My review of Dani Couture’s Sweet for the literary journal Arc has won their 2013 Critic’s Desk Award for Brief Review. The review is here on my site. And more info on the Critic’s Desk Award is available at Arc: http://arcpoetry.ca/?p=7462
The title of Calgary resident Micheline Maylor’s new collection is a nod to the visual: the words and accompanying cover image suggest a camera lens. And poems such as “Ammonite” and “Borderlands” speak of the Banff region’s key visual characteristics: “On the verge of a cliff / is a view of the peak, a view of the river. / And if I fell, if I decided to fly / those features would still have little to do / with each other.”
However, the book’s focus is primarily interior, and the dynamism suggested in the title rarely finds its way into the text. The narratives roll out languidly, for the most part in free verse, although there is one villanelle. Maylor reflects on her early rural life, first loves, and family. The poet lingers over a lost love: “Did I tell you about the time I spied / you in the vegetable market passing / the peppers, on your way towards / the cucumbers? I gripped a cob of corn / until I creamed it.”
The final part of the book is an elegy called “Starfish,” in which the “whirr and click” motif morphs into a metaphor involving a watch (in which I expected the numbered sections to run out at XII, but they went beyond this). Following the death of the poem’s subject, Maylor inherited a watch, and she remembers: “You were never late for me / not once / were you late for me.”
Certainly, it is not difficult for most of us to relate to loss or inheritance. But ultimately the forces of sentimentality are relied upon too heavily in Whirr & Click, rather than the artful framing of the scenes or the unbound energy of the line.
Reviewed for Quill and Quire (from the July 2013 issue)
One does not go into psychology — as I have — unless you can at least learn to love statistics — as I do. But writers do not have to remotely love statistics. Writers were the first psychologists, really, and psychology as a discipline remains complementary to writing in certain ways — personality disorders can sure come in handy! — but science and art have long-been, or often are, antithetical; I’ve often felt like a rider between worlds because my interests stradle both.
Inspired by the VIDA count in the US, Canadian Women in the Literary Arts (CWILA) opened lab in 2012 and quickly exerted considerable influence in the Canadian publishing landscape with their interest in studying the presence of bias within the community of literary criticism. I became a member of CWILA and have followed their work very closely, so it only makes sense to apply their lens to my work as a reviewer.
In 2012, I published 17 reviews, which appeared primarily in Quill and Quire, Globe and Mail, and National Post, as well as in The Rumpus (US). 11 of those reviews (65%) during that year were of female writers, 5 reviews (29%) were of male writers, and one was of an anthology with a fairly even gender split.
My stats go further than an inversion of CWILA’s findings according to the gender of the author, in which the books that get reviewed are 52% male-authored and 47% female-authored. I’m not entirely sure why that is! In fact, the marvel of statistics is how clinical, absolutely non-magical, they are: I would not ever have said I had an inherent preference for female writers. And I’m not sure I do — I’m not saying every review I wrote was favourable. But for reasons that were not apparent to me, I gravitated more toward female writers, and I could have just as obliviously gone the other way. Like any tendancy, that’s worth looking at more closely.
According to CWILA’s survey of 2012:
A) the majority of reviews are written by male reviewers, and B) the majority of books reviewed — whether they’re reviews by male or female critics — are books by male writers.
Why? There are many reasons for this, both large and small, but none that cannot be changed with a minimum of conscientiousness and a bit of cold hard math.
Some of the best poetry I’ve ever encountered was not on the page, but heard at a spoken-word night at New York City’s Nuyorican Poets Café. I was making a teenage pilgrimage in the sloshed footsteps of the Beats, but I found something more valuable there: poetry that was vital and thriving. A grandma brought the house down by reciting a sexually charged poem, and, later, a truck driver from Staten Island sitting beside me ground out tears on his cheek with his knucklebone. What has all this got to do with new books of poetry by Jacob Scheier and Jacqueline Turner, you ask? Everything and nothing, actually.
. . .
You may remember Scheier’s first book of poems, 2008’s More to Keep Us Warm, which won a Governor General’s Literary Award. There was some controversy over a juror’s perceived conflict of interest. In the time before and since, Scheier lived in New York, worked as a journalist and writing instructor, and produc
ed a follow-up collection. Letter from Brooklyn is a cross between a diary and an epistolary volume. There’s a strong confessional influence: Scheier quotes Lowell, but the poetry feels more like Sexton.
