Rob Mclennan's Blog, page 360

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Anne Cecelia Holmes

Anne Cecelia Holmes is the author of THE JITTERS (horse less press 2015) and the chapbooks JUNK PARADE (dancing girl press 2012) and I AM A NATURAL WONDER (with Lily Ladewig; Blue Hour Press 2011). She is co-editor of Jellyfish Magazine and lives in Western Massachusetts.
1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?My first book just came out in June, and it has been both thrilling and sort of terrifying navigating that experience. What I think most about at this point regarding “change” is that having a book in the world has given my family a more concrete notion of what I do, that writing isn't just a “hobby” for me. They have always been incredibly supportive, but a book has changed how they interact and engage with me and my work—it's very moving.
It has also been constantly surprising and empowering to receive support and kindness from strangers, from other writers I admire—from anyone. And it means the world to me when I hear that poems I've written mean something/speak to other people. Growing up on other people's writing, I am floored at these kindnesses pointed in my direction.
As for recent work, I'm trying to write more from the murky parts of my guts to tackle what I’ve never really let myself confront before: womanhood, abuse, trauma, loss of self. I'm writing through what I used to perceive as too “upfront,” too ugly (in myself, in the world)—personal damage, my body (or bodies at all), what it is to be a woman who feels threatened by herself and most things and most people. I'm working more toward just stepping into the muck, writing dispatches from the muck. I feel like my voice is louder, and like I’m pounding on the walls and figuring out if I need to keep pounding and shouting or forgive, or how one can reconcile any of those things.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?I came to fiction first, but as a little kid. As I got older, though, I found poetry the best vessel/translation for my brain mess—for making connections and finding ways to map my anxieties and interactions. To deal in reconciliation with the world and making sense of it by fighting with and puzzling over it. And poetry lets me get steeped in chance and risk and recklessness as guides—not knowing necessarily where I will end up. That provides a comfort and a challenge that keeps me going.
Also, I just don't feel like I have the stamina or particular brain space to write fiction or non-fiction—I can write and chew on a poem for a really long time, and that can completely exhaust me, but building up plot, characters, a certain sustained arc is just not in my wheelhouse. I am, though, trying to write non-fiction. Not successfully yet, but trying.
3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?Oh, length of time on a manuscript depends drastically—on what I'm writing, on my mood, etc. I don't really deal in “projects,” though, at least as I define the word—I'm more about just writing what and when I can, and then seeing how what I've produced ends up fitting later with what else I've written.
I do tend to write individual poems pretty quickly, but again, there's no knowing what will need several rounds of revision/rethinking or what will come out as a finished poem. I wish I had more of an intelligent answer for this, but it's really a crapshoot for me. I do enjoy editing when necessary—I guess it's more common that I do need to edit than not.
4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?Poems are pretty much a different animal every time. They can begin with a line I've written down, or just something weird in my head spills out and I'm surprised by it. This is what I simultaneously love and find fascinating/infuriating about writing poems—the discovery, the not knowing where a poem might start or end.
I haven't ever really set out writing poems with a book in mind, except for two chapbooks I've written. For some reason I think of those differently. Mostly, though, I write discrete poems for years that end up thematically linked because of the brain space I'm writing in during that time, and then I work to figure out how they might combine into a larger manuscript.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?If I am motivated enough to leave the house, readings are almost always incredibly helpful to my creative process and push me to work harder. And I love readings as community building, and I feel an excited buzz or a kind of hypnosis while hearing other writers read.
I do enjoy giving readings, both as a chance to test new work and also as an experiment to alleviate public anxiety. Right now, I'm in the middle of a small tour for my first book, and I find it exhilarating and also a little scary to be reading from a physical book for the first time. It's always interesting, too, to gauge how audiences react to your work, to choose or not choose poems you think a specific audience will respond the most to, and that sort of connection with an audience is unlike any other I've felt. It's a weird, but fun, intimate game to play.
6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?Over the past two years or so, the voice and intent behind my poems have shifted pretty forcefully to a more bodied, female perspective. Like I mentioned before, for a long time I was uncomfortable facing depression, anxiety, trauma, especially related to a personal and societal female experience in my work, even though these ideas and concerns were boiling in me. To that end, I am writing poems investigating how to reconcile these issues—how to be okay with anger, but also working toward hope. Hope is important to me, no matter how sick the world seems or how foolish it feels to still seek it. There are theoretical questions behind this, of course, but it is also impossible for me to separate the theoretical from the personal. 
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?I've been thinking about this a lot, especially lately, especially in this current era of writers on politics, activism, advocacy, and with an added social media lens. I admire the writers tackling issues of race, disability, sex and gender, and other injustices/invisibilities in their work—writers undoubtedly enact change, ask for change, fight for change, and I see this role as absolutely necessary.
More generally, I think writers are always addressing cultural complications—to further complicate, to investigate, to ask even more questions that may not have answers, to find beauty or ugliness in complication, all working toward finding strangeness/difficulty in the ordinary or what's ordinary in strangeness/difficulty.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?Definitely essential. I trust my work more than I used to, but I'm always sharing with others or asking questions to get a fresh perspective—I can't write purely in my own vacuum, and I don't think I should.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?One piece of advice I've been latching onto lately, which was passed on to me from a friend (who received it from a writing mentor), is “Try to find grace in transition.” This isn't necessarily tied to writing, but I've been thinking about it a lot as I try to reevaluate and reconfigure how to make writing more of a priority in my life versus a “career,” but also I apply it to my writing as a way to calm myself down when I don't necessarily know which direction I'm headed in or when I'm feeling like I'll never write another poem (ugh).
10 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?I have been trying to establish a steady writing routine for years, and while I'm both lazy and defeatist (a charming duo), I do think I'm finally coming to understand that it's okay not to have one—or to force myself to have a strict one, I should say. Since leaving grad school, where I had loads of unstructured time to write within (that I realize now I didn't take full advantage of; so it goes), I now work a 9-5 desk job and pretty exclusively write on the weekends—my brain kind of shuts off after the work day ends, and I tend to come home, eat dinner, watch tv with my husband, and go to bed.
One small routine is that I meet up with a few friends (also writers) on Sunday mornings at a local coffee shop, so we can all write and basically keep each other and ourselves accountable. I find this small kind of structure really helpful, even if we spend half the time just catching up and whining about how difficult writing is and collectively wishing the loud barista would be quiet (seriously, he is so loud).
I just came back from a 10-day writing residency, though, which was invigorating and productive and lowered my anxiety levels so much that I know I want/need to prioritize writing more, give myself more time. How, though? I'm still trying to figure that out.
11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?Reading poetry is a necessary part of my writing process. Usually if I'm not reading, I'm not writing (at least not writing well). If I'm stuck, or feeling anxious and weird (which is pretty much all the time; who am I kidding?), I read for awhile to get my head in the zone. Sometimes I also take notes on what I'm reading—basically in the form of word lists I can turn to. Without reading, though, I really have no idea how to write a poem, or I end up just writing gooey nonsense that I can't do anything with. I learned long ago, though, that I have to abandon classic “inspiration” and just write no matter how I'm feeling.
12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?Polish food, especially kielbasa in a slow-cooker.
13 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?I need to read poetry to write poetry, but other forms inevitably find their way into my work. I watch a lot of TV and find snippets of dialogue worming into my work pretty frequently. Music affects my poems if I'm listening while writing—mostly in terms of tone-setting. I suppose everything external finds a way in, whether I'm cognizant of it or not. My husband is a philosopher, and my poems have been known to absorb some phrases or ideas from philosophical theories/paradoxes—not in an overly theoretical way, but mostly in the small absurdities I find in images or language. “Brain-in-a-vat skepticism,” for instance, I find more delightfully interesting on an image level rather than a purely theoretical one (which is still interesting, don't get me wrong).
14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?I turn to Mary Ruefle and Bernadette Mayer a lot to help me get in a writing headspace. I am mostly reading women these days, and more so women who write boldly through anxiety, trauma, loss, womanhood and bodied experience. My two lifelines, Caroline Cabrera and Gale Marie Thompson, give me so much fire and hope and I would be nowhere without their brave writing and friendship.
15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?Write non-fiction essays. Travel pretty much anywhere.
16 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?This constantly changes, since I don't even have a constant “occupation.” I do have great respect for trauma counselors, and those who work with abused women. In another life, I would have loved to pursue that field, but I know I don't have the strength for that. My last couple jobs have been working for mission-driven organizations, though, and I am definitely interested in continuing to work in that vein.
17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?I'm going to start by saying “I had a weird childhood,” which is so cliché, but that's part of it. Or maybe, more accurately, “I was a weird kid”? My parents got divorced when I was very young, and one of my earliest memories spending time at my dad's apartment was this elaborate project we concocted together: my dad would give construction paper faces to all the furniture in the living room, and my task was to write personal histories for each piece of furniture. I was painfully shy and sensitive and writing just made sense to me more than anything else. I can write what I can't say out loud (I am a terribly inarticulate speaker), and make connections I never would have made merely inside my head without fiddling with them on the page. I am an incredibly interior person and if I'm not writing I'm just feeling more anxious about what's in my head than if I give that anxiety a space of its own.
18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?I just finished Anne Boyer's Garments Against Women, which I'm still reeling from—thinking about the impossibilities often present in understanding/creating art, about womanhood, and this question Boyer asks: “how do we survive our survival?”. Martha Marcy May Marlene is a beautiful, terrifying film I watched recently about a young female cult survivor.
19 - What are you currently working on?I'm not completely sure? I think I'm toying around with a second manuscript, but really, I'm just excited to be writing again after a pretty long dry spell.
12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Ongoing notes: Meet the Presses (part three,

