Stuart Ross's Blog, page 2

My 2024 New Year's Poem

SEVEN SLEEPS FOR A NEW YEAR
i.
When I wakeIt will be the first dayOf something new That tiptoes along a telephone wireCatching fragmentsOf conversationAnd writing them down
ii.
I was snoringMy leg was in a weird positionIt remembered a jokeAbout a calf who mooedBut it was a leg calf
iii.
My teeth were grindingMy enemiesInto somethingI could live with
iv.
The brownshirts chase meUp the stairsSoon I haveNo more floors to escape toI shove open my eyesReach over to the night tableSip some waterThe brownshirts screech to a haltThey mutterScratch their heads(One head per brownshirt)
v.
I yawn while sleepingMy stomach growls while I eat  I write a poem while someone reads one of my poems
vi.
The digital clockBeside the glass of waterOn my night tableThrows a red 3:26Across my still faceThe spider danglingAbove my headDouble-checks its watches
vii.
I was sleepingI was not a hummingbirdI was not a can opener I was not a wisp of campfire smokeMy head lay on a pillowAnd a dream snuck out of my skullCurled itself into a ballWent bouncing off the wallsAnd out the windowInto the dark sky Into the cold nightInto the broken worldWhere it fixed everything

Stuart Ross1 January 2024
Over and out.

New York, here I come

This has been one of the busiest years of my writing life. And I haven't blogged since January 1.Maybe I'll catch up a bit. Maybe not.But I am going to New York, at the invitation of Charles North, one of my favourite poets, and I figured that was worth posting about. I'll be reading at Pace University with the poet RK Fauth, whose work seems pretty brilliant. So exciting to go back to New York… Over and also out.

MY 2023 NEW YEAR'S POEM

POEM FOR SUNDAY (JANUARY 1, 2023)

On the first day, I woke
in the dark. The wind howled
like Allen Ginsberg, rattling
my windows and my eyeballs.
I invented the electric light
and turned it on. Another me
appeared on the floor,
like a crime-scene outline
drawn in black chalk and
filled with dark. I introduced
myself and invited him
for dinner. He had never tried
Chinese food, so that’s what
we ordered. My doorbell rang.
Bags appeared. We arranged
the cartons on the table.
My shadow said so much
depends on the egg rolls
drizzled in plum sauce
beside the orange chicken.
I thwacked him on the head
but my hand went right
through him. This is a poem
about tragedy. I’ll start again.
I dreamed I was visiting
Opal and Ellen Nations,
and we ordered Chinese food. Because
it was New Year’s Day, the food
took so long to arrive that
Opal kept eating slices of bread
with Cheez Whiz while Ellen
showed me the linoleum tiles
she’d chosen for the kitchen floor.
Nothing is more interesting
than when someone shares
their dream with you. Suddenly,
a shard of sun slips between
the curtains and enters my eyeballs.
I inflate. I drift out the window
and into the morning-lit sky.
It’s all so beauti— I deflate
and plummet to the ground.
A pebble is lodged in my shoe.
The breeze ruffles my thinning
hair. The shadow of my hand
caresses my unshaven cheek.
We people on the pavement
looked at me. Everything
I’ve told you here
is remarkable. A burst of
the present plunges into
your outstretched arms.


Stuart Ross
1 January 2023

Over and out.

Kenn Enns of Shelf Life Books interviews me

In May, my dear friend Kenn Enns, who works for Shelf Life Books in Calgary, interviewed me online about The Book of Grief and Hamburgers. I consider this event my official book launch. It was a great conversation, great to talk so openly about the book. Kenn is insightful and empathetic, and they are also my music whisperer, leading me to a ton of great contemporary bands, like Japanese Breakfast and Slothrust and Hurray For The Riff Raff.



Over and out.

Sun Cows of the Petrichor

In winter 2021, I had the great privilege of being writer-in-residence for the University of Ottawa's English Department. I wish I could have lived in Ottawa for those four months — that had been my hope — but the Covid wrench insinuated itself into the process and I led my classes from my office basement, surrounded by bookshelves handmade by Nelson Ball and sitting on Barbara Caruso's chair, with a tapestry by Barbara hanging across from my "desk."

Anyway, the school gave me the opportunity to teach the fourth-year writing workshop. I was told I could teach anything I wanted. Both to be unpredictable and because I thought it was more necessary, I created a course called Blowing Up Fiction, devoted to experimental and innovative fiction. The twelve students who enrolled had not previously written experimental fiction, I discovered. But this was the only fourth-year creative writing course offered, so they took it.

The students turned out to be supremely talented writers, and though some might have been a bit reluctant at first, they met the challenge of writing in all the crazy ways I suggested, and they read works by David Markson, Daphne Marlatt, B. S. Johnson, Lydia Davis, Percival Everett, bpNichol, MAC Farrant, Renee Gladman, Raymond Federman, and lots more. They hated some of it, and some of it they loved.