Confessional poets were masters of form as much as sentiment, but Scheier neglects the former to the detriment of the latter, and many of the poems would have benefited from greater intensity. Overall, the book holds back too much, which results in frustration. Jacqueline Turner, a poet with a lower profile but three previous collections to her credit, also has a new volume of poetry. Her book is concerned with some kind of nebulous apocalypse that’s part environmental, part technological.
The Ends of the Earth is a trite phrase, but in the context it fits. Although this book positions itself as avant-garde, it is shockingly conservative in its rigidity and judgment. Its apocalyptic vibe is downright religious in its convolutions. In a poem about “garbage island” (a reference to plastic that has collected in the ocean), Turner writes:
“plastic floats like islands on digital screens
everywhere somewhere in the ocean
it churns through tides like soup you
we care via Twitter or Paypal depending
on the day pack reusable latte cups”
The willful pettiness Turner displays in lines that rail against the suburbs, gated communities, businessmen, TV-show themes, and 40-year-old divorcees made me wonder: can one ever grind an axe artfully? Scheier is politicized too: he comes from a line of American Jewish Communists, so it’s in his genes. “The world-changing business,” he writes, “was the family business.” There are three tedious poems about the flatlined Occupy movement, and a fantastic piece about an older Communist reacting to the collapse of the Berlin Wall: “I didn’t know / what ideology was, but I understood / you were against joy on principle.”
Scheier sees himself as a populist poet, which creates some issues. The need to be accessible relies on the use of non-alienating language and imagery, but this tempering undermines many of the poems’ effects. In spots, the result is a simplistic corniness: “Maybe you were that kind of person, all along – / just waiting for me to deliver the perfect line. That’s what I like about movies.” As uneven as Letter from Brooklyn is, it is honest about love and loss in ways that are wise. Some of the most successful pieces, such as “Actual Pingpong” and “1989,” are about parents, expectations, and loss. Turner’s book moves into softer areas, too, including a series of poems that almost go Harlequin: “i want to translate your pain into beauty, want to inhale your longing and keep it safe within me. we are alone in this, but who is more connected than a sailor and a castaway.” The shift is jarring, and the scene described is emotionally unmoving.
. . .
I’m reminded yet again of how hard it can be to write something candid that’s not naked, definitive without being alienating, and passionate yet somehow fresh in expression. And I remind myself that it’s a good goal to want to write something honest and ferocious and tender enough, all at once, to make a truck driver bawl. Between these books, one seemed covered and smouldering, the other an unchecked open flame. If only Scheier had a bit of her fire, and Turner a bit of his heat.
Last Saturday, my grandparents were sitting in the half-light of their awning-shaded, giant picture windowed, little bungalow living room. Kris Kristofferson was crackling from a boombox that used to live in the garage, and now rests on a chippendale-style side table. My grandparents were born in 1928; I’ll spare you the mental math: this makes them 85 years old. They were talking, yet again, of “down east”—an expansive term that actually refers to the microscopic abode of Blackville, New Brunswick, where they were born. But this day’s story was a brand new one, spurred by the recent death of Stompin’ Tom Connors: it turns out they knew and grew up surrounded by his entire extended family. Suddenly, the room was full of laughing reminiscences—how Stompin’ Tom looked just like (and was apparently named after) a certain uncle; how one family member, my grandfather exclaimed, told so many fibs he just had to keel over. And so on. Spending time with your grandparents as an adult is different than as a child: it moves from all-comfort, to large-part revelation.
Iain Reid’s newest book, The Truth About Luck, rejoices in this blend of intergenerational familiarity and serendipity. He is from a close-knit family and has long-known his 92-year-old grandmother; this is in part what leads him to try and think of a meaningful gift for her fairly significant birthday. For a moment, he settles on a scented candle—everyone likes candles, right? But, in brainstorming with his brother, it dawns on him: why not, instead of buying things, spend time? From there, he decides to take Grandma on a trip, maybe a road trip. But the this idea contracts soon after the rush of discovery: Reid begins to reconsider the logistics—his beater of a car, his lack of funds—and scales back the idea back somewhat. He decides to bring Grandma from her town, Ottawa, to his, Kingston. That’s still a trip! This turns out to either be a prescient or genetically-motivated move: Grandma recounts how she and her husband George (now deceased) used to love to take micro trips—one time going only as far as a motel a few blocks away. Grandma is just as happy to go to Kingston as anywhere else.