[my vantage point to Jacqueline Valencia's announcement of this year's winner of the bpNichol Chapbook Award]  
See the first part of my Meet the Presses report here, and the second part here. And of course, a similar report on the fair by Hamilton poet (and ottawa poetry newsletter contributor) Ryan Pratt.
Cobourg ON: I meant to deal with this in an earlier post [like so], but only now managed to locate my copy of Stuart Ross’ Cobourg Variations: a bunch of poems and an essay (Proper Tales Press, 2015), a title self-described as a “revised an expanded reissue of Stuart Ross’s 2011 classic [that] contains two new poems and a new haiku, plus he improved some of the stuff.”
COBOURG COMMERCE
The Chinese buffet opens, then closes.Another Chinese buffet opens.The Chinese buffet changes its nameand opens again, two doors away.Another Chinese buffet closes, then opens.A week later a Chinese buffet opens.Three months earlier one closes.There is a new Chinese buffet down the street.It’s called what it was calledbefore it opened then closed.A Chinese buffet has opened.
I find it fascinating to see how Ross reacts to moving from a large city to a smaller one, especially one I have a passing (read: incredibly tenuous) awareness of (my maternal grandfather was born there, and most of his immediate family are buried there). As Ross writes to open his post-script, “THE TERRORS OF TINY TOWN: AN ESSAY”: “Okay, so I lived in a big city for half a century, and then I moved to a small town about 75 minutes away. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. It took me leaving Toronto to realize why about half the membership of the Writers’ Union of Canada lives in that city.”
Ottawa ON: I might have picked it up in Ottawa, but Hamilton poet Gary Barwin was also carrying copies of his phases of the harpsichord moon (Ottawa ON: AngelHousePress, 2015), a reissue of his very first chapbook from way, way back in 1985. As he writes in the post-script, “New Phases of the Moon”: “In 1985, when I was 21, I published phases of the harpsichord moon , my first individual publication and the first chapbook released by my micropress, serif of nottingham.” He goes on to write:
One of the final requirements of the class with Frank Davey [at York University] was to create a chapbook press and a chapbook. So, I began “serif of nottingham” press and created the phases of the harpsichord moon chapbook in an edition of 100. Frank suggested that the members of the class could sell their chapbooks at the new Meet the Presses monthly book fair down at Scadding Court Community Centre, run by Stuart Ross and Nicholas Power. This was how I connected with the Toronto small press community which inspired me then, and continues to inspire me now. I am currently part of the collective Meet the Presses which runs the Indie Literary Market, the descendant of that monthly book fair.
There is something quite compelling to seeing how someone like Barwin, who has been an established writer for some time, started out so easily, relatively speaking, simply by taking the right class at the right time, having been prompted by an early teacher to start producing. Most who are given such prompts don’t end up doing much more, certainly not as much or as long as Barwin, but one can see the beginnings of what he later produced through this utterly charming typewriter sequence heavily influenced, as he writes in his post-script, by the work of bpNichol (who was also teaching at York University at the time). This is an easygoing, unselfconscious and complex sequence of threads that engage a wordplay in and around each other. How many other writers have such compelling early work, let alone work that is examined in such a way some thirty years later?
laura secordpasses on
info
its beforethe war/the parlourharpsichord the parleurher heart likethe moon rising omaybe the goldbergbach straying to the relativemajor: a relativethen ac chord wistfulher fingerscurved and gentle
This new edition also opens with a brief introduction to the collection by poet and critic Gregory Betts, that includes:
We are all gathered to see how a 21-year-old Barwin plays Bach with his new bpNichol. Influence passes through him like a word through an instrument. An exuberant disruption, a suitcase you can enter and vacation within. He is holding Laura Secord’s hand as she guides him like a cow, a chocolate cow, into the maws of the shopping mall. The projector shoots letters between the trees. They stick like teeth on punctuation. His is an uncommaed talent.

Honeymoon. (sketches by rob mclennan ; Knives, Forks and Spoons Press

My new chapbook Honeymoon. (sketches, published by Knives, Forks and Spoons Press (Newton-le-Willows, Merseyside, United Kingdom) is now available. Thanks much to Alec Newman for the lovely publication! A sequence of poems originally sketched out during our honeymoon in 2013 (London, Paris and Brussels),  you can order copies here! If you see me around at something, I should have a couple of copies available for $15 each.

