Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Natalie Zina Walschots talks to Sachiko Murakami

NZW: The timeline for Project Rebuild has been incredibly compressed. I first heard of the project at the beginning on July 6th , and a physical version of the project, the book Rebuild, was launched at the Pilot on September 7th, a mere two months after the original invitations to renovate were sent out. What was it like working under such a compressed timeline? How was a book produced so quickly?

How does the website, Project Rebuild, function differently/independently of the book, Rebuild? What came first, the plan to writ ea book or the plan to design a website?

SM: and the book, Rebuild, are separate but interconnected entities. Here’s how it all went down.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Erica Baum's 'Dog Ear'

Embedded in our current moment is the unique opportunity to interrogate the manner in which we conceive of what it means to read. A materiality that was once self-evident - i.e., you read a book, or a sign, or a magazine - in the relationship between a text and the act of reading has receded into the ephemeral cloud of digital storage and display. Engagement with a text, and indeed any solid definition of what constitutes a text, has been uprooted and made unstable by the advent of digital readers, word processors and computer screens. Certainly this is no original claim, and it has been made more incisively and eloquently, but it bears keeping in mind when encountering Erica Baum's Dog Ear.

In Baum's introduction Kenneth Goldsmith traces a portion of the poetic genealogy of Dog Ear - in Pound's "radiant node(s)", Burroughs' Fold-ins and Porter's Founds - and expresses the precarious position of the dog ear as physical bi-product of the reading process, that being "[contingent] upon the de/formation of a physical page, the dog ear's obsolescence was assured in the digital age" (iii). Goldsmith also gestures toward the obliquely digital process by which one may read Baum's plates, by having at least two paths to take through each text, relating their leonine-like structure to a sort of precursor to hypertext. For Goldsmith this process articulates current tensions in any definition of reading, stating that, "For Baum, the act of reading is up for grabs ... What is the best path?" (iv). The end result of Goldsmith's line of inquiry is the conclusion that Baum, "[by] spotlighting the way language describes information systems in analog media ... makes us aware of how that same language is used in computing ... the language our operating systems employ comes from a pre-digital age - desktops, folders, web pages" (vii - viii).

Beatrice Gross, in her essay that follows Baum's plates, picks up a thread that Goldsmith alludes to briefly in his introduction, that Baum "has selected these dog ears equally for their visual and literary merits" (vii). Gross explicates the manner in which the conception of these pieces, as equally visual and literary, obfuscates the divide between these two traditionally disparate realms, stating that "Baum's dog ears make signifier and signified coincide perfectly in one fold, drawing our attention simultaneously to their visual and linguistic features" (64). This simultaneity, for Gross, has resonance in the piece's engagement with form and content as well, stating that Baum's "printed landscapes - where found verses and embodied geometry conspire to create a nagging unity of matter and meaning - expose the irrelevance of the disjunction between form and content ... the photographs allegorize their very inseparability" (68).

Beyond the salient points regarding Dog Ear's visual and literary merits put forward by Goldsmith and Gross, Baum's work engages and reconfigures the traditional mode of reading poetry. The visual structure of the poems make explicit the poetic convention of "the turn"; what was once an implicit gesture of expression here becomes physically manifest in the right-angled turn of the phrase to move down the page (should one choose to read the poems around the fold). A plate such as "Not to Wear Stockings" may read, "Your sister is not [] to wear stockings / gravely, and the [] the earth was / stairs", the right turn actualizing, on the page, an internal turn of the line not unlike the blank space of a caesura. Gross's assertion that the work refutes dissection into its literary and visual components proves to be true through this marriage of poetic convention and structure.

By non-prescriptively presenting texts that are open to multiple paths of reading Baum's plates expose an instability lurking beneath any encounter with a text: a choice, whether actively or passively made by the reader, determines how the content of a text is to be consumed. How any reader navigates a single text, involves decisions on how to manage the information given by the text. This process of information management exists implicitly in reading traditional modes of writing, in consuming the content on a physical page, but is made more visible in the digital age, wherein information is leveled and made more malleable by its digital composition. The beauty and grace of Baum's work is in its simple and elegant conception, regarding a traditional mode of reading/manipulating a text - the dog ear - with an eye to the contemporary age. Baum's awareness reveals how, as Goldsmith asserts, new technologies are in direct dialogue with, and are reliant on, previous modes of creation and reading.

Beyond its concept, the poetry of Dog Ear acquits itself well, which is a testament to both Baum's concept and her curation skills. A poem such as "Corpse" reads evocatively as both
to the corpse I had worn away
the lips In a stirred and
a bright arousing
struggle hopeless
had move


to the corpse I
the lips In a
a bright
had worn away
stirred and

In each case the poem generated by the path of reading loosely gestures toward a similar theme, but with subtle and strong differences. The second reading introduces a closeness the corpse that does not exist in the first; in the first reading the speaker identifies with the corpse as either their own or a corpse that they have acted on, "to the corpse I had worn away", whereas the second posits the speaker as the lips of the corpse, "to the corpse I / the lips In a / a bright / struggle". The movement between these two positions is a subtle but powerful movement which alters the sympathy of the reader considerably.

Baum's texts, however, actually present themselves in a less clearly delineated manner than this streamlined reading; half-words and solitary letters scatter along the fold, disappearing beneath the surface of the overturned page. What could be construed as a problematic element to the reading process, incomplete words resulting in fractured semantic meaning-making, allows Baum's work to both visually and literally account for the incompleteness inherent in any text. This fragmented condition also offers an invitation for the reader to complete the hanging words and phrases, further moving the relation of the reader to the text away from passive receptiveness toward a more active role in the generation of its meaning. The reader is free to generate and substitute words that the fragments on the page allude to. Baum's poems exist in a quantum state, vacillating between any infinite number of readings when completed by the activity of the reader.

The instability of the text proves itself to be somewhat of a misnomer in Baum's plates. The poems present themselves equally visually and textually, open themselves to be read in many different manners that engage the reader actively in a non-prescriptive manner. Baum's work stands not as a mortified text nostalgic for the prematurely buried artifact of the book, but rather as an inclusive and generative gesture that illuminates the genealogy of contemporary engagements with writing.

Baum, Erica. Dog Ear. Brooklyn: Ugly Duckling Press, 2011.