When we write about older people, there can sometimes be that distancing “otherness” creeping in, or an obligatory nostalgia, or clichés about wisdom, but Reid avoids all of this shorthand precisely because he is so mindful and earnest. My heart clapped when he wrote: “Oldness wasn’t a negative. It was just a verity I was aware of. I didn’t fear or resent it.” While he frets about how to keep Grandma entertained or what he should cook, in his descriptions of her, you can feel his genuine love and respect. It’s is a far cry from, say, something cynical like S**t My Dad Says. The Truth About Luck has no sensationalism, no outrageous insensitivity that compels you laugh out of guilt. Just two people getting to know one another better, being considerate of one another, enjoying three square meals, and…reminiscing about adventures during the war?
It turns out, Grandma, for all her sweetness and amenability, has a decisively challenging—and impressive—backstory as a nurse on the frontlines. She speaks openly of missing her siblings in those tumultuous times (and now—she is the last surviving member of her siblings), and of her deceased husband, George. This is the heart of the book, really—Grandma’s memories (both before Iain, and of Iain), and her insights. Reid, for all his initial nervousness over silence between them or rain drowning his plans, begins to relax and starts prompting her to talk more about her life.
And there’s so much to be gained from spending time with Grandma. At one point, she advises that, with your partner, you must sometimes go to bed angry. But, there’s a workaround: “…[if] you’re mad at your wife, wait for a while, until she’s definitely fallen asleep. Give it a bit of time. Then roll over and just have a look at her. Then you’ll know how you feel. That’s the important part, the looking.” I was reminded slightly of a DeLillo line: “Watching children sleep makes me feel devout, part of a spiritual system.” Certainly, we should try to maintain this feeling—perhaps keep up this activity—through our lives. I did what Grandma said, after it made me tremble. And it worked.
Ian Reid, full disclosure, writes regularly for the National Post; I’ve never met him. But those of you who’ve read his articles, as I have, will recognize his trademarks—his unfussy language, his dry sense of humour, his sincerity. Many writers would probably agree with Grandma’s observation that the important part is the looking. That’s another outcome of this book: how inspiration emerges for a writer. Reid wasn’t looking for a book when he arranged this 5-day hangout with his grandmother. But by paying close attention, he realized how remarkable Grandma really was, that this deserved recording and sharing. That quote from Leonard Cohen, “If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash” turns out to be true both for Grandma’s stories, and Reid’s book.
Posted March 21, 2013 at The National Post: http://arts.nationalpost.com/2013/03/22/book-review-the-truth-about-luck-by-iain-reid/
In a recent, short article, I itemized a few need-to-know UK-based writers; almost inevitably, someone took umbrage with my exclusion of certain names. A few suggestions were not known to me—though they were prominent and successful in their native land. I pondered how it is culture gets exported across the ocean—how successful game shows can get syndicated within a season, or tabloid media as far the U.K. regularly chase down Pitt-Jolie, but one of the world’s greatest living essayists, Andrew O’Hagan, is not yet a household name in North America.
O’Hagan has written for the London Review of Books for twenty years and is also a successful novelist and dramatist. Much (though not all) of O’Hagan’s material has oriented itself in literature and within the UK (his birthplace is Scotland, and he resides in London). O’Hagan has just signed on to contribute regularly for the Times, so his reputation as a literary critic will continue to grow. But The Atlantic Ocean, an anthology of essays from the past 20 years that was published in the UK in 2008, has just been released in North America, and that is the real news, as this book encompasses the breadth of depth of his oeuvre: it includes plenty of London and plenty of literature, yes, but it also covers the Iraqi war, Marilyn Monroe, Andy Warhol, James Baldwin, Hurricane Katrina, the demise of farming, metero magazines, and more.
The title serves as a metaphor for both the physical distance, and the cultural ebb and flow, between US and British cultures. However, the book opens not into an expansive but rather a claustrophobic setting: by the Liverpool train tracks, just out of CCTV range. O’Hagan recounts his (and the public’s) reaction to the infamous murder of a toddler by a pair of ten-year-old boys in 1993. The case was noted for the defendants’ shocking youth and for the justice system’s unpreparedness in handling child offenders. O’Hagan’s essay divulges how struck he felt by the ordinariness of the two accused, how banal violence was for him in his youth. He confesses to terrible acts he and his friends performed with other friends and helpless animals, out of sheer lack of anything else to do, and countless unsupervised, unstructured hours to fritter away. As he announces elsewhere in the book: “There is something very English in the marriage of boredom and catastrophe.”