Toward the end of the semester, I came up with the idea of putting together a full-length anthology of experimental fiction by these young writers. (Well, eleven young writers and one old guy like me.) I would publish it through Proper Tales Press. I brought the Russian artist and writer Jenya Stashkov aboard to do the cover graphic. I told them I'd have the book out by June 2021. It would be called Sun Cows of the Petrichor.

But Covid really slowed me down. Until this past spring. And now, at last, the book is out, with very exciting work by Emily Bertrand, Ciku Gitonga, Andrea Guzman, Vera Hadzic, Baylie Karperian, Jonathan Kipling, Jack Lahey, Vivian Li, Lila Ndinsil, Sabrina Papandrea, and David Paré. I was worried that one or two of them would get cold feet during the yearlong delay, but they're a brave bunch!

Is it a book by student writers? Nope, it's a book by writers, most of them being published for their first time.

I'm very proud of this project.

Over and out.

OWIF — in conversation with Stephen Brockwell about The Book of Grief and Hamburgers

My favourite lit fest — the Ottawa International Writers Festival — is featuring me on their podcast series. I'm in conversation with my good friend Stephen Brockwell, a fantastic and undersung Ottawa poet, whose latest — and best — book, Immune to the Sacred, is out this season from Mansfield Press. I admit I was a bit intimidated, because Stephen is a very deep thinker and a brilliant guy, and I imagined myself withering before his questions. But it ended up being a relaxed — and sometimes emotional — conversation. Please check it out. Over and out.

The Book of Grief and Hamburgers — I'm Interviewed by Jamie Tennant of CFMU

Jamie Tennant interviewed me about The Book of Grief and Hamburgers earlier in April. You can listen right here! Over and out.

My first thruzzin

I wrote my first poem in ages this morning. I knew it would happen any day now, as I was inspired by an online reading by the great New York poet Charles North on Tuesday night. Then, this morning Laurie read me a line by Virginia Woolf, and I knew I was on my way. A poem was going to happen before I got out of bed.

My poem is 36 lines long, free verse, divided into 12-line stanzas. It's a new form I call a "thruzzin." My poem is narrated by a dead person, who I guess is me. Death is on my mind, as it is so often. The Kingston poet, essayist, and fiction writer Steven Heighton died two days ago. He was only 60 years old. If you knew him, you might that if anyone was going to be immortal, it would be Steven. I met him about 25 years ago, at a house party in Ottawa. I was very, very drunk, and I remember going through the host's linen closet, commenting on towels and sheets, admiring a vintage iron. Steven appeared beside me, perhaps put a hand on my shoulder and led me back into the living room. He took me under his wing so I wouldn't walk off the balcony or make a fool of myself.

After I wrote the last line of my first thruzzin this morning, about 20 minutes ago actually, I added the date of composition and realized it's 27 years to the day since my mother died. It's 27 years and one week since we had our last conversation.

I hear the car tires outside now, rolling down Division Street. I can hear that it's raining. It was raining on the morning of April 21, 1995. Sometime after my mom's last breath, my dad and I walked out of the hospital. The sun was parting the clouds.

SHIRLEY ROSS, February 7, 1929 – April 21, 1995

Over and out.

Launching with Bruce Whiteman in Cobourg!

Into our third year of Covid it's a precarious time to be launching books. But Bruce Whiteman and I will be doing an in-person outdoor launch in Cobourg on April 10 at 2 pm outdoors at Let's Talk Books (25 King Street East). Complicating matters is that Facebook recently disabled my account (along with thousands of others around the world) for no apparent reason and with no recourse. So much for 16 years of being a good FB citizen! So getting the word out for this weekend's launch has been particularly challenging. Anyway, we will be there. We will read. Books will be sold! Wear a good jacket! Over and out.

rob mclennan on The Book Of Grief And Hamburgers

I admit that I'm anxious about how my new book will be received. It's garnered about ten readers' comments on Goodreads so far, with star ratings ranging from two to five (out of five). I'm kind of dreading the first one-star review, but hopefully that will be by someone who loves those Shades of Gray books or Jordan Peterson. I find it weird that a couple of the readers there refer to Grief and Hamburgers as a poetry book or poetry collection. It's not. But I hit "Like" on every reader's comments because I am grateful they've read my book and thought about it.

Anyway, Ottawa poetry mobster rob mclennan, as is so often the case, is the first out of the gate, with this very thoughtful and moving look at my tiny book.

Here's a magnificent piece of ceramic art by John A. Betley, my friend (from a Randy Newman list-serv) in Michigan. He made this and sent it to me after my darling dog Lily died.



Over and out.