Ben Hynes, Montreal

Tuesday, November 08, 2011

Synapse: Second Reading of the Season

This one is going to be amazing. And for the record, we have already partially lined up our readers and laid out the themes of next semester's readings. Stay tuned for that. Concordia has it all going on with the reading series. Between Synapse, Writers Read, and The Pilot...oh, and we are big fans of The Atwater Series as well.

Are you curious about what happens at Synapse? Take a listen to a few of our past readers:
Melissa Bull
Candice Maddy
Emma Healy

Thursday, November 03, 2011

from The Mirror, thanks

Photo by THEO COTE
Lydia Davis break
Short story writer Lydia Davis, a direct literary descendant of post-modernist great Donald Barthelme, reads at Concordia’s York Amphitheatre (1515 Ste-Catherine W.) this Friday, Nov. 4, 7:30 Concordia’s Writers Read series.

The 2003 MacArthur fellow, whose collected stories were published in 2009, is a writer’s writer, as is often said of authors who deftly master language, structure and character at once.
Davis has also earned recognition for her work as a translator, having successfully tackled Proust and Flaubert, to name a few. She has said that the exercise of suppressing her style in order to better express someone else’s affords her a vacation from her own writing, and then ultimately strengthens her prose.
“Davis is a singular voice in contemporary literature,” says Sina Queyras, who coordinated the event. “Her collection Break it Down broke down the structure and fixity of the traditional short story for a generation of writers. Many writers have been influenced by Lydia Davis, but there is only one Lydia Davis. Her stories appear on the horizon like ice bergs, with shocking clarity: beautiful, sleek, deceptively contained.”

Wednesday, October 05, 2011

Tuesday, October 04, 2011

In which the Hound imitates a mic stand

For Michael Nardone. The next Synapse reading will have a real mic stand. Promise.
Michael Nardone's piece was incredible, by the way. I did my best not to respond as the lines were read, but they were great. Surprising. 

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Aspect Ratio

Ongoing series of Montreal shots, particularly focusing on the northeast corner of the plateau.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Roddy Doyle comes to Concordia

October 7, 2011
7:30 p.m.
BMO Amphitheatre, MB 1.210
John Molson School of Business Building
1450 Guy St., Montreal

Writers Read at Concordia in collaboration with The School of Canadian Irish Studies welcomes Irish writer Roddy Doyle. One of Ireland’s most successful and accomplished contemporary writers, he has written plays, stories, children’s literature and novels, most notably The Commitments, The Van, A Star Called Henry, and The Woman Who Walked into Doors. Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha won the prestigious Man Booker Prize in 2003. Several of his novels have been made into highly successful films.

Registration not required.

For more information:
514-848-2424 ext. 8711

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

‘Monoceros’ by Suzette Mayr

I've been lamenting the lack of energy in Canadian fiction of late. The pace can be glacial, the gaze insular, as if by slowing time down a writer can amplify very little and make it seem about something huge. It's not just a matter of canvas, it's a matter of perspective, and of pace. Suzette Mayr seems to understand this, and she offers up a thinking, introspective, yet fast paced novel.

Following the trail of sorrow in the aftermath of a young gay high school student at a Catholic high school, Mayr moves from character to character, tracing the impact, big and small, on the community that has played host to the dead boy. She doesn't wallow, she shows people in action, attempting to deal with the situation. She has some fun while she's at it, showing up slantly, in drag, as the fabulous Crepe Suzette.

There is nothing precious here, just great storytelling, and, as one reader said, great integrity. Each character is given ample room to show his or her character, equally, without judgement. there is no finger pointing, though there is a high level of frustration with characters who seem to have missed the enormous gains in civil rights that has occurred in the past forty years... It's a reminder that no matter how many gains gays, lesbians, or any "other" in our society might make, for a lot of people, stepping out of the narrow and safe closet of convention, is more difficult than ever.

Coach House | 280 pages | $20.95 | paper | ISBN #978-1552452417

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Twitter Review

* Hordes of Writing, Chus Pato, trans. Erin Moure, Bushek/Shearsman 2011

The poet only performs in an underground garden miraculously bathed in warm sunlight & only to those who can crawl backward thru time.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

We want you to read for us!


Call For Submissions!

Synapse Reading Series is looking to feature interesting, inspiring, and engaging  writing this Fall.
We are looking for a well curated selection of your writing—pieces that fit with each other seamlessly, and collaborate to compliment each other. We’re accepting pieces from all genres and stages of development, as long as they portray your creative energy. We are looking to select a portion of your portfolio that amounts to about 10 minutes of reading time.
Please include your full name, contact information, and a short bio (less than 200 characters).
We prefer submissions in hardcopy, to our mailbox in the English Department at Concordia University (6th floor of the Library Building) Synapse No. 55.
If you cannot come in to submit a hardcopy, direct digital submissions and inquiries to: synapse.concordia [@]
Submission deadline is September 9th, 2011.
You do not have to be enrolled at Concordia University to submit.

Tuesday, August 09, 2011

In search of running tunes...

Drew Gardner turned me onto Dan Deacon and googling him led me to Jen Stark...

"Believer" by Jen Stark / Music by Dan Deacon from Jen Stark on Vimeo.

But seriously. Looking to craft a new running playlist. Thots?

So far via Twitter:

@chompaway Drew Gardner
@lemonhound Two words: Dan Deacon.

@helenhajnoczky Helen Hajnoczky
@lemonhound La Roux!… :)

Tuesday, August 02, 2011

Make your own space

I have always had a love of architecture and design, but also carpentry, because while one can dream it, and draw it, I would also like realize that vision with my own hands. Over the years I have drawn, dreamed, and built a variety of tree forts wherever I found a little space: in patches of transitional land in suburbs such as Surrey, or in the cut line through east Van that eventually became the sky train route, looking down over play grounds, or the back of apartment buildings, or under fallen trees, but also in small towns in the interior of British Columbia, where one could drag a few scraps of lumber a few feet into the woods and be entirely on one's own.

It was the idea of transitional, or wild spaces, I was drawn to. Places to sit in and peer out, to cocoon myself, and to do this with found objects, or using natural, or chance spaces and material, seemed, even as a child, the most logical and rewarding thing to do. The notion of walls and floors was really gestural. What fit, how one could pull out a nail or two from one end of a piece of wood and bang it in the other with a two by four, or a rock, that level of building. Windows were really holes. Bits of gyproc, or ends of shag carpet, or lino from garbage bins became walls and floor coverings. They were more assemblages than dwellings, but I loved every one of them.