This essay makes for an unsettling introduction, not only in what it shares but in what it demands. O’Hagan’s gift as an essayist is not only for argument, but for developing the reader’s capacity to feel enormous empathy. Through his own confession, we are forced to trust a seemingly morally ambiguous narrator, yet we are also forced to remember whether weever did anything cruel or senseless in our youth, something that could have all too easily escalated; whether we knew anyone who was dangerous, who could have led us down the dead end of violence in the name of fun. Are any children truly innocent? And the adults outside the trial, calling for the boys to be hung—are they justified in their blood-thirst? Did these kinds of people perhaps create this kind of children?
O’Hagan, like any good artist, asks open-ended questions of his audience. But he also makes firm assertions: he lays a lot of blame for societal change and breakdown on the ascendancy of Thatcherism/Reganism. The widely accepted (and long-debunked) myth of “trickle-down-economics” perhaps didn’t invent, but bolstered, some part of the stingiest part of a people’s spirit, and assuaged any shame that people may have felt over the primacy of “self-interest.” Thus we have, in “On Begging,” a thorough exposé of homeless people trying to navigate the social safety net, which like a sieve is designed for dripping.
Since that era, rampant homelessness has remained a normalized feature of our daily lives, in major cities on both continents. We don’t have to consider what the presence of street people says about us, or how easy it may be to wind up there; instead, we devise handy post-rationalizations for why we need not help. This logic is revealed in O’Hagan’s original online post of this essay at the London Review of Books site, in 1993. Someone commented (I paraphrase): ‘You’ve given me one more reason not to give to homeless people; after all, they could merely be journalists in disguise.’ The only other comment on the article, for good measure, was from the great essayist Christopher Hitchens, who shares an anecdote about a vegetarian politician who didn’t give handouts in case the needy spent it on meat!
In “The American Dream of Lee Harvey Oswald,” O’Hagan revisits the scene of the JFK assassination. At museums and historic sites, he is overcome by America’s ability to turn tragedy into identity—to make narrative out of senseless events. You could say this holds an appeal for him—after all, the narrative impulse is part of a writer’s synaptic structure. He is, however, repulsed at the triviality of people selling JFK trinkets along the grassy knoll—and perhaps this speaks to his guilt, as writers are thieves, somewhat, or at the very least opportunists. He warns more than once about the danger of permitting a writer into your home.
One reviewer called this book “an elegy for the pastoral,” but that is not expressly true. What makes this book so fascinating is that there are two knotted threads about the past that the reader must unravel, related to the public versus the private spheres of life. In terms of the public sphere—politics, economics, mass entertainment—O’Hagan feels Great Britain may have been better before, without so much foreign influence. In “On the End of British Farming,” O’Hagan demonstrates how domestic policies and international treaties have been devastating British production for decades.
But in terms of private life, O’Hagan most certainly has no nostalgia for Great Britain’s historical, fierce class divisions, having crawled out from the underbelly. “Everyone is middle class,” is something I remember Michael Moore saying with sarcasm, and something Romney said this past election campaign earnestly. England ascribes to this as well, as untrue as neighborhoods like Notting Hill prove it to be.
One of the most connective threads in this book—without ever saying that dirty word—is class. In an essay that served as an introduction to James Baldwin devastating book, Go Tell it on the Mountain, O’Hagan speaks bleakly about James Baldwin’s life as a descendent of slaves, victim of segregation, and long-suffering resident under the church’s fire-and-brimstone thumb. James Baldwin had to work his entire life to be recognized for what he was most naturally: a black, gay, brilliant man. No doubt O’Hagan relates on some level to his class struggle and much admires Baldwin’s ability to transcend other grave and unjust limits the world tried to place on him.
Class and guilt are the two most recurrent and riveting themes in this book, and most of these essays can be viewed through these dual-prescription lenses. “After Hurricane Katrina” follows two foul-mouthed men who volunteer to participate in the clean-up. No one invited them, but they feel a calling; in their flawed way, they are overcoming the alienation of being no-accounts, becoming in that American way, their own heroes. In “Saint Marilyn,” O’Hagan writes of how she thought, tragically, that acting “could save her from self-doubt.” In both essays, characters perform a role in order to compensate for an early-life injustice, to re-write their own narrative; and great machines (the military, the entertainment industry) are fueled by that unending need.