COUGH #7

Notes Towards Touch
Air abdicating from the wind blows open the door, admitsnothing—my eyes light on the doorknob, fall into the faint linesof a fingerprint, as if to live there, the brain extending into the world as the rhythm of the eyes becoming a skin becomesperceptible. The rhythm, having gained dimension, displacesthe sky: the tumbled clouds, humming, the sticky sun,fumbling—
I’m trying to write you of the whole body—the brain touchingitself and attaching us to life, the curve at the edge of hearing,the netting of nerve and thought girding the stomach—
This kind of touch, this attachment to life, means only what thepulse does—this ‘this’ (beat, beat), almost unseen. (Julie Joosten)
I’m always pleased to see a new issue of COUGH, an occasional journal that appears through a small collective of writers in Toronto. Unfortunately, with the distraction of toddler, I’m only realizing now that I haven’t seen an issue in a while [see my review of COUGH #3 here]. Guest-edited (“this turn”) by Dominique Russell, COUGH #7 [see a video of the October launch of such here] features new writing by regulars and irregulars alike, including Joanne Kyger, Julie Joosten, David Peter Clark, Beatriz Hausner, Michael Boughn, Jonathan Pappo, Oliver Cusimano, Dale Smith, Enrique Enriquez, Android Spit, Emily Izsak, Tyler Crick, Laine Bourassa, Victor Coleman, Jacklyn Pidiuk and Dominique Russell, as well as illustrations by Rob Kenter, Emma Russell-Trione, Luca Russell-Trione and Bruno Russell-Trione. As always, part of the appeal of COUGH is in the variety and delight of the work included, from the expansive sketch-poems of Oliver Cusimano [see my recent review of his chapbook here], the lyric sentences of irregular member Julie Joosten, Android Spit’s accumulative “Shrinkrap” and the sequential precisions of Jaclyn Pidiuk, to the casual meditations of such an established guest-poet such as Joanne Kyger. The issue includes drawings, visuals, experimental pieces, prose, lyric poems and other works, in a wonderfully playful, inclusive and expansive jumble, collected in such a way that each issue feels less “all over the place” than a cohesive whole. Apart from Joosten’s prose pieces, some of the work that really jumped out at me included the excerpt from Dale Smith’s sequence “Dogstar,” Emily Izsak’s playful lyrics and the two short pieces by Laine Bourassa:
Berlin, 2200 hours
faces here so fresh your own swells and wrinklesnewborn in an old landhappy outbreaks
someone brought rope and hungfrom rafters to dip Berlinin liquid bandaid words
a door in the closed wallheaves of coal black locks above ground