Invariably these were taken over by teenagers. Once the tell-tale signs appeared (the smell of pot, empty liquor bottles, glass) the tree fort had to be abandoned. I want to write more about those more transitory spaces, but today I'm actually thinking of the leap between found and bought, or rather, more conventional means of construction.

I built my first real structure with my brother, at eleven. By real I mean that we used new materials, purchased with our allowances. We made a floor, leveled it in the spot we chose (completely surrounded by trees and on a mossy patch of sloped land), before we banged it into place. We then built the walls, lifting them and nailing, and finally the the roof. It's a different experience entirely, once a measuring tape and a level is introduced: you can do a lot more with flush frames. We sealed it with plywood and then split our own cedar shakes. It had a loft for sleeping--though, because we were in bear country I was never allowed to sleep in it--and a front porch with a rail.  The model for this one was the Walton's house.

These mini structures continue to fascinate, though now the insides are of particular interest: how to have each aspect of the dwelling multi-task. And if I were really an architect and not a poet, I might come up with something like this:
or this:

But what I realize now is, it's not the living space that matters so much to me as the creative space. It's the creative solitude, a space to work, but also a space to imagine. To that end, I have always wanted to build my own writing room, to lay my own floor, and build my own desk, and I have fantasized about building something like the above, on my roof. After all, I'm limited by my choice to live in a city.

In any case, this summer I had to give up my office, so I've been busy, with my friend David, a sculptor and carpenter, doing just that. It's not in the woods, it's not on the roof, it's in my basement, actually, and from my window I can see, at eye level, a wide variety of shoes, strollers and dogs trotting past. Though, if I'm sitting in my arm chair and look up, I can see branches, leaves, and sky. This week I'm adding a small, narrow window box to my window, so it will change the street level experience, but it won't cut out the noise, which I love, and haven't had since my office in Brooklyn, which was at the front of our apartment, near the stoop, and allowed me access to endless snippets of conversation.

We've used chipboard for the floor. Laid it, then sanded and applied polyurethane. The sit-at desk goes up this week and it's not unlike this one, though we've limited the chipboard to this desk top, and the floors, using sheet rock on the walls. I have various desk tops including one very nice, thick, wooden desktop, but it's too deep, too conventional in size and shape. I want a long narrow desktop that can have several workstations going at the same time.

David made storage cupboards out of plywood, sanded so smooth the fronts are like cream. By adding a few small walls (we're dealing with less than 300sq ft in total), and enhancing existing shapes, out of this dingy storage area we have actually made three distinct, and useful areas: a work area, with a standing desk at one end, a laundry and storage area in the middle, and a reading/library/desk area in the front, near the window. We're not quite finished, but I've run out of time this summer, so while I have more plans for this space they'll have to wait for next year; a good lesson for a writer: sometimes your project reaches a plateau and you need to let it sit until you take it to the next level.

Meanwhile, though I'm not quite moved in down there, already, the fact that we've laid the floor, makes a huge difference in my experience of the room. It reminds me that sometimes the work is about changing the existing structure. Or sometimes it's about seeing a space/text in a new light. Sometimes when we think we're finished a work we've only just gathered the materials to start...if I had it to do over again (yup, not even finished and I'm thinking that),  I might have had a concrete expert come in and re-do the floor and gone with that, adding floating walls. I might have used tinted plexiglass for the roof, and put lighting behind that so the whole ceiling glowed. I might have used found wood for the dividing walls instead of the sheet rock, etc. There is always a new way to think about and do everything.

Every time I take a step in my new office I am aware of the labor that went into this space. I feel the potential of it. I don't know how it will evolve, but I know that it will, and I love that it's shifting, not fixed, like the rest of my living area. And somehow, that difference makes me eager to spend time there, enjoying the way it is now yes, but also looking forward to how it will change. Oh, yes, and what work I will produce inside this new space.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Mud is mud: notes toward an essay on the art of fiction

Clarity is not accessibility.

Accessibility is not simplistic.

Brevity isn't minimalism.

Oblique is often too much distance.

Less is not always more.

Excess is not experimental.

One room needs to be in relation to the next.

Quantity is not quality.

Distillation takes time.

Ideas in abundance are not enough.

Murky is not mysterious.

Language isn't firm.

Words aren't sentences.

Under genius one discovers structure.

Difficult is more often undercooked.

An end is more often a pause.

Mud is mud is mud.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

What were they thinking?

For your summer viewing and imaginative pleasure. What exactly was Johnny thinking? Why do I suddenly have the urge to smoke?

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

conceptualists formal

conceptualists formal, originally uploaded by alienated.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Sachiko Murakami's Rebuild

Sachiko Murakami investigates concepts of ownership and belonging through a spare and precise line in her second book of poetry, Rebuild (Talonbooks 2011).

Dwelling, home, house, at ease, at rest, familiar, homey, homely, family, household, infill, rental, renovate, commodity, abode, investment, flip, flip, flip, knock it down, “boom crash boom crash.”

“Bin that shit.” Re-start. Rebuild.

Native to whom? “This is dream city, built on shores/still not ceded.”

Poems built on phrase and sentence. Line on top of line, floor on floor, storey on storey, family on family.

Her language throughout is elegant, spare, precise. Concrete nouns I can touch, and move, and long for.

She carries forward the project of writing (“the real”) Vancouver from such writers and artists as Keith Higgins (, Lisa Robertson (Occasional Works and Seven Walks from the Office for Soft Architecture, Coach House), Jeff Derksen’s cricitcal and creative work, Lee Henderson (The Man Game, Penguin 2008) and so many others.

The poems in Rebuild strike at (the crack in) the heart of Vancouver.

That we are currently experiencing a housing crisis in this city. That this crisis has a catastrophic effect on the most marginalized populations of the city, and a not inconsequential effect on working artists of the city, and even a deleterious effect on the middle-class mortgaged-to-the-tits, renting-out-their-basement-suites for $1100, $1300, $1500 a month in order to afford their own mortgages middle-class. That this pits us all against each other, poor against less-poor, landlord against tenant, us against them, “the uses of us,” competitive renting.

The underground dwellers, the SAD sufferers, the mole people.

That the centre is always in flux, “(always, always East).”

Move farther move father now a little further.

And always the convo turns/to condo: prime plus five/what point did you get?

Focus on the hole. Focus on what is missing.

What was here before?

What was here before?

Our memory here is short-term, short-term, instantaneously forgetting re-writing re-building.

