an exploration of personal and sexual identityCan I say that things don’t feel unresolved? The poems feel confident; like you’re comfortable in your own skin.

AG: That’s interesting. It never occurred to me that this book would feel resolved to the reader. It might feel less that way to me because this book represents a time when I didn’t feel remotely resolved within myself. I don’t want the compelling theme of the book to be a sense of shame or discomfort with my own sexual identity, however the poems explore experiences that leave me in some vulnerable places. I’m glad the poems come across as confident. To me they are dichotomous; filled with anxiety and doubt, but also self-love and acceptance.

Emily McIvor is a Victoria writer of poetry and creative nonfiction. She is excited by connections and ideas and by the world.

Q&A with Jan Zwicky

by Victoria Festival of Authors |Sep 5, 2016 | 0 Comments | Q&A

Jan Zwicky has published nine collections of poetry, including Songs for Relinquishing the Earth and Forge. Her latest collection The Long Walk forthcoming from University of Regina Press will be pre-released specially for her reading Friday September 23. Yvonne Blomer interviewed her this August about her new collection.

YB: Can you speak to where or what drives or pushes or pulls you into a poem – does the poem begin in an image or question, in a musical note or musical phrase, and from that start, where does it go or how does it unfold?

 

JZ: For me, poems often begin as a lit presence in the world — a this, a physical thing or a melody, that stands out luminously in its surround; or sometimes it’s the whole surround, a wordless configuration, that lights up. Then I want to try to do justice to that thing or configuration. (Why I want to try to do this in words remains a mystery to me; for the most part, words seem entirely inadequate to what-is.) The poem, as a linguistic composition, then starts with a few words, a phrase, it might even be nonsense, that has the right tone and rhythmic shape. The task becomes one of trying to sense how the gravitational field of the thing or configuration bends language to its own non-verbal form.

Other times, less frequently, I’ll get a line or two out of nowhere — usually near what ends up being the end or the beginning of the poem. But after that the process is the same: trying to stay under long enough to sense accurately the larger shape that the lines belong to.

YB: Can you talk about how these poems engage with witnessing the environment and its destruction?

JZ: This book, more perhaps than any other I’ve written, contains passages of deep and explicit anger. Anger is a difficult emotion to deal with in a lyric context: it has to rush and leap like a forest fire, to flame with horror and grief. If you don’t let it have its head, you get something narrowly personal — sardonic. A sardonic tone is not appropriate to what’s happening. Humans, bent on their own overpopulated comfort (I include myself), are destroying the beauty and integrity of the existing biosphere. The blood is on our hands. How do we face the enormity of that fact?

YB: How do you manage that enormity and these facts? I attended the Kinder Morgan panel in Victoria on August 23 and so many people are afraid of the future and oil, and though trying to make changes, aware of the attachment of cars and other things we are hooked into. How can writers, poets, merely write or perhaps what can that writing do?

JZ: This is an old and deep question: what are the social and political responsibilities of artists? Let me start with what I don’t believe. I don’t believe that morally concerned artists ought to devote themselves exclusively to making overtly ‘political’ art. That would actually be a very bad idea. Politics, I believe, are necessary; but in the form of positive programs and agendas, they are an attempt to systematize relations among humans (and, occasionally, among humans and other-than-human beings). In that systematizing, the particularities of reality — individual beings and places — are obscured. It’s those individuals that we love, and our love for them is one of the reasons we want them to do well, to thrive. How then do we learn to see past the systematizing and the stereotypes? Many things can shake us up and point the way; but lyric art is one of the most important teachers. The attempt to lead an environmentally responsible life flows from, it is an unconstrained desire that arises from, deep attention to the natural world. That’s where the poetry that I write comes from, too: it is, as it were, a side-effect of paying attention to the world. The art of others has direct political consequences in my own life in that it teaches me to see and to listen more acutely. That art can also strengthen my resolve when it protests injustice without trying to roll out a positive program. But the great political power of lyric art lies in its ability to hone our capacity to attend. That capacity is the foundation of our desire to respond to the world with care and respect.