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Khaty Xiong

Khaty Xiong is a second-generation Hmong American from Fresno, CA. Born to Hmong refugees from Laos, she is the seventh daughter among her 15 brothers and sisters. She received her Master of Fine Arts in Poetry from the University of Montana, and is the author of two poetry chapbooks:  Deer Hour  (New Michigan Press, 2014) and  Elegies  (University of Montana, 2013). Xiong’s work has been featured on The New York Times and  Verse Daily . Her first full-length collection  Poor Anima  was released by Apogee Press on September 1, 2015.
1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?Being one of so few publishing Hmong American writers, I’m not sure I can say; rather, having Poor Anima out in the world has yet to change my life. I will say it has been an honor being one of the first to publish a full-length poetry collection, since Hmong American literature is still very much an uncharted territory. Aside from Kao Kalia Yang’s memoir The Latehomecomer (Coffee House Press, 2008), I believe Soul Vang’s To Live Here (Imaginary Friend Press, 2014) is officially the first poetry collection published in the United States; both books have been crowning moments for the growing Hmong literary movement. Where I come from, my people don’t have literature; the Hmong have always relied on its oral practices of storytelling, and other art forms such as sung poetry (kwv txhiaj), traditional needlework (paj ntaub), and story cloths to pass down information (from customs, instructions, traditions to history). In other words, it’s a very new thing to publish a book at all as a Hmong American because so few are aware of my people’s history or presence in the United States (and in other parts of the world). Besides my book release, a lot has yet to come and shape this uncharted, literary territory.
Regarding how my recent work compares to my previous, I suppose I’ve learned to listen as well as trust what is happening or has yet to happen on the page. I used to worry a lot about how I wanted a poem to “be,” which was unfair to both the poem and myself. Now, I’d like to think I’m less impatient with how a poem “begins” or how it decides to live; I’m often finding myself being led by the poem, and it always happens when I least expect it.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?I first came to poetry through my parents, and of course, my native language. The Hmong language is a very poetic language. The Hmong’s animistic approach to life and death has always been influential to my fascination and love for poetry too. More specifically, the art form of sung poetry (kwv txhiaj) really inspired me as a kid. This form is essentially a person singing their “life song”—equivalent, to, what I tell people for “comparison,” the Blues; it’s a complicated form, actually (my mothers tried teaching me but to no avail); there are these rules that I never caught onto like meter and rhyme schemes that required an immense grasp and knowledge of the language. Anyways, growing up, I heard my parents sing their life songs all the time. It’s a form that really catches your attention, because the emotions coming from the singer is controlled in such a way that surprises you—some of the more commonly expressed emotions are loneliness and sadness, or some kind of sorrow, the kind that aches real bad. Most of the time, these songs are about longing—for your parents, loved ones, deceased relatives, your home country, and so on. Basically, it was hard not to sit down and listen when my parents sang because they were telling their stories of pain, and most of these stories originated from another part of the world where I would never get to live and experience (but am often haunted by): life in Laos before, during and after the Vietnam War—a war where the Hmong, among other indigenous groups, were secretly recruited by the CIA and then left fending for themselves when Long Tieng, a Laotian military base operated by the CIA, fell in May 1975; outside of U.S. history books, this war is known as the Secret War. Needless to say, I took these opportunities to learn from my parents. They seldom talked about their personal feelings: their transition from hiding in the Laotian jungles to crossing the dangerous Mekong River in order to reach Thailand’s refugee camps, from Thailand to the United States; and when they did “talk,” it was usually through their songs. Those songs did more than teach me to listen (and to remember); they also taught me to pay close attention to the world.
3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?All writing projects take time for me—mostly because it takes some living first before any writing can happen. For that reason, my writing process is slow. Some first drafts have influence over how the poem will turn out in its last draft, and sometimes, not. It depends on the poem, and what it is saying or doing at the time.
4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?Most of my projects start out as individual poems, but then eventually those poems begin talking to each other. So, I suppose I do work in a kind of “project mindset” without realizing it—or it simply has something to do with my obsessions that haven’t quite fully been “written out.” This isn’t the case with all my poems or projects of course. My chapbook Deer Hour (New Michigan Press, 2014) is actually a book of collages created during my time in Montana. I had collected various newspapers, journals, and National Geographic magazines that I used to cut out words and images to make said collages. These pieces were initially made as gifts for friends; the individual I was making the gift for inspired each piece. But one day I thought about how those poems would look if they were transcribed into a book; I put them together and was surprised how much they sang and told a story. I ended up adding more collage-inspired poems to lengthen the book. Deer Hour is unique from my other projects because its manuscript was born from found material, albeit, with some creative liberty in the transcribing of those pieces.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?I’ve only actually done one reading since I’ve moved to Columbus, OH. The reading series I participated in is called Paging Columbus, and the wonderful poet and writer Hannah Stephenson is the curator; the reading runs once a month. I had attended a few and really admired its monthly reading themes. Then one day Hannah invited me to be a part of their “Trust the Process” section, where I got to share some thoughts on my creative process and read some of my work. Most of my readings in the past have been school-sanctioned events, so my appearance in Paging Columbus was my first public reading. I really enjoyed it, but I was also very nervous. Still, I think public readings are great; poetry should be shared aloud; it adds this element that can’t be found or experienced anywhere else. I just wish I wasn’t so shy about making public appearances. I actually have an upcoming reading at an alumni event that I’m very nervous about. A lot of the fire that fueled my writing started in undergrad. There will be a lot of important people there like my professors.
6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?I think being a writer and coming from a (Hmong) culture where literature does not exist poses all kinds of theoretical concerns. It’s hard not to be political and scared behind the writing because the few Hmong writers who are publishing, myself included, aren’t exactly following any particular footsteps; we’re paving the way and doing it all on our own, which makes the writing as well as the living experience, if I can speak on behalf of the others, trying, triumphant, and rather lonely. In Fresno, CA where I’m originally from, a group called Hmong American Writers’ Circle (HAWC) was formed in 2004 by Hmong poet and writer Burlee Vang. Their purpose has essentially been trying to create and establish that literary culture among the Hmong. I was very honored to have been selected to make an appearance in their How Do I Begin?: A Hmong American Literary Anthology (Heyday Books, 2011), a one of a kind anthology full of creative writing from Hmong Americans across the Central Valley of CA and elsewhere. Next to Kalia and Soul’s books, this anthology was another proud achievement in the Hmong literary world.
As for the kinds of questions I am trying to answer with my work, I can’t exactly say—not because I won’t, but because I’m still figuring out those questions myself. It’s complicated because even I can’t ask my parents the right questions for things I want to know more about—their life and history in Laos, where our family and people truly came from and so on. I recall being told about stories regarding my great, great grandparents who used to live in China before they immigrated to Laos, but as far as I’m concerned, there are no confirming records of such sort within the family; again, “written records” are also rare if not nonexistent. I did however hear of an uncle who’s interviewing his father about said stories so as to write a book about how the Xiong clan came to be; I am much looking forward to this book. Still, my time in school and away from home has really crippled my use of Hmong. It’s as embarrassing as it is terrifying, the thought of forgetting the tongue of your parents. For me, the Hmong language has only ever been the one thing separating me from being Hmong and not Hmong, so it hurts a lot that while I’m chasing this literary path, writing and speaking dominantly in English (about being Hmong), I find myself further removed from my language, my parents, and my heritage—making all of this exhausting, because I identify in English like I can’t in Hmong, and I feel in Hmong like I can’t in English, which adds a lot of stress in identifying those questions.
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?These are good questions but tricky to answer in part because I’m also still learning what the role of the writer is or should be. I suppose the “writer’s role” reminds me that of a teacher’s role: to lend your body to your subject(s), and to hand yourself over to your students and understand you are doing so, safely and surely. I hope that makes sense. Perhaps I should say that I have witnessed this as a student, and have attempted to do this during my time teaching at the University of Montana. It was incredibly challenging, but nevertheless humbling and instructive for me as a person, a student, and a poet. Regardless, as a writer (and teacher), risks are always involved. One could say such role(s) means one has to be a bit of a daredevil. Sometimes, more than a bit. I think the writer’s role is being both teacher and student, where the questions and hardships are endless, and the writer accepts this.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?I think working with any outside editor will always prove difficult, which makes the experience all the more important. Just having an editor look at your poems and saying “this isn’t working as well as this other poem” can really change the life of the manuscript—and in my case, for the better. I’m very hard on myself and that can sometimes setback a poem or the pulse of a manuscript, so it’s very refreshing to suddenly not feel alone about the making of a book. I couldn’t have been luckier to have editors Alice Jones and Ed Smallfield of Apogee Press overlook the project of Poor Anima; they took great care of me.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?“Brace yourself.”
10 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?In undergrad, I wrote at various times of the day. Since then, I have learned that I write best in the mornings. I also know that the weather often influences when I want to write. In fact, overcast days are my favorite writing days—because I will actually spend many hours writing, sometimes the whole day. Although, when I was in Montana, I always wrote a lot after my hikes (overcast or not). I tend to shoot a lot of photography during my hikes too, so that often helps me in the crafting of poems. My writing routine generally involves a lot of activities, most of which are non-writing.
11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?These days, hiking through some of Columbus’s metro parks recharges my “inspiration,” especially now as the season is changing. Being outside in general is where I feel closest to my mind. Sometimes I’ll return to collaging and that will often spark something too. And if neither of those work then reading the latest publications both online and in print will typically do the trick.
12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?I think the fragrance of fresh fruit best remind me of home: particularly strawberries, peaches, and watermelons. Growing up in the Central Valley, there were fruit stands everywhere, and farmers’ markets that would last year-round. Besides, my parents loved these fruits and would often spoil my siblings and I with these. Sometimes, when I’m grocery shopping, I will stand in the fruit section and smell a basket of strawberries, or pick up a few peaches and smell each of them. I do this when I miss my family, which seems to be every grocery visit.
13 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?I’m deeply influenced by many things and nature is definitely one of them. My time in Montana is perhaps the biggest influence on both Deer Hour and Poor Anima. In Montana, it was easy to love the outdoors and its wildlife. It wasn’t unusual to be greeted by a mule deer clopping along your bus stop, or to wake up to ten mule deer resting and warming in the sun right on your front yard on a chilly autumn morning. The state is essentially a wilderness paradise. I had developed this strong relationship to Montana because its landscapes also made me think a lot about my parents and what their home country might have looked like once upon a time. The state is actually also home to some of the first Hmong refugees after the Vietnam War when General Vang Pao, commander of the CIA-recruited Hmong Army, and some of his veterans and their families arrived in 1975. Coming to study at the University of Montana was truly fate; being in Montana alone gave me a real sense of place and direction in my writing.
14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?There are many writers that I admire and writings that have been important for my work, though it’s difficult to keep track of all of them. For now, I will list (in no particular order): Li-young Lee, Philip Levine, James Wright, Emily Dickinson, Arthur Rimbaud, Sappho, Li Po, Theodore Roethke, Richard Hugo, George Oppen, Paul Celan, Don Mee Choi, Elizabeth Willis, Mary Jo Bang, Catherine Barnett, Cathy Park Hong, Brenda Shaughnessy, Adrienne Su, Lynn Xu, Lo Kwa Mei-en, Pattie McCarthy, Elizabeth Robinson, Lyn Hejinian and Ann Lauterbach. However, there is one poet whose work I often return to for both inspiration and influence: Tu Fu.
15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?See the world; travel to outer space.
16 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?When I was a kid, I wanted to be three things: an archaeologist, a paleontologist, and an astronomer. I still do. I had this deep fascination for the world, what was inside and beyond it. Instead, I turned out to be a poet; it’s safe to say the fascination remains the same.
17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?Writing was always cathartic as well as it was therapeutic; writing was also hard for those reasons—coming to terms with how I felt about things and the people around me. When I was in high school, my freshman English teacher Megan Bohigian saw potential in the work I was turning in for our creative writing assignments, and she simply nurtured me. She gave me hope and a voice from the beginning. She believed in the work I was doing, and I have been writing since. I am deeply indebted to her.
18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?Hmm. If I had list one, it would be Pattie McCarthy’s Marybones (Apogee Press, 2012). As for the last great film, that’s also hard to say because I just finished my 19 - What are you currently working on?I’m working on poems that discuss my grief over my late brother. He passed on June 4, 2014 due to cancer. My poetry has been in a weird place since; I say this because he was the original historian in the family who got me to care about what I write now. He was very serious about documenting our family’s history, their time during the Secret War and so on. He was born the year Long Tieng fell; he was just a couple of weeks old at the time; when my family arrived in the refugee camps in Thailand, my brother was about five or so years old. He was rich with stories, and had this dream of writing a book about my family’s experience. Unfortunately I never got to collaborate with him or even share my work. His passing was very hard on my family, and unexpectedly difficult on my work as well. The past year, I’ve been writing letters and poems to him, asking for those stories, for guidance, his wellbeing. I’m constantly searching for him, for signs or messages that mark his presence, in dreams and in waking life. I really miss him, and I would still like for him to read my poems. I am hoping to turn these pieces into my next collection.
12or 20 (second series) questions;