From a NYT Magazine article on the popularity of the Hoarding shows: “home” “the ultimate fetish object of the first part of the millienium.” I’d argue it’s still the ultimate fetish object, especially in Vancouver. And what happens to the soft bodies within, when the shell is the “ultimate fetish object?”

“Start stucco.”

Murakami’s tone is perfect throughout, knowing, shifts from personal to general, from reportage to realtor, from glib to pleading.

Call me on this. Please. Call me on this.

Then emerges the howl from the centre of the death of the father, a death that leaves its imprint on book and writer.

Murakami’s poetry performs erasure on itself, tries to renovate and rebuild. Something faster. Something better. Tears out consonant and vowel, post and beam, with dishwasher, writes elegy, writes condo, writes missing, writes return. Returns to scaffolding, to consonant, to the letters of her dead father’s name.

To die with empty hands, to die a renter in a city of homeowners.

The un-reality of the renter. No property, no ownership, no shoes, no service.

But we are all tenants on this land.

Project Rebuild is a collaborative poetry project where writers and readers are invited to renovate Murakami's Vancouver Special poems. As of my posting (10:32 p.m. on July 17) collaborators include anonymous, Henri Lefebvre and the sidewalk, as well as other known, living writers. rob maclennan has a good post on the project over on his eponymous blog.

Nikki Reimer writes from a basement suite in East Van.

Saturday, July 09, 2011

Last moments

Last moments, originally uploaded by lemon hound.
rue Masson is a quiet street on the far north east edge of the plateau. Snapped a photo of this little corner resto just a few weeks back. While I was running actually.

When I cycled by yesterday I saw that a new restaurant had already taken its place. More to come on the rapidly changing far northeast corner of plateau Montreal.

Thursday, July 07, 2011

Rainbow as seen by Gail Scott & I from Summit Circle.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Music for Writers 5: A music slowly changed by many twittering people

Slowly Changed By Many People from Christopher Willes on Vimeo.

Toronto composer/sound artist Christopher Willes writes about Slowly Changed By Many People

I’m working on a sound installation right now that’s basically using some homemade software to stream information from twitter (based on keywords provided by the viewer(s) ) and then converting that text into sound in various ways. I like this idea of a piece of music that is beginning continually created in real-time through associations between people and the internet. It’s strange to see what words make connections between people all over the world and the wide variety of interpretations each word can bring forward. The following video is a screen capture showing the software running – please listen at a low volume, and with headphones if you can… (oh! and look at it in fullscreen to read the texts… if you so please.)

Another music/Twitter exploration by Willes. Sentences from twitter containing the word voice are streamed in real time and read by a robot:

VOICE from Christopher Willes on Vimeo.

Friday, May 27, 2011

Music for Writers 4: The Sound of One Face Flapping and the Slow Unfolding of Prisoner Time

flababble 1 from Jaap Blonk on Vimeo.

The remarkable Dutch vocalist, writer, composer, and sound poet, Jaap Blonk, has recently began exploring video. The little piece posted above is a funny and fascinating exploration of the secret performances of the face.

Much of what happens in the world and in our bodies is invisible or unknowable. Slowing things down, whether through the technology of a haiku (eg. isolating a frog jumping into a pond) or through the slowed down playback of a video (as in this examination of the horizontal flapping of a face going buh-buh-buh-buh) takes us into another world, one different yet parallel from our own. Time is the only difference here. What else don't we see? The wings of a hummingbird? The moment before someone pulls a trigger? The almost instantaneous spread of a cultural meme? How many of us do silly or extreme things in front of a mirror? In front of a camera?

When we first see this video, we can't figure out what is happening. How can a face be so malleable, how can it shake so, the flesh so far away from the bone? Is Blonk a physiognomical virtuoso? Then we realize. It's slow motion. It actually a very common kind of movement. The result is grotesque, playful, humourous, and strangely mesmerizing and unsettling. And what is that sound? It's not a giant killer hummingbird. It is Blonk's voice making the sounds which accompany such facial movements.

What is the sound of one face flapping? What would it look like if our perceptions existed in a different temporal plane than the events before. This is, I understand, how some animals see things. How astronauts gazing back at the citizens of the world see, looking back at us all shaking our heads, "no, no, no." Maybe we're all in disagreement. Maybe we're amusing a small child. Or ourselves. Maybe we're trying to shake loose of our own bodies. Or time.


Coming Together, by Frederic Rzewski, performed at RPI 2008 from Michael Century on Vimeo.

The American composer Frederic Rzewski frequently engages with political issues in his work. His monumental piano piece in an accessible style, The People United Will Never Be Defeated is a set of variations on the famous Chilean leftist liberation hymn. His music, however, not only explores radical political ideas but often explores radical musical forms and relations between the performers and the composer.

The video which appears above is a performance of his piece, Coming Together which is based on letters written from Attica State prison, in upstate New York, by the anti-war protester and member of the American radical left organization, The Weather Underground Organization, Sam Melville, during the first months of his incarceration in 1971. The piece is quite simple. A repeating minimalist instrumentalaccompaniment of a spoken text. However, a powerful and slow building tension  is created over time by the repetitive gradually changing text and music. This reflects the narrator's battle with self-control, anger, boredom, sanity, and the prison experience. Prisoners experience a difference sense of time, and listening to this piece, we experience that, too.

The above performance is performed by Kevin Craig West, (vocalist), and the Rensselaer Contemporary Music Ensemble in a performance led by David Gibson.

Gary Barwin is a writer, musician, and performer. His PhD disertation, Martin’s Idea (listen here) was a composition for reciter, interactive computer system, and MIDI keyboard. Some of his other music with spoken text can be found here. His new books are The Porcupinity of the Stars (Coach House, 2010) and The Obvious Flap (with Gregory Betts), just out from BookThug.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

I was not far enough out, and simply waving, not drowning

Is poetry a domesticated art? Are we drowning in it? Or are we in fact not drowning enough? This is what I’m thinking as I peer out into a green ravine in the Druid Hills area of Atlanta. There is all this writing, but it seems very little gets said. And then we have the strand of thinking that says, well, it’s very difficult to say nothing very well. And no, that is not the conceptualists speaking.

In fact, I think many of the conceptual writers would agree that there is much poetry about nothing. As would the flarfistes. But I think we have a different notion of what nothing is. And what feelings are. How rare is it that one comes across a line of poetry that makes the hair on one’s neck stand on end? Or in the case of Vanessa Place, makes one want to burst into tears? Or upon hearing an entire reading of Kenny Goldsmith’s Traffic, want to rip one’s head off. That’s a visceral response.