YB: In your poems I sense a great chasm open in me in lines that use parallelism, repetition and also seem to move to a great relentless opening in the end. This occurs especially in poems that insist that we’re on the brink of calamitous ecological and cultural change. Can you talk for a moment on poetry and music and the interstices between the two for you?

JZ: How does poetry integrate emotion with thought? It uses the rhythmic, tonal, and sonorous dimensions of language. I’m intrigued by the view that humans or prehumans sang before they talked; certainly music means in a profound way that logic and grammar don’t seem to be able to get at. And when a free verse poet wants to shift into emotional first gear, their language often becomes overtly musical — it deploys intense rhythm, the repetitions you mention, alliteration, and partial, sometimes even full, rhyme; it ghosts cadences we’re familiar with from great oratory. We don’t hear such language frequently these days because it’s deeply uncool. Ours is an ironic age, and when you’re being ironic, the last thing you want is to give people the impression you care. I do care, however; I care passionately about what is happening to the earth, to wilderness, to natural beauty. And I intend to go down singing.

Q&A With Louise Halfe

by Victoria Festival of Authors |Aug 29, 2016 | 0 Comments | Q&A

Louise Halfe has published 4 books of poetry with Coteau Press. Miranda Pearson spoke with Louise about her latest collection Burning in this Midnight Dream.

MP: In your book Burning in the Midnight Dream you very bravely “go into the darkness” behind the exterior of truth and reconciliation. I thought it was an incredibly generous and beautiful work, despite much of the tragic content. In the end I was left with a feeling of love but much of it must have been extremely hard to write, especially when it came to the family violence. Can you tell me about the title?

LH: The title is taken from one of the poems, and the words contain a lot of metaphor. Yes, writing it was one of the most difficult tasks I’ve ever taken on. It took its toll. At times I had to walk away from it and having finished it I feel exhausted.

MP: The photos in the book are beautiful, I’m wondering if you felt the spirits of any of these people while you were writing about them. What role do dreams play in your work? Also can you speak to any use of ceremony or ritual that you use in writing?

LH: No, I didn’t really hear their spirits, I think mainly because the book is my story, not theirs. In previous works “the Crooked Good” and “Blue Marrow”, I have, but not in this one. Dreams play a big part, they often work their way into my poetry. I also listen to the way others talk; we don’t realize how often we talk in poetry. I start the day with blessing myself with sage and sweet grass. I usually work in long hand and then put it onto the computer.

MP: You mention in the workshop description that you encourage students to “write without fear”, can you say a bit more about that?

LH:  Fear is mental bock. I try and help students recognize their fears and what might be preventing them from writing from a deeper context. I ask them to get to know each other before hand so as to develop some trust. We work in a circle, and I help them problem solve and brainstorm. I want them to feel safe and ask them how we can do this. I think coming from a social worker background helps in this regard.

MP: I see you worked with Tim Lilburn as an editor for the new book. Can you talk about the editing process?

LH: I shared the work with a few people I trust. In Cree the past and present tenses sit more comfortably together so I did need help with editing as English is not my first language. Sometimes they’re literally translations.

MP: That’s so interesting, reminding me of the lines in your poems “I don’t like walking backwards…let me try that backward walk”. Do you practice any other art forms? Do you ever work in the prose form?

LH: I do some carving, sewing, gardening, and of course reading. No, I have tried writing prose but it’s not my calling, it doesn’t call out to me as poetry does.

MP – thank you Louise, and we look forward very much to your visit to Victoria.

Q&A with Betsy Warland

by Victoria Festival of Authors |Aug 21, 2016 | 0 Comments | Q&A

Betsy Warland has published 12 books of poetry, creative nonfiction, and lyric prose, including her best-selling 2010 book of essays on writing, Breathing the Page—Reading the Act of Writing. Nancy Pearson spoke with Betsy about her latest memoir, Oscar of Between: A Memoir of Identity and Ideas.