GraffitiFish (1994-1997) / Bad Moon Books (1995-2004): bibliography, and an interview

this interview was conducted over email in November 2015 as part of a project to document Ottawa literary publishing. see my bibliography-in-progress of Ottawa literary publications, past and present here
Warren D. Layberry: I’m a freelance editor, illustrator, and ghostwriter living on Vancouver Island. Alongside my wife Renée (who is also the in-house editor at Touchwood Editions/Brindle & Glass) we run DarkWaterEditing and spend altogether too much time in front of computer monitors. It’s been a while since I’ve published under my own name, but I do still write my own stuff on occasion, both fiction and poetry. Looking back at the time covered by this interview, my stuff certainly made the rounds—and not just in my own publications. I cracked most of the small local publications at least once. Pooka Press also published a chapbook of mine entitled small mercies (1995) and above/ground press did a poetry aside entitled A House of Cards (1995). I did a number poetry readings and was a featured reader at Dusty Owl, Vanilla, and Vogon. These days I derive a great deal of pleasure working as an editor and really developing manuscripts in ways that I never really considered back in my ELS, GraffitiFish , and Bad Moon Books days.
Q: How did Bad Moon Books first start? I know you’d toyed with prior publications, including being part of Box 77 while at Carleton University, through the English Literature Society. Did GraffitiFish pre-date Bad Moon Books, or were they concurrent?
A: Bad Moon Books grew out of my experience as an ‘editor/designer’ with the Carleton University’s English Literature Society. The ELS ran Box 77, a literary magazine which I started with Steve Zytveld (or perhaps we just renamed it) in the fall of 1994. Box 77 Books also put out Present Tense: Tales from the Nation’s Capital (1995) and Voices in Union: In Support of Harmony House (April 1996).
GraffitiFish was a small personal project that started in June of 1994. It was a free literary publication that I put together myself in a ¼ legal sized booklet format that I fell in love with. I am pretty sure the first couple GraffitiFish issues are what caught the eye of someone from the ELS though the details are fuzzy after twenty-plus years. It’s possible (Steve would be able to answer this question) that those early meetings in 1994 actually marked the beginning of the ELS.
I don’t think I have copies of all the issues of GraffitiFish, but even the issues I do have show that they overlapped Bad Moon Books which started in 1995 and ran until 2004.
The inspiration for GraffitiFish sprang from the small literary magazines floating around Carleton in the late eighties and early nineties: The Carleton Arts Review, Hostbox, The Skinny, etc. I was writing poetry and fiction myself, but that wasn’t really the impetus behind starting GraffitiFish—what caught my imagination was the layout and design stuff.
I took art classes all though high school and got into the Carleton’s Industrial Design program based on the strength of my portfolio. Though I jumped ship after a year to become an English major, the layout and design bug never quite left me.
Bad Moon Books was really just the natural evolution of the small scale stuff I was doing with GraffitiFish.
Q: What was the process of receiving work for either GraffitiFish or Bad Moon Books? Was there an open submission policy, or were you predominantly soliciting work from those around you?
A: In both cases there was an open submission policy. For the first few GraffitiFish, I had to hit folks up, but after that I just published what I got. Because GraffitiFishwas free, all I had to do was include a post office box and email address, and folks who picked it up started sending stuff in. I started flogging Bad Moon Books in GraffitiFish, and when I started the short story contests, I spread the word via various writing lists. Before long I had a Bad Moon Books website as well, which also helped. Plus there was word of mouth. I think the chapbooks looked pretty good, and so when I flogged them either at readings or small press book fairs they found their way into interested hands.
Q: You mention the overlap between GraffitiFish and Bad Moon Books, but at one point, GraffitiFishsimply fell by the wayside. Was this a deliberate shift from journal to chapbook publishing? Had the journal simply done what you had hoped? What brought about the decision to finally suspend the journal?
A: Truth be told, there was never anything deliberate about GraffitiFish. I always viewed it as an irregular publication. When I got the itch to put one out, I did. For the most part that itch (and much of my free time and funds) was scratched by the chapbooks I was producing for Bad Moon Books. I was pleased with GraffitiFish though and sometimes even toy with the idea of putting out another one just for fun.
Q: Was either journal or press modelled after any other publishing you were aware of? How did Bad Moon Books get started, and what were you hoping to accomplish?
A: I wouldn’t say either were modelled after another journal or press, but I was very aware of what was being produced, and I sort of saw what I was doing as part of the conversation. Part of what drew me into publishing was the idea of exploring what was possible in terms of design. In terms of journals, I was aware of the big established literary journals like Grainand Malahat Review, and I appreciated the somewhat less grand (but still nice) Carleton Arts Review, and then there were the small shoestring ones like Hostbox, Graffito, and The Skinny, and it was the small ones that caught my imagination. I remember playing around with names and formats and settling on ¼ legal booklets. It wasn’t hard getting contributors to fill these little books, and the idea of a free publication that I could leave lying around campus appealed to me.
When I decided to try chapbook publishing, I was most aware of above/ground and pooka press; Warren Fulton (did he have a partner in crime?) put out small mercies in March of 1995. Though I stand to be corrected on this, I am pretty sure I did the layout for small mercies myself, and something about having all that extra space to play with felt nice. Something about crafting a collection and coming up with a title and a cover was gratifying. There were illustration in there as well, and I found that interesting. In fact, now that I think about it, small mercies probably sparked Bad Moon Books.
In terms of what I hoped to achieve, it was the same with both GraffitiFishand Bad Moon Books—I wanted to craft compelling satisfying publications. I wanted to explore what was possible within my limited means. I certainly never had lofty literary goals nor any thought that I would ever come close to making money at it (which of course I never did). I liked the idea of being an interesting voice in a larger conversation.
Q: I don’t even know if the English Literary Society at Carleton University exists at all anymore, but during your time there, the ELS accomplished some interesting things. How did the ELS even begin publishing at all, and who else was involved? How often did Box 77 appear, and what was its mandate?
A: Of course, the best person to ask about ELS stuff would be Steve Zytveld (also behind Dusty Owl). My recollection, for what it’s worth, is that the ELS and Box 77 started more or less at the same time—I am remembering a meeting at a campus pub, not Oliver’s or Mike’s Place, maybe the one out near the residences—and that the thought was it only made sense that the English Literature Society would have a literary journal. I don’t recall anyone there with any particular experience, but we played it by ear, and everyone chipped in to get it done. It seems to me there was a distinct lack of big egos in that group. I remember Steve Zytveld, Cathy MacDonald, Nick Tytor, John Mahoney, and a number of other faces which are clear enough in my mind but for which I no longer have names. I am pretty sure GraffitiFish landed me the gig as editor/designer. I remember that Box 77—which was merely the ELS mailbox number on the 18th floor of Dunton Tower—came out three times a year, once per academic term, and that those early issues I worked on were themed by season. Its mandate was simply to give another opportunity for Carleton students to express themselves, but I am sure we didn’t actually limit it to Carleton students and graduates. We published both poetry and fiction and the occasional book review if I’m not mistaken. I can’t for the life of me remember how it was funded, but we did it on the cheap regardless. Folded letter-sized sheets saddle-stitched with staples (I might still have the extra long stapler I bought from Business Depot). I remember at least one collating/folding/stapling get together.
Q: Once GraffitiFish folded, whether officially or quietly, Bad Moon Books developed for quite some time afterwards. How did the publications develop over the years? The press produced, predominantly, single-author poetry collections to single-author fiction collections that became more randomly-produced as the press progressed. How were the books distributed? What did you feel the press accomplished?
A: I think what struck me as Bad Moon Books developed was how little fiction was being published in chapbook form. There was no shortage of poetry (and of course there’s nothing wrong with poetry) but there was almost no fiction. I can’t remember where the idea for the Blood & Guts Horror Story Competition came from—possibly my experience with Highfalls Lake, a ghost story of mine that had won some money from Storyteller Magazine’s Great Canadian Short Story Contest—but I remember liking the idea right away. I ran it with an entry fee of $10 primarily so that I could offer a prize, and so that the prize would in turn attract contributors. I always had enough contributors to cover the prize and offset some of the production cost. Word spread, and I ended up getting some terrific stories. I got folks from all over North America and at least one from the UK. In 2004, the last year I was operating, I decided to start two more competitions; Cold Steel was a crime and mystery contest, and NEW CAT TATTOOS (an anagram of OTTAWA CONTEST) which was limited to current and former Ottawa residents.
In terms of distribution, every author got a stack of contributor copies. The National Library got their copies as well. I also sold copies from the website once it was up. I sold them in person at readings and small press book fairs. I periodically flogged them through consignment at Chapters. And someone (I can’t remember who) put me onto John Coutts Library Services, and they always wanted copies—they were a good customer over the years.
I think what I am most pleased with, looking back, is that I provided a little bit of friendly soil for writers while they were still putting down roots. I know that Leo Brent Robillard’s first publication was in Box 77 and he went on in 2004 to win the first (and only) Cold Steel contest. I also published early work by writers such as Clark Hays (Blood & Guts, 2002), Christian McPherson (New Cat Tattoos, 2004), and Steve Vernon (Blood & Guts, 1999).
Q: Besides publishing chapbooks of short fiction, Bad Moon Books ran an awful lot of contests (not a lot in terms of numbers, per se, but certainly more than a great deal of small publishers put together). What was it about the contests that appealed, and why were you running so many?
A: The short answer is, I suppose, because I liked contests; I liked participating in contests myself, and so I liked the idea of offering a contest for others to participate in. Beyond that, it was a matter of what the contest format made possible. I felt I wanted to publish a series of horror short stories. I might have waited three years before seeing the number of stories that came to my post office box for a single contest deadline. Furthermore the quality of the stories I did received was probably higher because I got stories from some writers who were beyond sending out work to a press that only paid in contributor’s copies; I don’t know that I would have landed Clark Hays or Steve Vernon were it not for the contest. Of course, the entry fee also meant that I could offer prize money without it coming out of my pocket. I never ended up making money on the deal; I’m sure in the entire nine-year run of Bad Moon Books I never made more off a chapbook than it cost me to produce—which was fine because that had never been the goal. I loved emailing the winners, and it gave me a good feeling to include a money order with their copies. I also knew that, in all future cover letters, those authors would be able to talk about being a contest winner. Everyone who participated got a copy of the winning chapbook out of the deal, and I printed a list of the year’s contest participants in the winning chapbook. I always felt that the Blood & Guts Horror Story Competition was a success on all front, and when I started the other two contests, I was simply trying to diversify a bit after having read a lot of horror stories. The only reason I closed up shop after 2004 was that life got in the way; I felt I didn’t have the time that projects required or deserved.