What we respond to is very different, clearly. And when we respond. With conceptual writing, the poetry is about the idea behind the project, the realization of the project, the material gathered into the project, but more so, or as much as that, it’s about the discussion. The “thinkership,” as Goldsmith says, not the readership. The ideas behind conceptual writing—Vanessa Place’s Statement of Facts, for example—can make the hair on my neck stand up as much as a great lyric poem, or a narrative poem; a line by Alice Notley, for instance, or Jorie Graham. But neither the intention of the poem, nor the craft of the poem, is enough to garner such an effect.

There are lovely poems out there filled with stunning images, gorgeous syllabic, gymnastic language, perfectly crafted, and yet, they leave me absolutely cold. There are poems out there filled with heartfelt sentiment, “true” emotions, reported from the poet’s depths that leave me absolutely cold.

Over on the CBC Canada Reads book talk the other day a poet said that contemporary poetry “terrified” her students. Wow, I thought, what is she reading? I want some of that. Because I don’t think there’s enough poetry out there terrifying us. Or making us feel, or think. Dale Smith, on the other hand, wants less of this terror. In his Slow Poetry Manifesto he asks, is this terror really serving us? That’s a good question too. For my part, I guess it comes back to a question of thinking. Is the poem offering us a way to think about something? Does it wake us up? Because it seems to me, that’s one of poetry’s great tasks.
Soothe me okay, particularly after you’ve ruffled my feathers. But don’t smother me with niceness. Don’t insult me with simplicity. If I’m dying of cancer, don’t tell me it’s all going to be fine. Don’t tell me to relax and be positive. Tell me how I can think about what I’m facing. The world is a complicated place, and only becoming more complex, this is true on many levels, from material to technological to psychological, even how we learn…so yes, the writing I encounter better in some way have come to terms, or at least acknowledge the difficulty of coming to terms with what we’re facing.

So yes, when I come across a voice like Alice Notley, I do feel terror. But I feel terror because she is looking very directly at the world. In doing so she reminds me that I can to. And I might not even need to be soothed. I might in fact be stronger, more capable than I thought. When I read the narrator in an Anne Carson poem wiggling her ass before the man who spurned her, I feel more than a little empathetic, just as when I read about her thinking about Bronte while sitting with her aging mother I understand the complexity of simple human presence. When I read Darren Wershler’s Update I feel moved because he tells me something about the language I am using every day, because he folds literary history and play showing me the potential in what is now the benign, the daily, status update. It’s a quality of intellectual and emotional stimulation that does not leave me cold.

So what is this quality of writing precisely? Intelligence? Insight? Emotional intelligence? Bounce, as Goldsmith says? Lyric intelligence, as Jan Zwicky might say? What is this quality in the writing, and how do we get to it?

Monday, May 09, 2011

Music for Writers 3: The Music of Speech

Leonard Cohen has his Tower of Song, and there’s that other famous tower, the one that didn’t contain Hank Williams: the Tower of Babel. Two towers: one of speech and one of song. But speech and song aren’t two towers, or two solitudes. Like two lungs, they are connected and sustained by the mouth.

Try to sing without using consonants or vowels. You sound like a space heater.

Try to speak without using rhythm or pitch. You sound like a font.

The eminent American composer, Paul Lansky, writes:

Speech and song are commonly considered as different and distinct as apples and oranges. It is my feeling, however, that they are more usefully thought of as occupying opposite ends of a spectrum that encompasses a wealth of musical potential. This fact has certainly not been lost on musicians: sprechstimme, melodrama, recitative, rap, blues, etc., are all evidence that this is a lively domain.[Lansky's excellent website is here.]

And neither have the musical possibilities of speech been lost on writers: rhyme, rhythm, assonance, alliteration, repetition, for example, not to mention numerous other performative and structural elements.

In the next two posts, I’d like to discuss several musical examples which engage speech, language, and the spoken word.


Rhythm and pitch is inherent in our speech, though sometimes, annoyingly, meaning gets in the way.

Let the piano explain:

Or, let’s let someone who is being played or is perhaps doing the playing, explain:

It’s fantastic how, by emphasizing the rhythms and pitches inherent in speech, we hear what was already there. It’s like a well-made poem, organizing the sounds inherent in words and phrases to bring out their inherent ‘musicality.’

Scott Johnson’s  “John Somebody” (1982) explores the rhythms and pitch content of a tape-looped voice. Listen here. There's more discussion and links on the amazing music website Music for Maniacs.

There’s something magical about revealing the musicality of everyday speech. Charles Spearin (of Broken Social Scene) created the insouciant Happiness Project. He wrote music based on (and to accompany) what his neighbours said about happiness.

Here’s Mrs. Morris:

And here’s Anna:

It’s powerful for music to be found in the everyday words of everyday speakers. The Quebec composer, Rene Lussier, explored a broader canvas of Quebecois speech in his truly remarkable composition/recording Le Trésor de la Langue. He created music from both public and private speech. And of course, language, both public and private, can be even more politically charged in Quebec. Lussier sets Charles de Gaulle’s "Vive le Québec libre !" ("Long live free Quebec!")

Creating a crafted art-object, in this case, a piece of music, out of words which are spoken, frames it. Makes it important, Honours it. Validates and enfranchises it. And celebrates it and the inherent beauty and power of its elements.

The major American composer Steve Reich’s powerful “Come Out” tape composition from the 1960s makes a short tape-loop of the voice of a youth involved in the 1965 Harlem Riots. (I couldn’t find an online version, but it’s widely available in recordings) He takes this highly charged speech-event and plays it out of synch with itself (eventually using multiple tracks.) The result is that this casual, if emotional, speech fragment becomes monumental and speaks to something more than itself. It embodies and transcends its moment.. Only the rhythmic and pitch material are discernable. It is like looking at the sound though a microscope and a telescope simultaneously.

Reich explains and plays an example from a similar, earlier work (the words of a street preacher) in this excellent video interview (at c. 3’00”)

For much of his career, Steve Reich, like many conceptual writers, was interested in creating his work out of clearly discernable—and audible—processes. He explains this in his essay, Music as a Gradual Process (1968) He has also continued to have an abiding interest in speech and speech rhythms. His major work, Different Trains, takes its name from the fact that when Reich was a young boy travelling from one American coast to the other (from one parent’s home to the other), there were other Jews travelling on ‘different trains’ in Nazi Germany. The piece takes much of its musical material from the rhythms and pitches of documentary recordings (as well as train sounds and rhythms.) The opening movement is based on the voices of the Reich’s governess and an old train porter.