NP: There are so many layers to Oscar of Between: A Memoir of Identity and Ideas that could take our conversation in many directions. There are two elements I would like to focus on to give the readers of this blog a sense of what they might experience when they read your memoir.

The first is why you chose to write it in third person. This is unusual for a memoir, and it has the effect for me of bringing two voices into this very intimate narrative: Oscar’s, and yours, as the omniscient narrator. How did you arrive at your decision to write the memoir in this way?

BW: It chose me. I was in the later stages of writing Breathing the Page and it’s been my practice as a writer to begin a new manuscript while I’m in the later stages of finishing one. When flying to London to celebrate my 60th birthday and I decided that I wanted to return to the form I had used in my memoir Bloodroot. Bloodroot is a book-length narrative based on lived experience that’s written in entries that vary in length and sensibilities (storytelling, poetry, dialogue). As I began to sense this new manuscript out, I realized I wanted to introduce one fictive device to make it more challenging and surprising this time. I had no idea what that fictive devise would be.

In London, I was struck by an insight while viewing the Camouflage exhibit [at the Imperial War Museum]. I knew this was the spark for my new manuscript. In tandem, I kept running into the name Oscar months before London and while there, and felt increasingly drawn to it. It’s an old-fashioned name so it was surprising that I kept running into it and decided to accept it as a second given name.

Oscar/she gave voice to another side of me. I’m still gaining deeper understanding about Oscar sharing the narration with Betsy. I now know that I couldn’t have been as honest if I had written it as Betsy in first person. It was imperative that the narrator be transparent given her deep concern about the connection between the military camouflage and its morphing into endless forms of deception that are fuelling an ever increasing fear and violence in civilian life.

Oscar named a significant part of myself (the between) that hadn’t had a name, and allowed that part of myself to come forward and connect with a wide variety of other persons of between. Residing in this narrative position was challenging and remarkable. I’ve come to think it’s misleading to assume that our goal as writers is to master the craft. I’ve come to understand that it’s more about our being mastered by the craft. Trusting it will show us which methods suit each narrative.

[At this point, Betsy turned the tables momentarily to ask me a question and asked me to include my answer here:

BW: Tell me, what was your experience of reading Oscar and the two voices?

NP: I found it fascinating. My mind was on both Oscar’s and Betsy’s stories, and also on the narrative in between, where I tried to bring the two together.]

NP: In this memoir you bring together your internal and external worlds to peel away the camouflage to reveal meaning and understanding. One example that comes to mind is the missing person posters in your neighbourhood and the ways in which these people were described on them. Can you speak a bit about the techniques you use in Oscar?

BW: Again, this is an example of when the writing got hijacked by a strong experience. Part 19 was originally a performance piece. When I’m describing the context of the experience, those are my words. All the other language was taken directly from the MISSING PERSON posters.

Post-Christmas, those poster photos were in such stark contrast to the massive number of photos we take of dear ones during the holidays. All the missing people were young and three out of five were from different racial descent. Noticing these missing young people while my adolescent son was by my side intensified the experience. I was also struck by the vocabulary and the way in which a person’s life can be compressed into banal details. It’s a genre of its own that I found very poignant and very distressing.

I wanted to keep the physicality of the way in which these posters appeared on the poles so I gave each person their own column on the page. And instead of telling it all at once, it kind of happens to you incrementally. It sort of sinks into you gradually. I wanted it to also happen that way for the reader. It starts out kind of innocuous – age, height, etc. But as you read more of the poster, the accumulative impact becomes more powerful.

In a sense, these missing individuals are the double missing. They’re missing from their loved ones, and because we don’t know them and we don’t care about them in our society. It’s both an absence and a not being seen. I wanted to draw the reader close to see if they would take it in; care. From all indications, they have.

NP: The second element of Oscar that is so intriguing is that you developed an online salon as a second Oscar. What role did the Oscar salon – and technology – play in the writing of Oscar of Between?