GraffitiFish bibliography:
Volume 1, No.1. June 1994. Editor: Warren Layberry. Poems by Warren Layberry, Christopher Kelly, Heather Layberry, Janet Layberry, rob mclennan and Martha Héder.
Volume 1, No.2. July 1994. Editor: Warren Layberry. Poems by Warren Layberry, Warren D. Fulton, Martha Héder, Stephanie Pasch, M.G. Comino, Colin Morton, Donna Shaw, Sharon Boddy, Ayli Lapkoff and rob mclennan.
Volume 2, No. 1. February 1995. Editor: Warren Layberry. Poems by Warren Layberry, Mark Platt, Rebecca A Jones, Richard Carter, Nick Tytor, Donna Shaw, Colin Morton, E Russel Smith, M.G. Comino, Ayli Lapkoff, Pamela Chynn, Stephen Héder, TaraTosh and Stephen Gill. Fiction by Colin Hayward and Brian Schlachta.
Volume 2, No. 2. August 1995. Editor: Warren Layberry. Poems by Martha Héder, Sandra L Wiles, Ayli Lapkoff and Amanda Terry. Fiction by Kasia Kaminski.
Volume 2, No. 3. Spring 1996. Editors: Warren Layberry and Chris Kelly. Poems by Martha Héder, Pamela Chynn, Kane Faucher, Leo Brent Robillard, Matt Hunwicks, Tanya Evanson, Warren Layberry. Fiction by Dave Gregory.
Volume 3, No. 1. February 1997. Editors: Warren Layberry and Chris Kelly. “Some Contests” issue, offering information on local writing contests and how to submit to them. Contributors: Warren Layberry and E Russell Smith.
Bad Moon Books bibliography:
Little Blue God by Janet Layberry (ISBN: 189663401X) 1995 [drama]
human elements (the) by rob mclennan (ISBN: 1896634028) June 1996 [poetry]
Strange Alchemy by Warren Layberry (ISBN: 1896634036) September 1996 [poetry]
As Dark as Night: A Vitriolic Valentine’s Day Selection edited by Warren Layberry (ISBN: 1896634044) February 1997 [poetry, fiction] — Contributors: Christopher Kelly, Klara Pachner, Derek Thuillard, Natalie Hanna, Christopher Stolle, Randy Kelly, Victoria Martin, Julie Christiansen, & Wes Smiderle.
White Owl by John Rupert (ISBN: 1896634052) October 1997 [fiction]
A Matter of Taste by Carol Weekes (ISBN: 1896634079) November 1997 [fiction] Winner of the 1997 Blood & Guts Horror Story Competition
Highfalls Lake by Warren Layberry (ISBN: 1896634060) August 1998 [fiction]
Introduction to Biology by Angi Garofolo (ISBN: 1896634087) November 1998 [fiction] Winner of the 1998 Blood & Guts Horror Story Competition
A Fine Sacrifice by Steve Vernon (ISBN: 1896634095) November 1999 [fiction] Winner of the 1999 Blood & Guts Horror Story Competition
Blood & Guts 2000 by James Trettwer, Carol Weekes & Michael Kelly (ISBN: 1896634109) January 2001 [fiction] Winner of the 2000 Blood & Guts Horror Story Competition
Red Winter by Clark Hays (ISBN: 1896634117) January 2002 [fiction] Winner of the 2002 Blood & Guts Horror Story Competition
Revenant by Wes Smiderle (ISBN: 1896634125) October 2003 [fiction] Winner of the 2003 Blood & Guts Horror Story Competition
Spikeseed by Jalina Mhyana (ISBN 1896634133) February 2004 [poetry]
corrective lenses by rob mclennan (ISBN: 1896634141) February 2004 [poetry]
Black as Hell: A Vitriolic Valentine’s Day Anthology edited by Warren Layberry (ISBN: 189663415X) February 2004 [fiction, poetry] — Contributors: Lacy Lake, Dennis Thomsen, Jalina Mhyana, Craig Sernotti, Savannah Deville, Avra Kouffman, Richard Pitaniello, Carol Weekes, Steve Vernon
half cocked by Terry Ann Carter (ISBN: 1896634168) April 2004 [poetry]
The Prodigal Son by Leo Brent Robillard (ISBN: 1896634176) September 2004 [fiction] Winner of the 2004 Cold Steel Crime & Mystery Competition
Killer Dope by Christian McPherson (ISBN: 1896634184) September 2004 [fiction] Winner of the 2004 New Cat Tattoos

