The forty-third issue is now available, with new poems by Lisa Samuels, Tom Jenks, Nate Logan, Henry Gould, Sandra Doller, Kit Roffey, Leesa Dean and Scott Inniss.
Eight dollars (includes shipping). It's the part I was born to play, baby!
Tuesday, October 15, 2024
Touch the Donkey : forty-third issue,
Monday, October 7, 2024
TtD supplement #265 : six questions for russell carisse
An excerpt from his work-in-progress “THAT HEAP” appears in the forty-second issue of Touch the Donkey.
Q: Tell me about the work-in-progress “THAT HEAP.”
A: Centuries in the future an archeological team unearth a caché of 500 messages which become the foundational text of the culturally hegemonic corporation Human Effluents And Plastic, and are known as The 500. These messages, all of which are 500 characters long and range from weather reports, advertisements, diary entries, etc, trace the early days and months that follow an apocalyptic event called The Great Coagulation. The earth having become a trash-ball, soon begins to take on monstrous proportions and abilities, thanks to everyone’s favorite corporate empire and its founder, Summer deGuy. The impetus for this project was an attempt to verbalize a pet conceit of mine, that landfill contains the packaging of our collective unconscious, the trappings of our desires, and the materials of our desires when they have been superceded by new material. And so as I tried to find a form the idea began to grow with a bunch of hypotheticals such as, what if trash-ball earth is a body-without-organs, what if water can only be obtained from microscopic deposits, etc. After a few tries at different forms, it was the Mastodon character limit that finally gave this project the conatus to grow beyond a few sketches.
Q: How does this work-in-progress compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?
A: I am beginning to often feel that the separations between projects, are the result of the perceived need to neatly package a product for consumption, and that my projects are not a disparate as I make them out to be. I do have a few different processes for writing, but I don’t work consistently at any one process, so I find myself reading several books at once and putting thoughts to page/screen in blocks or strings of short text in unrelated sequences. It seems this method lends itself to the 500 character, or 140 syllables, or 100 words, or 14 line, or there about poem/sonnet, that I seem to keep rewriting. It is when the second draft is made that a restraining form is decided upon, sorting into thematic, stylistic, and natural groups, for submitting.
Q: How do you see your projects relating to each other? Do you see your projects as disconnected, a sequence of groupings or something larger, with many, multiple moving parts?
A: My work seems to circle a few concerns, no matter which formalities are being used. These sublime elephants in the room are most often colonialism, climate crises, the bâtise bourgeoisie, and associated effects. I’m sure there are pathological revelations to be had at my expense as well. It is for my own therapeutic reasons that I write, whether disrupting narratives of past traumas, a rewording of something I'm struggling to understand, or just an intellectual exercise of puzzling through a restraint in language. Of course, there’s a large dollop of, “project? I have no idea what I’m doing! Let’s see if this sticks to the wall?”
Q: With three chapbooks under your belt, as well as your current works-in-progress, how do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see your work headed?
A: I definitely hum and haw over poems I’m working up more now than when I my first chap was published, and the anxiety of leaving something out has changed into its opposite. Looking back, there was a single tone single gimmick to much of my work, which I have been trying to disturb with more humour and forms. There was a time when I saw chapbooks as a stepping stone to trade publication, some presses more than imply this, but as I have had time to read more contemporary collections from the library, plus enjoy the couple of chapbook subscriptions I can afford here or there, I have come to look for where poetry is going in chapbooks, and where poetry has been in collections. Admittedly though, I hope to gain the coveted Triple Spine (a trade pub in poetry, fiction, nonfiction) one day.
Q: Do you have any models for the kinds of work you’ve been attempting? What authors or works, if any, sit at the back of your head as you write?