BW: It’s an interesting question and I’m glad you asked this. (And I’m so glad you asked about the posters as no one in an interview has to date). Previously, I had a very demoralizing experience. It had taken me five years to find a publisher for Breathing the Page. I always had confidence in this manuscript and it did become a bestseller. This was partly to do with an increasing risk-adverse stance in the publishing industry. The editor or publisher would want the book and the marketing side would nix it. So, I decided not to make any assumptions about this manuscript: it may never become a book and that’s okay. Or, maybe I’d publish it myself. I did know I wasn’t going to shop it around. This approach liberated me! I ust wanted to write this narrative and be wide open about how it would or would not get out into the world. More than any other of my books, this one taught me a lot about how to extend my creative relationship.

The salon went up on my website (www.betsywarland.com/) in December 2012 when I was about half way through writing the manuscript. What prompted me to launch the salon was the fact that I was really missing giving readings. I love giving readings but they aren’t as well funded as they used to be. This [online salon] is a way of accessing that experience of being in real time to see how people respond. That appealed to me. It’s also a vital way in which I gain perspective and see where revisions are needed. The monthly salon also features readers’ comments.

There are limitations in both online and in book forms, and I liked gaining new understanding about what they are. I was inviting guest writers, visual artists and composers every month from different parts of the country. It’s been fascinating to see how they bounced off the excerpt I sent them and to get to know their work more. Embodying this broader environment I’m working in and honouring these writers and artists had been inspiring. Putting it up online intensified my revising process of Oscar. It didn’t impact what I was writing so much, but it really buoyed me.

The version of Oscar online is an abridged version of the book suited for online reading. Reading online doesn’t appeal to everyone and an increasing number of people were telling me they wanted it as a book. Once I had a complete draft of the manuscript I read it and realized it was leaning into book form so I posted this observation on Oscar’s Salon, noting that I wanted it to come out in a year (which was lunatic!) while Oscar’s Salon was still having monthly postings.

Caitlin Press’ publicist had been following the salon and mentioned this to Vici Johnstone, the publisher. It turned out that Oscar of Between was a perfect fit for Dagger Editions, a new imprint featuring LGBTQ women writers’ work that Caitlin wanted to launch in 2016. It has been so energizing and fascinating to find another way to go about all of this. So, if you are a writer reading this and something significant isn’t working for you, experiment!

NP: One reviewer stated that she hopes your work is returned to “the vital public conversations about poetry happening today” (Julie R. Enszer, Lambda Literary Review). What role do you see poetry fulfilling in our world today, one that is deeply challenged by conflict?

BW: I agree. As indicated in Oscar of Between, support for and reception of my work has been sparse. But more importantly, on the societal level, your reference to being “deeply challenged by conflict,” is key. Violence kept coming up in Oscar. Again, I did not plan that. It just keep arising and ambushing me at the most unexpected moment. It was hard to keep allowing that violence to bust in, but what I’m investigating in Oscar would have been completely erudite if I hadn’t let it seize that page as it does in real life. I’m very, very concerned about the type of civilian violence that’s happening. There were 374 mass shootings in the U.S. last year. This indicates a profound level of desperation and fear.

In Oscar, when Betsy is having a conversation with her good friend in Toronto about this, she comments that nothing is going to change if women don’t speak up. I really think it has to come from women.

Betsy Warland will participate in a panel discussion – Beyond Genre – on Saturday, September 24.

 

Q&A with Kevin A. Couture

by Victoria Festival of Authors |Aug 15, 2016 | 0 Comments | Q&A

Kevin A. Couture grew up in a small B.C. mining town and has spent the last decade waking before dawn to write. The stories in his debut collection, Lost Animal Club, have appeared in various North American journals. Interviewed by Nancy Pearson.

 

N: It seems to me that the twelve stories in Lost Animal Club are about characters trying to find their place in their shifting, unsteady worlds. And yet, they are resilient in surprising ways.

 

K: I see it that way. It’s really accurate as to what I’m trying to do and to what I see the collection as. I like to put the characters into difficult situations and sometimes they rise to it and sometimes maybe not. I like to throw things at them.