Megan Kaminski, Deep City

We implore you exhale city smoke and invite uswithin garneted sanctuary damp cavenarchitectures making way    songs and bodiesrending walls porous to sound silken soiledmothers dreaming northern passages coilingsilver wire skeletal mild beneath the unexhumednight sulfur traces sully duchess-cut dressesshape us into other sizes other emanations
Kansas poet Megan Kaminski’s second poetry collection, Deep City (Las Cruces NM: Noemi Press, 2015), is a suite of poems exploring a series of collisions—where language, the body and geography interact—composed in a dense lyric. Set in three sections—“The Cities,” “Apocrypha” and “Collection”—there is a structural echo back to her first full-length book, Desiring Map (Atlanta GA: Coconut Books, 2012) [see my review of such here], a suite built out of four chapbook-length sections. Given that Kaminski has come into book construction from years of producing small chapbooks (including with above/ground press), the evolution makes sense (I compared her first collection to Kevin Connolly’s Asphalt Cigar, which also did the same), but there is something about the way that Kaminski manages to connect the sections in both collections, all of which could easily stand on their own, into something else, made stronger for the grouping. As opposed to some who have simply connected chapbook-length works into an arbitrary book-size, Kaminski appears to be composing book-length works out of shorter sections.
As chief cartographer for the cityhe maps systems                                                                    simple things                        subways   freeway exits   migratory patterns                              diseased trees    fashionable restaurants                      lost dreams   displaced tenants   spent hours                                    he would grow with the company
catalogs stolen memoriesmodels the depths of the baypresses his ear to the wall and listens for coordinates (“As chief cartographer for the city”)
As well, with all of her published work to date, Kaminski is a cartographer-poet, and in Deep City, she sketches an intricately-detailed series of maps across sleep, memory, history and urban spaces (both real and imagined) as well as the often-overlooked minutae of the world, from finger-traces in the dirt to industrial spaces and the city-breath of smoke. The first section of Deep City, “The Cities,” a sequence of short lyrics, is composed as a love song (a love that can’t help but be complicated) to those urban spaces, as she writes: “dear city I want to crawl inside your chest / ply rib by rib by rib and slip soft / extol your innerworks colder sounds [.]” The second section, “Apocrypha,” a collection of short poems, stretches the density of her language across the page, writing out, in the section’s title poem, “there was something genealogical about it / silence saying yes or no you see // I have another distinct memory / of sleeping on a rooftop / under an enormous sky [.]” The third and final section, “Collection,” is a curious blend of the two, constructed out of what appears to be a sequence of untitled poems, with a couple of stand-alone poems, each titled, set within. Kaminski is quite skilled and packing an enormous amount into the lyric, allowing her lines to fragment and retain both connection and tension while allowing breath and space pauses between; akin to skipping stones across the surface of water, the ripples are long and deeply felt.
In my city   glass beads line women’s neckssun-bloated squares house apartmentsmusic streams through shuttered balconies in summer

                                    it wasn’t simply that her love was objectifying                                                            we all have things that sparkle
checks mail Friday because of Monday’s holidayvisitors’ feet keep us awake on those nights
enter the code   three flights   knock twice (“We stood atop Janiculum Hill”)

Queen Mob's Teahouse: Roland Prevost interviews Gil McElroy,

As the opening salvo of my tenure of interviews editor at Queen Mob's Teahouse, I present to you an interview with poet, curator and art critic Gil McElroy, conducted by Ottawa poet Roland Prevost .

Some of the interviews I've posted up at Queen Mob's Teahouse over the past few months include conversations with Allison Green, Andy Weaver, N.W Lea and Rachel Loden.

If you are interested in sending a pitch for an interview my way, contact me via rob_mclennan (at) hotmail.com

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Andrew K. Peterson

Andrew K. Peterson’s poetry books include Anonymous Bouquet (Spuyten Duyvil, 2015), some deer left the yard moving day (BlazeVox, 2013), and Museum of Thrown Objects (BlazeVox, 2010). His chapbook bonjour meriwether and the rabid maps (Fact-Simile, 2011) was featured in an exhibition on poets’ maps at the Univ. of Arizona’s Poetry Center. His writing is anthologized in Emergency Index 2012 (Ugly Duckling Presse), 4000 WORDS 4000 DEAD, a collaborative performance project (curated by Jennifer Karmin, released by Kora Press), and The Earth Archive (curated by Danielle Vogel for RISD Museum). He edits the online literary journal summer stock , and lives in the Boston area.

1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first published work was a chapbook of poetry collaborations with Elizabeth Guthrie called Between Here and the Telescopes, published under the umbrella of Slumgullion Press, a diy publishing collective in Missoula, Montana, where we lived then. Slumgullion’s founder Debby Florence would tote zines, artbooks, and chapbooks around to readings and the farmer’s market downtown on a bicycle-powered book mobile. Liz’s friend, the artist Dirk Lee, letter-pressed the book’s covers for us at his studio/press called Naked Man Press – because he likes to print in the nude. I think that book changed our lives because it gave Liz and I some courage and confidence in our work, and a feeling of solidarity by collaborating with our friends, like we were part of a practicing artist’s community. In some ways, I think the process of publishing Anonymous Bouquet is similar. I’m not writing strict collaborations here, but the book’s cover has anonymous handwriting samples contributed by my closest friends, poetry colleagues, and family. Writing poetry and engaging with creative people and art-makers makes me feel not quite so alone. 

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I began as a genre writer – when I was 10 my friend Seth and I wrote short detective stories inspired by our mutual obsession with Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? I started writing poetry in high school – song lyrics, mostly. I couldn’t sing, or play an instrument, so they became poems. I became friends with a group of artists, painters, musicians, and we would hang out after school. I was very shy and I would mostly sit and listen to them talk and tell jokes. I thought they were so cool, and was never sure why they let me hang around, but they did and were inclusive, and nice. Junior year in English class, we had a poetry unit, and were supposed to write a term paper on a poet. We got to choose. I don’t remember what my feeling about poetry was then. I remember I liked reading it, because it had that emotion right on the surface of the language, but was always really bored by the stuff they’d make us read. I loved how much weight each word had on the page, like a heavy, musical structure. I remember our poetry textbook with heavy, ivory pages that dark black italicized letters. The words in the poems felt tangible, they never had in prose. One of my cool friends was in that class, and I had a crush on her. She was confident with her socialness and her artistic abilities. When it came time to choose what poet we’d write about, my teacher recommended Lawrence Ferlinghetti to her, but she chose Langston Hughes instead. So when it came to my turn, I chose Ferlinghetti. I knew nothing about him, or his poems. I liked the sound of his name, it sounded exotic and interesting – way more interesting than Robert Frost – and, of course, because my teacher had recommended it to my friend. Reading Ferlinghetti inspired me to loosen up my approach, to the form and language.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
Every poem has a different field of composition. Some occasional poems – like some occasions – come and go quickly, while some develop and evolve over a longer period. Some of my first drafts come out looking mostly done, and some are assembled through notation and particle fusion. I’m changing all the time; I hope my writing and the structures that writing fits into, reflects that.  

4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
Composing poems tends to begin in the moment and ends with a signal. At Naropa I took a wonderful class with Andrew Schelling on the serial poem, called “Fructile Chaos”, which was very influential for me. The title sequence of my first book, Museum of Thrown Objects, was started in that class, and was inspired by close readings of serial poetry by Jack Spicer, Robin Blaser, and Robert Duncan. I was attracted to composing poems in the moment, but with a larger structure in mind. My second book, some deer left the yard moving day, is a long poem, made up of small parts, with a disruption in the middle – I knew I was writing a ‘book’ sequence, but at the same time, I wanted to disrupt that sense of, what exactly, I’m not sure – cohesiveness? Like, will the circle be unbroken? It feels like that’s the direction I’ve been moving to more recently. Anonymous Bouquet is more a collection of short pieces, written over a period of a few years that, although not initially envisioned as a book, per se, I hope, reflect a similar sense of dreams, themes, and schemes.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I like the opportunity to share my poems with an audience, and also have them relate with other writers’ words, to find connections and hear each unique voice. More recently, I’ve found readings helpful in shaping poems – seeing how certain poems go over in a live setting. Recording myself reading has helped identify where certain words or phrases don’t work, or where a line break, a different word, or page rhythm is necessary. The poem doesn’t always have to come alive in the air, in front of others, though. I think some poems work better not read out loud, and some ask to be heard.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
Yeah, but ugh, I bore myself talking about them…

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I don’t see the role of the writer being any different than any other profession or calling, really. I think every person, no matter their vocation, or passion, has a certain responsibility to truth, justice and equality. Whether you’re an Uber driver, or a poet, it’s not that different. I guess the writer just practices with words, and maybe should be willing to explore and flail – fail – in public search of their own subjective truth, with words and in words. And try to tread lightly enough that you don’t fuck somebody up, don’t hurt anybody, or yourself, in the process of communicating that with others.  