Again, repetition and the abstraction of material, both pitch and rhythm, change how we listen to the voice and what it says, and make its timbre even more vivid. In the next post, I will discuss how the grammar and syntax of language has been used to structure music (note: a Gertrude Stein alert!) but it’s important to note here how, unlike some of the previous examples, Reich breaks apart normative speech into smaller units and uses repetition. He employs the materials of spoken language not only as inspiration for his musical materials, but also as if these materials were musical materials, employing musical techniques and structures such as repetition, canon, fragmental, and variation.

But talk is not only cheap. It's old. A little history:

At the beginning of the 20th century, composers, particularly Arnold Schoenberg, explored the relation of speech and song in creating a conscious hybrid of the two, Sprechstimme (which is literally, ‘speechsong.’) This was a musically notated manner of performance wherein the pitches and the rhythms of the reciter were notated. It sounded like a very stylized and exaggerated speech style. Pierrot Lunaire is Schoenberg’s most famous piece using this style of performance, but his Survivor from Warsaw is, to me, the most moving. Again, there is an interest in using documentary ‘real-world’ text – in this case the account of a Jewish survivor from the Warsaw ghetto. The survivor describes (in Sprechstimme) what he witnessed: about to perish, the men of the ghetto begin to simultaneously sing the central prayer of affirmation of Jewish faith. They are going to die with dignity and strength, and their identity and humanity intact. Schoenberg uses the contrast between speech and song very effectively: the moment when these men break into song (as they literarily do in this composition) is remarkable.

To go a little further back, and to allow me to put on my tights and codpiece:

We could no doubt consider many kinds of chant to be speech/music hybrids, but speech explicitly entered into western music at the end of the Renaissance and the beginning of the Baroque. Italian madrigals (the immediate forerunners of opera) began to become more and more complex, both dramatically and musically. Many were multi-part compositions that told quite involved stories. Composers were looking for ways to be more dramatic, to include vivid contrasts and portray vivid emotions and characterisation in music. The stile recitativo evolved to meet this need. This technique was in many ways, similar to Schoenberg’s later Sprechstimme. The pitch and rhythm of stylized speech was carefully notated and accompanied by instruments. Claudio Monteverdi was the master of complex madrigals. His "Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda" (from Book 8 of his Madrigals) tells a dramatic story of a Christian knight who falls in love with a Saracen woman; they fight against each other, in disguise, in the battlefield.

I’d like to end with a catchy and witty example from Paul Lansky who I quote way up at the top of this Tower of talk.

Lansky, a long-time professor at Princeton, has written a charming series of pieces entitled, “Idle Chatter,” and “Not Just More Idle Chatter.” Though it sounds like there are actually voices speaking, these pieces are entirely synthesized through very complicated computer programming (Linear Predictive Coding, bubble gum, The Oxford English Dictionary chewed by a goat, and a handful of  binary code.)

I think of this as asemic speech. It sounds like talking. It looks like talking. But it’s a duck.

Because the meaning and, indeed all identifiable words, have been extracted (actually, not put in in the first place – it just statistically resembles speech sounds) we learn something about speech. What do we track when we listen to speech? To the speech of crowds? What attracts our interest? What judgements or conclusions do we draw from which sounds and rhythms? What pleasure do we take in speech – its structures, shapes, and flow – independent of semantic meaning? And what about accent? Vocal timbre? Vocal performance? Human-ness? Is this speech without language? Is it song?

How far could the transformation of speech go before it isn't speech anymore? Before it's music. Before it's not language. Before it's not human or organic. Or how far could the transformation go before we hear words? grammar? emotion? meaning? And how does this relate to our body -- could we hear speech the way we might watch dance? Do rhythms and speech contours relate to movement? To a cognitive rhythm? a cardiac rhythm? a body rhythm? Does a harpsichord affect us in the mouth? An electric guitar keening? Inside the vowel there's the secret music of overtones. The stochastic noise of the consonant. The harmony of language. Dissonance. The tension and resolution. Counterpoint.

Tom Waits says that songs are "an interesting thing to do with the air." Words are made out of many things. One of them is air.

Gary Barwin is a writer, musician, and performer. His PhD disertation, Martin’s Idea (listen here) was a composition for reciter, interactive computer system, and MIDI keyboard. Some of his other music with spoken text can be found here. His latest book is The Porcupinity of the Stars (Coach House, 2010); The Obvious Flap (with Gregory Betts, BookThug) is due in May.

Tuesday, May 03, 2011

Conversation with Steph Colburn and Lizy Mostowski on Sheryda Warrener's "Hard Feelings".

SC: I feel that this book should have been prefaced with no hard feelings, eh? --an expression to put these pieces into a perfect picture- slightly hurting, slightly funny, always sincere in its sentiment. Sheryda Warrener’s Hard Feelings explores connection between people, place, and objects seamlessly throughout four very distinguishable sections, though some more humorous than others. Did you find the tongue and cheek humour easy to pick up on? Which sections resonate best with you? In this way or in another?

LM: I disagree with your idea of having a preface, it would take away from the interiority of the poems. Warrener’s sincerity can speak for itself.

Sheryda Warrener’s humour hit me at unexpected moments throughout. A moment which stood out for me, in the section entitled “Ordinary & Remarkable” was the line: “I took ‘flight of stairs’ literally and took off from the top landing—if dreams count, not only have I flown, I’ve also spent some time with Nixon.”(12) Warrener’s prose poetry seems to strike a personal, nostalgic tone which really resonates with me. She ties humour in with curiosity, a fascinating fusion.

My favourite section of the book was Mother/ Father. I felt as though they were in conversation with one another while being in separate worlds. Warrener’s formatting seems to speak directly to the two worlds becoming closer to each other from the original divide. Did you feel the same?

SC: I felt the Mother/Father section was the section that stood out to me. But I think because it is the most directly moving of the sections, as it most honestly portrays “hard feelings”, being the struggle between family dynamics and a child’s relationship to that.

I think Warrener does a beautiful job of being extremely involved in this section emotionally, while her character, the child, is involved almost strictly as an observer. This relationship, or rather disconnection, really put the sentiment in the foreground. And emphasized the family’s “hard feelings” toward the situation, rather than the situation itself.