The book is almost bookended by the piece, “The Boy Who Mistook His Life for a Crime,” which, seventeen years later, revisits his first essay about the child murderers who have haunted O’Hagan. He feels he escaped a similar fate almost by luck. It sounds bleak, but optimistically, he writes: “It’s said you can’t unmake your childhood. But you can. You can unmake it every day of your adult life.” For a writer, and for readers, that unmaking might be the vastest and most important expanse any of us ever have to cross.
Reviewed for The Rumpus. Published Feb. 21, 2013
Lazy Bastardism is an anthology of essays on poetry that date from 2004 to early 2012. The writing is consistently strong in every respect: well-crafted prose glimmering with insight, brimming with rhetoric. Lazy Bastardism is also a formidable book by a formidable figure.
Montreal resident Carmine Starnino’s opening description of a working class Italian-Catholic upbringing is instantly recognizable: the author contrasts the way his first poetic inclinations emerged from the richness and heaviness of liturgical language with the clear-eyed practicality of a solidly working-class community. Starnino’s writing continues to be imbued with these formative cues. As a result, his commentary shifts frequently and suddenly between denunciation and reverence.
It’s been said that Starnino is at his finest when his knives are out. For some, there is a certain schadenfreude in seeing a seemingly untouchable icon like Margaret Atwood castigated for her “waning vision and waxing vanity.” Al Purdy and A.F. Moritz are also chipped away at. Sometimes, the excessive rhetoric roils into hyperbole, and loses some of its persuasive charm.
However, Starnino’s ear is a tuning fork when it comes to studying the notes of the lyric. In these pieces he shows the reader how to hone the skills necessary for poetic appreciation. His work is most rewarding when he is celebratory. Starnino is generous in discussing the Montreal poets in general, and younger poets, such as David O’Meara or Karen Solie, specifically. This makes sense, given that he also edited an anthology of Canadian poetry called The New Canon. Starnino is a believer, but also a reformer.
Although this collection serves as a general overview of Starnino’s critical work, it takes a sophisticated approach to its subject. Readers not well versed in the work of the poets discussed (or their influences), could very well find themselves lost. This challenging book will prove rewarding as long as the reader understands that it isn’t a primer, but a compendium.
From Quill and Quire. Reviewed by Stevie Howell (from the January 2013 issue)
Any Bright Horse tells the story of a modern-day Marco Polo character travelling primarily through Afghanistan and China. Marco Polo was not only a traveller but also one of the world’s original best-selling storytellers and guides, a muse even to Christopher Columbus. Pasold has written in many genres before, and, as a book of poetry, Any Bright Horse is hard to pin down. It is an epic poem in prose form and includes enough of a narrative thread that it feels more like an impressionistic novel—but it isn’t a novel, in the purest sense, because it doesn’t rely on plot or arc and isn’t driven by character or dialogue as much as it is by imagery and language.
Pasold is bilingual and her writing demonstrates a deep appreciation for acquired language: “[T]ravelling,” she writes, “I learned the value of rock, ill-designed though I was for anchoring.” However, due in large part to tension between the narrative nodes and brevity of delivery, not every line hits a lyrical high note or makes meaningful connections. And although the art of travelling is often one of economy and deftness, I would have preferred to see much more content on numerous pages that featured only a tiny fragment of text.
Any Bright Horse appears to be worth its weight, however, as it was recently nominated for the Governor General’s Award, which is no small feat. And that’s also a good sign for Canadian writers, not only because Pasold blurs the boundaries of poetry and, more broadly, literature, but because she also draws on a decidedly international frame of reference—challenging what has been appropriate and long-cherished territory for Canadian authors (primarily the rural and the domestic). On the other hand, the hybridity of her work is really as Canadian as it gets, but culture has a way of playing catch-up with demographics.
Pasold has said elsewhere that this book was an “oblique” comment on Canada’s involvement in Afghanistan. This context fascinated me and prompted an immediate re-reading. Unfortunately, the reference is so oblique as to be obtuse. Perhaps the distance of the narration is meant to be part of her commentary, as it is in visual artist Omar Fast’s film “5,000 feet is the best.” The man at the centre of Any Bright Horse is both there and not there—he’s elusive, and he asks us to make sense of his story for him. I have to admit that I felt all potential critical commentary—on Marco Polo as problematic hero; on travel as a bourgeois privilege; on the subjective nature of observing the “Other”—was squandered. At one point, Pasold writes, “It is the responsibility of the listener to keep the story on track.” As persuasive and exotic as the tales within this book may be, I was ultimately not convinced by that sentiment.