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Working with an editor reminds me that I’m not perfect, and that’s a given, though sometimes difficult to express. So it’s essentially-difficult… and essential.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Don’t forget to shake.

10 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
My “routine” consists of a process of note-taking in little notebooks while walking around, opening around the world, or trying to open up enough and allow something in, or emptying out enough to be able to receive whatever is coming through the world.

My day begins with a dream-dispersing NPR news alarm. It’s unremarkable, really. A quick shower, a coffee, and out the door to work.  

11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
A book a friend a museum songs the streets.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Marsh musk at low tide.

13 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
Absolutely, all of these. Nature, and that can be the city, too. Music and art, which are also natures. People.

14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Craigslist’s a Missed Connections. In Anonymous Bouquet I have a poem called “Mist Connects” which is a collage of anonymous MC entries from around New Year’s Day, 2011. I wanted to collectivize voices from around the globe, to see how we were all negotiating New Year’s Eve revelry, day-after hangovers, regrets, yearning and resolutions.

Two years after an excerpt of the poem was published online, I was contacted by the journal’s editor Mark Young. A reader left a note in the comments section to the poem claiming to have written one of the anonymous posts which I had used. I was worried they might be upset, but they expressed gratitude to me for including their words, for salvaging their entry – which was very personal and meaningful – when it would have been erased from this ephemeral forum. We shared a nice correspondence, swapping stories of the circumstances behind our mutual writing, now bound by the collectively anonymous. This was a special experience for me, and a lesson for the power that a piece of writing can have as a marker of memory, as a conduit for connection. Also, how even an anonymous act retains a mark of an individual’s humane and unique personality.  

15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Plant roses on the moon.

16 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
A cinematographer, or film editor.

17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
There was a period in my life in my early twenties – I had been writing poems for about seven years by that point – I was working in television news, and I hated it. Local news is a very toxic environment, and I could feel my sensitivities and outlook becoming a lot bleaker. That was too much to take, so I quit. I really wanted to make films, and I had the very limited idea that to do that, professionally, I had to move to LA. I didn’t want to move to LA. During that period, I was really depressed, and the thought of collaborating with anyone – and film is a very collaborative art – horrified me, being face to face with others and my pain, in a social way. So I worked on nothing but poetry for a few months, and although that was a really tough time, I started to find ways to express myself through poems that started to click, in interesting ways for me. A few got accepted at a literary journal – and I really believe, it was that editor, Miriam Stanley, who gave me the courage and feeling of support, to keep writing. I give all credit and humble thanks to her. Thank you, Miriam. 

18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Stars Seen in Person: Selected Journals of John Wieners , and Chelsea Girls by Eileen Myles. My last great film experience was a double feature of Universal horror classics, The Mummy followed by The Invisible Man, on a rainy Friday October night on Brattle. 

19 - What are you currently working on?
Levelling. 

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Dina Del Bucchia and Daniel Zomparelli, Rom Com

Jennifer Lawrence
Jennifer Lawrence is your best friend, she makes you smile when the comical anvil slams down on your heart, and she told you once that you were all she needed. She taught you to dance when schizophrenia ghosted your body and garbage bag running suits tailored you in anger. Jennifer Lawrence saved a baby from a well once, took care of you while you had a fever, fixed a building after Hurricane Sandy. Jennifer Lawrence once saved you from a crumbling civilization. Jennifer Lawrence wrote a tell-all about your friendship, and told the world that you were the one who saved her. Jennifer Lawrence called to tell you she was thinking about you, late at night when you were certain the winter outside was leaking into your body, crystallizing your skin, turning your body into a plastic version of itself. Jennifer Lawrence taught you what love is, from a laptop glaring in the darkness, filtering through your eyes. The truth is, Jennifer Lawrence isn’t your best friend. You don’t have a best friend, just the rage sweating from your forehead.
From Vancouver poets and pop culture aficionados Dina Del Bucchia and Daniel Zomparelli come the wonderfully playful and dark poetry collaboration Rom Com (Vancouver BC: Talonbooks, 2015). Del Bucchia, the author of Coping with Emotions and Otters (Talonbooks, 2013) and Blind Items (Toronto ON: Insomniac Press, 2014), and Zomparelli, author of Davie Street Translations (Talonbooks, 2012) [see my review of such here], also co-host the literary podcast Can’t Lit. Composed as a book “that both celebrates and capsizes the romantic comedy,” the poems in Rom Comare darkly comic, responding to a series of pop culture idioms, porn parodies, pop quizzes, actors and romantic comidies themselves (with repeated references to weddings, dicks and sex scenes), including poems titled “She’s All That,” “In a Movie about Weddings / No One Wants to Attend,” “When Harry Met Sally,” “Because You Watched 27 Dresses,” “Overboard” and “He Grasps at Emotion, or The Proposal.”
50 First Dates
You sang me a songbut I forgot.
You took me to the aquarium.I forgot.
Took me on a boat.Forgot.
I keep watching The Sixth Sense,over and over again, waiting for the twist.
Every morning I wake up on a boatnext to a man
who tells me I love himon a VHS
but I can’t remember.Now the ocean surrounds me
and I never trustedthe open water.
Given their exploration into pop culture, humour and the sonnet, it would be impossible to think that the two haven’t been influenced by the work of Montreal poet David McGimpsey, author of his self-described “chubby sonnets,” especially through their five-poem “Sonnets for Supporting Roles,” that includes:
George, My Best Friend’s Wedding
For you, not for you, but for porcelain dollswalking down the aisle. You are a cellphoneor an emergency lip gloss. You are the touch-uprouge in her purse, you are the gay best friend.
The one who fusses over her hair, memorizes wardrobe,waits in your apartment for whenever she is ready.Filing nails, and sitting on your Barcelona chair,watching Murder, She Wrote until she calls.
When she is ready, you snap fingers and makejokes with flapping hands, tell her she has it all.When she needed you most, you flew downto save a dance at the wedding, a wedding you
could never have, legally, so instead you collapsedback into a lipstick and a clasp purse.
They might be influenced by McGimpsey, but the poems here are far darker than his, and even their own individual works, writing out a sense of emptiness and loss behind so many of these poems composed for and after a series of light American movie fare, such as in the poem “So I Married a Poet,” that includes: “There was a time when romantic comedies were like jokes / about men versus women. They were everywhere.” One of my favourite poems in the collection has to be “A Series of Romantic Comedies / That Could Never Be Made,” dedicated to Winnipeg poet Jonathan Ball, that begins: “A woman dates every man on earth until she is too old to date. On her deathbed, she meets the man of her dreams: the doctor who pulls her off life support. “Ironic” by Alanis Morissette plays during the credits.” The poem ends with:
Kate and Steven never meet. They spend their entire lives just missing each other. One leaves a coffee shop just as another enters, one works the day shift, one works the night shift. They would fall in love if their paths ever crossed, but they never do. Love inhabits the spaces they never meet. It fills the blank spots.
This is an enormously smart and witty collection, playing with stereotypes and a love of bad film. And yet, are Del Bucchia and Zomparelli celebrating the genre or pulling away the curtain, and revealing its inherent shallowness? The answer, I think, is, somehow, incredibly, both.