SC: “Ordinary and Remarkable” was exactly that, it took an ordinary moment/experience/person/situation and concentrated around its remarkable quality, whether that be in a positive or negative light. I thought it was kind of mirrored because this section was composed of a bunch of prose poems, which also seem like a big moment that needs to be delved into to find the remarkable. Did you find that the prose poems worked in these sections? Why/why not?

LM: Although the section had many prose poems, I don’t think that they overwhelmed the sections. I did find each remarkable on their own, and did not feel like I needed them to together represent something. I think that each poem not only stands out on its own but stands out on its own. “What does it feel like to reach in, pull that white bulb out?” asks the speaker in the poem Glass Eye, this poem was the most sensory for me.

How did you feel about the prose poems which were both titled “Hard Feelings” in the section? Were they the strongest, in your opinion, like the title story in a collection, or was it just a coincidence that they described scenarios of bitterness?

I actually found these two to be the two that stuck with me most in that section. Though the bitterness in these two prose poems is definitely a substantial, I don’t think that emotion is all that the title of this collection is getting at. I think “Hard Feelings” was meant to reveal the genuine but bizarre human impulses and the primal moments of anxiety that are involved with that. I think that both of these prose poems depict this perfectly, and that the bitterness was more of a connection to loneliness, rather than a main focus.

SC: I personally felt that “Unequal Hours” felt sort of loosely curated, as it tied together in the sense that they were all about travel throughout Argentina, Spain, New Mexico, Japan, British Columbia and Ontario, but I didn’t feel as though they were connected in a structural or contextual sense. Did you feel the same? Did you find a strand through each of these that tied them together differently?

LM: I felt a strong strand running through “Unequal Hours”: a clear motif of outdoor settings with repetitive imagery and a somber tone, to me, this was context enough. The speaker in each poem finds themselves in an outdoor space for example a patio or a balcony in a place where they are disconnected and are merely an observer. This sense of disconnection and observation, in my opinion is tying the different experiences of travelling together, making the reader realize similarities amongst both the places, the spaces and the poems.

SC: That being said, I appreciated “Unequal Hours” once I got to “Last Door”, as I feel like it took you through a world travelogue but avoided the sort of inner movement, and then placed you in “Last Door” where the character is completely opposing this as they are stuck in one physical place but working inward as well. Do you think that the contrast of the two sections works well together, or did you find it jarring? Did you also find “Last Door” easier to connect with?

LM: Last Door—the last section of the book in which the speakers interior and exterior dialogues are put side-by-side is jarring aesthetically, but I would disagree that it avoids inner movement. The poem displays an exterior dialogue of confidence, and an interior monologue of loneliness. This poem is something similar to a travel journal—tracing the speaker’s journey through the places O’Keeffe once wandered

“A poem is an opening without edges.” (67) The analysis of a poem within a poem reminds me of Marianne Moore’s “Poetry”. How do you think that this line works or doesn’t work in “Last Door”? Why/ why not?

SC: I think it has a lot to say about an opening and getting into something, being poetry, and this all very obviously ties in to the concept of the “Last Door”. In that regard, I think this line works well. This section of the collection really ties together, and allows “Unequal Hours” to stand after the two first sections, which were all in all unique and impressive. I’m excited to see what comes next from Warrener.

Warrener, Sheryda. Hard Feelings. Montreal: Snare Books. 2010. Print.

Monday, May 02, 2011

Matthew Hollett Translates bpNichol's "The Complete Works"

As a visual artist who is interested in poetry and experimental literature, bpNichol has long been a source of inspiration. "The Complete Works" from "An H In the Heart" is one of my favourite poems; I love the way it epitomizes bp's playful exploration of combinatorics, meta-literature, typography, and visual systems.

In "The Complete Works (after bpNichol)", I sought to translate bp's poem into the realm of digital imaging; in the same way that bp's poem consists of every character on his keyboard, my image proposes every possible pixel colour. Wanting to echo the aesthetic of bp's typewritten text, I displayed the image as if in an old Mac OS window.

I made "The Complete Works (after bpNichol)" in 2006. At the time I was working on "index of first lines", a digital artwork in which I used PHP code to compile the first line of pixels from thousands of my digital photos. Much of my digital artwork involves mashing systems together, applying the rules or elements of one system to another to see what new systems emerge.


Matthew Hollett is a visual artist, web designer, and art educator. He is currently teaching at Grenfell Campus, Memorial University of Newfoundland.

Sunday, May 01, 2011

Bhanu Kapil Introduces Kristen Stone

Although there is a non-Marxist vibe to selecting the work of one particular student to showcase, I have selected the Domestication Handbook of a current grad student, Kristen Stone, for where it is written: at the intersection of social justice, agricultural and lyric aims. What would a training manual for "pets and other animals," as written by a queer *goat farmer look like? Kristen brings the philosophy of Donna Haraway, contemporary farming techniques, and suburban girlhood together, in a three-part work that is both entertaining, slightly wild and incredibly brave. The work is in its final draft stage, and so I don't know about quoting directly from it when I am not sure that Kristen is finished with her revision process. Instead, I asked her to send me the letters that framed the first drafts of the book, and have her permission to cut and paste from them. Here are two excerpts, one from the beginning and from the end of a letter, with some sense, I think, of Kristen's cheeky genius and the innovation she brings to the question of what a book of poetry could (possibly) be. Be for:

"Dear Bhanu,

I write to you on a bright February morning when the Chickasaw plums are beginning to bud on the dark, striped branches of the trees by the front door.

Bhanu, I am going slightly insane. Also, I am happier than I’ve been in many years. The flush of green. Part of it is radically remaking the sense of where I’m from and all my old bad assumptions about Florida. Part of it is revisiting my undergraduate thesis on homeless shelters, now, working in a shelter environment again. Having made a study of narrative and place in the meantime. Having become more interested in the stories we tell ourselves than an abstract System. I am part of a special club now, Bhanu, called Empowerment Advocacy. [Potentially triggering information follows] It involves not telling people what to do but nodding a lot and saying things like, it sounds like he really knows how to hurt you and since you’re telling me you want to go back to him, let’s talk about ways to help you stay safe. Another book, maybe— will be about the highly specific linguistics of Empowerment Advocacy. How to help someone shape, through language, her sense of herself as a survivor. A certain kind of elaborate, guarded empathy, knowing there’s a very good chance that the person—okay let’s be real here, the woman—you’re working with might go back to the partner who kicked her down a flight of stairs. Who broke a window with her head. Etc. there’s kind of a Renee Gladman thing going on—a refusal to interpret for someone else. A kind of sharp honesty, which is also a totally different way of speaking (writing). Does any of this make any sense?

