2024 saw the publication of nine interviews here on the blog - seven originally published over at Read Local BC and one each from Arc Poetry Magazine (with Matt Rader) and The Antigonish Review (with Gillian Sze). I'll have at least as many new interviews coming your way in 2025, as I release my sixth-annual Read Local BC interview series, along with a couple other interviews elsewhere: Rhea Tregebov, Ali Blythe, Cecily Nicholson, Anita Lahey, and more. It's going to be a good year!
Weather, with its "Best of 2024" sticker! |
"Pain is very difficult to speak about except in symbols, metaphors, and analogies. It reminds me of poetry: the best poems can’t be paraphrased because how they say what they say is, to be tautological, what they say." - Matt Rader
October 2024: Halting, Slowing, Quickening: An Interview with Gillian Sze
"I love the poetic spaces that the reader can drop into. I remember my first encounter with Anne Carson’s translations of Sappho. I still like falling into those gaps. Reading poetry is like that, I think. The reader enters the poem, ultimately filling those spaces in their own way." - Gillian Sze
October 2024: Becoming More Visible: An Interview with Meghan Fandrich
"I was surprised that the words emerged as poetry. I’m not a poet. I’d never written poems (other than the rhyming poems of Grade 6, of course). For the past decade, I hadn’t written at all, not even in my journal; I had only recently begun to journal again when I met the friend, the love, six months after the fire. There was no reason that the memories would come out as poetry. But they did." - Meghan Fandrich
November 2024: The Silence of the Woods: An Interview with Rodney DeCroo
"Poetry gave my life purpose— I was part of something fine— and that made me feel like I mattered in some way. I was a poet, goddamn it! By my late teens when I dropped out of school I was already a drunk and a drug addict. I lived on and off the streets and worked horrible, humiliating jobs and got fired regularly. I got into fights and often got my ass kicked. I spent many nights in the Vancouver drunk tank. So while my poems were awful they kept me going. I was betting everything on them. Now, I think differently about those poems. Sure, they weren’t much but learning to write poetry is a long, unbroken process that is never finished. The poems I write now contain the DNA of those early poems no matter how awful they were. So yeah, my wonderful, worthless poems. Without them I wouldn’t be here." - Rodney DeCroo
"I get teased sometimes for how often I talk about prayer. I’m not a religious person. For me, prayer is the word I use to describe moments of meditation and communion that ground me in myself and the world around me. In that sense, absolutely—each poem is a prayer, regardless of the title! Because each poem depends on beings and places and ideas outside of myself, and so each poem is relational and connective. I hope that, taken together, they feel like a ceremony or practice grounded in communal blessing, curiosity, and thanksgiving." - Jess Housty
November 2024: A Beautiful Constellation: An Interview with Samantha Nock
"It has been a very strange and absolutely beautiful experience seeing how strangers and people close to me relate and react to my book! I’ve always looked at my poems having a very specific audience: other Indigenous people, specifically northern Cree Métis kin, my family, and the BC Peace Region. But just because that is who I was writing too doesn’t mean that I think my work is not “for,” or inaccessible to, people who are outside of that audience. I absolutely love hearing how people have found themselves in my work and the ways they relate to it or feel called to it. There is a teacher who I am in contact with who teaches some of my poems in their class and they will share their students’ reflections with me. It honestly has made this entire ten-year process of writing this book worth it." - Samantha Nock
November 2024: The Hinge Where the Mysteries Lie: An Interview with Donna Kane
"I am... obsessed with the liminal space between one moment and the next. I feel like that hinge, that transition point, is where the real mysteries lie. I hadn’t actually thought about the silence of the blank space or pages between poems as reflecting this same sort of liminal space, but it’s a great observation. Because my poems have always focused more or less on the same subjects—the material world, phenomenology, consciousness—I feel they have always been in conversation with each other. I think any poem we read is in conversation with all the other poems we’ve read or written. " - Donna Kane
"It was important [for me] to get at an emotional truth that was authentic to my own experiences. I think that’s sort of the freedom in poetry—there is little expectation to get things “right,” only to get things to feel true... Writing about my parents was a way to get out of my own head, an exercise in empathy and creation, a sort of “negative capability,” as Keats would say. I’m writing about myself, but not really—I’m putting on the page ideas that branch out and become larger than myself, a self that, after all, is an insignificant thing given the scope and nature of life itself." - Onjana Yawnghwe
"When it comes to making art, I like to think of the idea of cross-training. Cross-training refers to using various modes of exercises outside of a central activity so that other muscles in the body are engaged and balanced in strength. For me, cross-training is key to my practice and involves me working in one discipline in order to keep my senses sharp in another." - Leanne Dunic
I decided I wanted to write poems on July 16th, 1999. I was sitting in my parents’ living room in Chester, Nova Scotia. It was four fifteen in the afternoon (this is Atlantic time); I was helping friends to put on a play that week but had the day free until my call time. My mother was listening to a news article about the decision to rebury the Romanovs. Our dog was sick, but would eventually get better.
I was reading my mother’s copy of Leonard Cohen’s Selected Poems – the M&S one from 1968 with the three heads on the cover – specifically the longish poem “Disguises,” which as we all remember started on page 168 of that book, specifically the two lines near the middle that read “Goodbye, articulate monsters./Abbott & Costello have met Frankenstein.” and these two lines gave me that peculiar mix of reactions I keep coming back to poems to find. To be baffled and laid bare how something that stupendous could be that easy to say.
The poem was profound but self-apparent, it was clearly a constructed object but it felt so casual and so easy. It, and another couple hundred poems since then that I consider my personal canon, was a magic box. A fifteen-year-old theatre nerd is surely a mark for a poem as angry and self-possessed and musical as “Disguises.” “Goodbye, articulate monsters” is a teenager’s phrase. It’s not my favourite poem anymore but I do owe it a great deal.
It rained that day in Nova Scotia. I don’t know if it rained or not in Toronto, where I live now.
- Jacob McArthur Mooney, with a very specific answer to a generic question, in interview with All Lit Up. You can read the whole thing here.
The work, in the small press, is more than the poem you are trying to write. To be engaged in the small press is to be intimately involved in a network of activities, and it is to direct those activities to a communal project. Small press writers are also small press editors, and publishers, and readers, and booksellers, and reading series coordinators, and audience members, and researchers, and, and, and. To be engaged in the small press is to see the symbiosis of these activities, and not to draw any hard lines between them. Each is part of the work of small press writing because there is no small press without this messy piles of activities (however it is that you ultimately define the small press for yourself). Some years you may be all of them, and others maybe just one or two, but within our individual resources we each endeavour to keep some small corner of the whole thing going.
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Your thing, the thing you put your best literary self and resources into, is going to be forgotten. The question of posterity is how long that process will take, not whether it will occur. But that's ok. You helped the whole big, unwieldy, dispersed thing along, and because of that work - acknowledged or not - the next kids will show up to find something vibrant and alive and worth investing themselves in. They'll call out all the blind spots from the previous iterations (yours among them) and they'll make their own mistakes, but they'll keep it alive too.
- Cameron Anstee, from his essay/chapbook, Some Silences: Notes on Small Press (Apt. 9 Press, 2024)