Published in Arc literary journal online, January 23: http://arcpoetry.ca/2013/01/17/in-the-footsteps-of-marco-polo-lisa-pasolds-any-bright-horse/
Although Toronto’s unofficial slogan is “Toronto the Good,” this city often catches flak from the rest of the country for considering itself the centre of the (Canadian) world. That tension is especially true when it comes to writers and book publishing, as Toronto happens to be home to the bulk of awards and is host of literary lions.
World heavyweight authors Margaret Atwood and Michael Ondaatje have long made Toronto home, as does the US ex-pat bestselling author John Irving. Younger breakout writers include Sheila Heti and Alix Ohlin. Plenty of poets make Toronto home, too, including Ken Babstock, Matthew Tierney, and Michael Lista. Toronto features prominently as a character in books by many of these writers. But let’s be honest—Toronto really makes its living as an extra in American feature films.
Where to Learn:
The question, really, is where not to learn? In one of the most diverse cities in the world, there is a workshop or class for every writing flavor and ambition. The Humber School for Writers offers a summer intensive as well as a year-round distance education one-on-one program. University of Toronto runs an ever-changing selection of continuing education courses led by prominent writers. For youngish (16-29 year old) aspiring writers, there’s the Toronto Street Writers; and for the experimental set, there’s the Toronto New School of Writing.
James Joyce once wrote that the challenge in Dublin is to get where you’re going without passing a pub. Dublin is a walkable city, and a sociable city: a writer might be torn between sitting alone at the River Liffey and conjuring the muse, or hanging out on a pub stoop shooting the craic with a few of Ireland’s legendary, salt-of-the-earth storytellers. Dublin is proud of its rich literary history and values its living writers. The weather here features four seasons every hour—and the conviviality of the people combined with the moodiness of the land seems to produce great writers.
Where to begin! Dublin produced some of the greatest literary names in the world: James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw, Samuel Beckett. You can learn about these and others at the Dublin Writers Museum. Visit these days and you could bump into world-class heavyweight writers Seamus Heaney (Nobel Prize winner for poetry) and John Banville (Booker Prize winner for literature).
Where to Learn:
The Irish Writers’ Centre, in the heart of Dublin, offers an array of tailored courses for writers. Prestigious Trinity College with one of the UK’s oldest English schools, is an obvious choice, and offers undergraduate and graduate studies. They also have a selection of evening classes in everything from literary forms to the importance of literary friendships (aww…). Make sure to check out the awe-inspiringLong Room of antiquarian books and the ancient Book of Kells.
Reviewed by Stevie Howell (from the December 2012 issue)
The whirlwind known as The Walrus Poetry Prize competition has now come and gone, and it went to two very deserving and lovely poet-people, Meira Cook and Bardia Sinaee (you can still read all of the poems here). Equally as accomplished is the wonderful Nyla Matuk, fellow nominee who actually had two poems in the competition. I think it’s fantastic—although it seemed to go unreported?—that in a national blind competition, 4 out of the 5 poems were by women, and with a top female judge, Karen Solie, too.
The Walrus Prize nomination was momentous in ways than I can’t probably describe at the moment. It has provided a great deal of positive exposure, and also gave me my first bittersweet taste of critical feedback. As someone who also works as a critic, I’ve always known I’m going to have to be able to eat what I dish out. Yet, I felt like I’d ingested something a teeny bit “off” when I read this recent description of the nominees by Stewart Cole—whose work I absolutely love, by the way—as part of a review of Nyla’s new (and great) book:
Though of course distinct in crucial respects, all five Walrus Prize finalists broadcast their cosmopolitanism in flashing lights, foregrounding foreign places and/or non-English words while rhetorically favouring modes descended from the sort of urbane associative deadpan first bequeathed to English-language poetry through Eliot’s transfigurations of Laforgue, and later made inescapable in a more digressional form through the rise to prominence of the inveterate Francophile Ashbery….the finalists as a group advertise less the diversity of poetic practices ongoing in Canada than aspects of a coalescing fashion.
This characterization made me think hard about what defines me as a poet, which are of course the same things that define me as a person, but I’ve tended to depersonalize my work (as much as that’s possible)…And I realize now I should be more cognizant and expressive of those qualities so that they are clearer to myself and others. I decided to write about them here and now, in part because these reflections also dovetail nicely with my forthcoming chapbooks, called Royal and Ringsend.