Yesterday afternoon the woman at Dunkin Donuts—she is tall and thin and she has a name that I can’t read tattooed on her neck in thin script—prepared my coffee as soon as I walked in the door. She punched my card four times and told me she’s pregnant. “Next one’s free,” she said.

[Here is the problem—not the problem, the tension—between being a writer and being a social worker. In social work your aim is to assess people, to see each individual as a locus of types and risk factors—patterns that may be intervened upon to help someone maintain stable housing or avoid being killed by a batterer. As a poet though I want to be surprised by people.]

And from another letter:

"PS- I have been reading Kate Zambreno’s blog. Occasionally I make a comment and she makes a comment back. Today I told her she should join a CSA and she told me how to massage kale. My life is slowly becoming unintelligible, full of interminglings. Okay this is a very long letter. Toad is howling at the door, at the moths that try to get into the kitchen, to the lights that hang over the counter.

I wish for you a flush of green on the mountains and a torch of cheese.

Thank you,


*I sent this to Kristen to see if it was okay to excerpt her letters like this before sending it (this) (them) to Lemon Hound. She pointed out that she, herself, is not, as yet, the particular owner of any goats. Though: she does work with goats. This is what I meant by goat farmer. (To clarify.)


Bhanu Kapil lives in Colorado where she teaches writing and thinking at Naropa University’s Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, as well as Goddard College’s low-residency MFA. She has written three full-length works of poetry/prose: The Vertical Interrogation of Strangers (Kelsey Street Press), Incubation: a space for monsters (Leon Works), and humanimal [a project for future children] (Kelsey Street Press).

Saturday, April 30, 2011

"Textual Telephone": Melanie Bell on Susan Holbrook and Nicole Markotić's "Q & A"

Is it worth the portage? Maple or hickory-smoked? Are you serious? Which is worse? You and what army?

Sift words into his package. My apple OR hickey OR most. You're so serious. I changed the Ors. U an I warm the real, open the how.

Oh, Anne's Anne. How's your moist O-ply pummelling? Fresh ground pepper, swift dints in your whisper cage? You're the serious one, pesto change-O. O and O worm the roll, owe the ooh.

O + A = A. How's your math?
Opala! Melt freshly ground Swift into John Cage. Pepper with whistles and serious Presto! To change: O – O = O.

Q + A = A. Who's your moth?
Op art! Freshet swift over Cajun ground. O whippoorwill pest! No means no means no. Oh.

Q & A + whose mouth? Apart.

I met Susan Holbrook at Coach House and Snare Books' 2009 Fall launch in Montreal, where she had the room in hysterics with a witty Oulipo (or “foulipo”) rewrite of tampon instructions:

Take a deep Brecht and relapse . . . . Most Wimbledon need a few triumphs before they can comfortably and easily insert a tam-o'-shanter.

Holbrook's latest poetry collection, Joy Is So Exhausting, is full of such clever, perceptive pieces. “Nursery”, the final long poem, is a compilation of thoughts jotted down by Holbrook while nursing her infant daughter, and merits special note for its melding of Holbrook's typical innovation with true tenderness. Many of the poems, like “Insert” (the tampon poem), engage with various source texts in some form of recombinant practice or translation. Federico Garcia Lorca's poetry is translated based on a combination of meaning and sound. Letters between Gertrude Stein and Virgil Thomson are transcribed with deliberate misreadings (“I am practicing lejibibity, do you recognise it”). News headlines are recombined in Sudoku puzzle format (“Same vote issue sex free on proposes Harper marriage”). Many of Holbrook's poems are worthy of critical attention, but I was particularly struck by “Q & A”, written in collaboration with writer Nicole Markotić. In what resembles a game of textual telephone, Holbrook begins with a series of questions, Markotić translates them based on sound, and on they go through six iterations. The first few lines of each begin this post.

Holbrook's initial stream of questions, peppered with the language of commercialism (“How would you like an all-expenses-paid trip to sunny Cozumel, Mexico?”), makes for delightful play. The addressee shifts back and forth, from intimate to customer to “a handsome mister cat”. Stream of consciousness? It seems more likely that Holbrook was deliberate in crafting consecutive queries that are irreverently irrelevant.

Through the iterations, questions become declarations, letters, snatches of other languages, algebra, and answers:
Are you serious? / You're so serious.
How long does it have to be? / Long: it has to be long.
Why me? / That's why.

There is continuous, and continually playful, conversation here. The diction remains colloquial, with statements and questions aimed outward. There is enough call and response to feel engaged and enough nonsense and shifting to feel like an eavesdropper who hasn't quite caught on. As a reader, it becomes hard to distinguish the two poets' voices. The tone is at once confident and startlingly disjunctive.

Holbrook notes the revelations of self that were part of this process of translation:

“One would think the 'mistaken hearing' of this homolinguistic process would produce text in a fairly arbitrary way. Reading the exchange a few months later, it was clear to us that our psychological preoccupations had determined our hearing; obvious in our 'nonsense' text were intimations of my imminent coming out, Nicole's grief over her father's death, my consolations.” (Prismatic Publics 46)

Indeed, some of the lines sparked by these personal concerns—“But do you see through the Y I gay?”; “Long: it has to be long”—are among the most affecting in a sequence where entertainment is the primary effect.

Collaborative variations on translation are smokin' these days, with Erin Moure and Oana Avasilichioaei's Expeditions of a Chimaera and poet and critic team Emily Carr and Erin Wunker's interlinked Sonnets project. Who else wants to try some?

Works Cited

Eichhorn, Kate, and Heather Milne, Eds. Prismatic Publics: Innovative Canadian Women's Poetry and Poetics. Toronto: Coach House, 2009.

Holbrook, Susan. Joy Is So Exhausting. Toronto: Coach House Books, 2009.


Melanie Bell is a former managing editor of Matrix magazine, graduate of the University of New Brunswick's Renaissance College program, and almost-graduate of Concordia's Creative Writing MA program. Her poetry has appeared in Grain, The Fiddlehead, CV2, and various other publications. She and her book collection live here and there, currently in Montreal.