 

N: One of the themes threaded through the stories is that of abandonment. Children are abandoned by parents, a dog by a former owner, dreams are let go of, a twin leaves his brother and parents for reasons they never know. What draws you to this theme?

 

K: In talking about putting characters into peril or an interesting situation – the theme of abandonment puts you on your own a little. That’s the most vulnerable place to be. That’s the most interesting character. It does sometimes make the story start off in a darker place, but that can add to the mystique, I think. I like to start with a character in a place that is tough to get out of, and just kind of see where they go. The theme of being lost runs throughout the stories. There’s no better way to be lost than to be on your own.

 

N: Several of the stories are set in small towns, and others in an urban environment. The rural characters navigate through complex relationships and experiences (for example, “In Whose Arms You’re Gonna Be”), whereas the city stories seem starker and the characters isolated within their relationships (“The Support Group” comes to mind). How did your years spent living in rural B.C. influence your writing and the characters you create?

 

K: I find with the stories that many of them are set in a similar town to where I grew up. I didn’t intend that, per se, but that’s a place I’m familiar and comfortable with. And I do like the stories that develop in a small town like that. I think you can mine a lot from where you’ve come from. I heard a quote where a person said that if you are 30 years old you have enough experience to write for the rest of your life. Those formative years have given me a lot that I want to talk about.

 

N: I marvel at how you create characters – both primary and secondary – with succinct, unique details, such as the man who lets his dog lick his teeth, or the boy who notices that his friend doesn’t wipe the counter before or after making a sandwich, or the woman who feels a would-be seducer’s moustache through her jeans. How do you pare your writing down to images and descriptions that are “smooth and taut as cherries”?

 

K: I do try really hard to be spare in the writing, but it certainly doesn’t start out that way. I write very slowly. So I may work on a paragraph for days and days until I get it to the way I want it. That’s the same for one detail. I think it’s just lots and lots of work and many pages that just get sort of tossed to the side. Then when it works, it feels great – you get a nice nugget detail that feels really good. For me, it’s a long process to find that nugget.

 

N: On a similar note, you write from a broad range of characters’ perspectives – a young boy’s, a woman’s, a teenager’s, a disaffected housewife’s, and more. How do you choose which character to take on as the lead to tell the story?

 

K: Many times I have that in mind when I start. But it doesn’t always work out that way. There are stories that I start with a different narrator and it doesn’t work, so I’ll either try to switch perspectives or abandon the story. I do try to have it penciled out in a brief way, but it doesn’t always work. I try to challenge myself every so often where I’ll write from a perspective that I’m unfamiliar with or a bit further removed from because I think that’s interesting and it is a challenge. But sometimes it doesn’t work and I get defeated by the challenge.

 

N: Despite the sometimes dire and often challenging situations your characters find themselves in, there is a lot of humour woven throughout the stories. “The Support Group,” in particular, made me laugh out loud at times. What do you see as the function of humour?

 

K: I think you need a bit of humour in a stark story to keep the reader going forward because some of the characters…they don’t come out well in the end. But in order to get there, I think there has to be some levity. Some of my favourite writers can do that – you cry and laugh in a single paragraph, and I think that’s brilliant. So that’s what I try to do – write a story that has dark and lighter sides for balance.

 

N: You’re known for being an early bird to your writing spot each day. What is it about the pre-dawn hours that help you get words on to the page?

 

K: Part of it is that my mind is freshest at that time. Part of it is necessity when working full-time. Plus, I was writing when raising two kids full-time; that was the only writing time available.

 

N: At the Victoria Festival of Authors you’ll be sharing some tips for writers in the audience on how to be successful with their own writing. What is one point you plan to tell them?

 

K: I think it’s persistence. I think the only difference between a writer that has published something and a writer who hasn’t published is that the published writer has written more words. And the persistence part also applies to submitting. Just keep sending stuff out there. That helps to inform how that particular piece is received. And then just have thick skin about it, because it can certainly wear you down. So, persistence.

 

Kevin will participate in a panel discussion, The Latest Bag of Tricks Humour in the Written Word, on Saturday, September 24.