A: I’m not sure I follow any specific models, but lately I’ve had on my mind George Woodcock and his brand of Anarchism’s connection to the vision of Canada as espoused by the leaders of the Freedom Convoy. It seems this may also point to some of the more poisonous parts of the Romantic tradition past and present. There so many authors I get excited about, a few being; Dionne Brand, Marilyn Dumont, Gary Barwin, and Amanda Earl, each has a unique use of humour, whimsy, and/or irony, that grabs my attention. Adding a manual typewriter to my poetic repertory was the result of the national anthologizing of bill bissett, and bpNichol, by Jack David and Robert Lecker, in 1982, reprinted in 1994, when casual racism, Indigenous exclusion, among other issues, should have given the publishers pause before continuing this version of nation building. Over the last month a couple of my favorite borrows from the public library have been: Resisting Canada; An Anthology of Poetry, ed Nyla Matuk (Montreal, CA: Véhicule Press, 2019), and Canisia Lubrin, The Dyzgraph*st (McClelland & Stewart, 2020).
Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?
A: If I find myself struggling to write I often turn away from the page for reenergizing. A wander around the garden or the woods, is often enough, but I enjoy painting, and listening to music staring at the ceiling, as well. Even though it’s been a few years, I’ve read Virginia Woolf’s The Waves at least a dozen times, and Derrida’s corpus if only because a lot of his work remained nonsense to me, but over the last bit, I haven’t put down Dionne Brand’s new and collected poems Nomenclature since it arrived a little while ago, after the once through (a second for sections of it) I find myself returning to Winter Epigrams and Epigrams to Ernesto Cardenal in Defense of Claudia for a master class in epigrams and biting wit.
Thursday, September 26, 2024
TtD supplement #264 : eight questions for Wanda Praamsma
An excerpt from her “how clear” appears in the forty-second issue of Touch the Donkey.
Q: Tell me about the work-in-progress “how clear.”
A: In short, how clear is about exploration & transformation of self. It’s about the unmooring, the disintegration, experienced through birthing & mothering. It’s about breakage, on & off the page. It’s about detachment, releasing the clinging, & the possibilities that emerge through that process (much of it explored through the Buddhist concept of not-self).
Q: How does this piece compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?
A: There is definitely continuity here from my chapbook, aversions // nothing special (above/ground, 2022). The nothing special section of that chapbook was note-poems from the first two years of mothering, & I spring from there in how clear. But this work is much more improvisational, & the fragmentation of language, & rhythm & breath, are out in front.
Q: You suggest there may have been a shift in your work since you first became a parent. Has the fragmentation of your work become more prevalent, or is it something else, something other?
A: Certainly, yes, more fragmentation as I entered motherhood. Time, lack of it, may have precipitated some of this. Writing in smaller snippets was/is the only way, & so the work does easily get stripped down, broken up. But there is something else. I used to be more interested in the story, now I am more deliberate about language. The words are more heated, the link to linear narrative has broken, & I want to ignite certain edges. I am more clear.
Q: I understand that entirely, how parenting forces a focus of sorts. You have only the time that you have, so you’d better get to it. Do you find you hold your work as a singular project, as opposed to multiple, smaller projects, across such multiple attentions? How do you keep writing in your head with small children?
A: Lots of notebooks, all around the house, in my various bags. The problem is there are so many now, & so many threads to bring together & apart. There are a few projects going at the same time in these notebooks. But when I get to the collage part, I do need to work on just one, zero in.
Q: With a published debut and a chapbook under your belt, as well as your current work-in-progress, how do you feel your work has progressed? Where do you see your work headed?
A: I feel like it’s been slow since having my children, but I’m also happy there has been space between works to find new ground, to read deeply & widely. My work-in-progress is almost finished & it’s been an exciting departure from my first book. I mentioned to another poet that I am feeling called to sentences lately & so that may be the next thing, a hybrid memoir of sorts.
Q: I like the idea of being “called to sentences.” What prompted that particular shift, and how is it showing itself?
A: Grief, mostly, I think. My dad died last year & immediately after I knew I would work next on prose that circled around death, & the question of what makes up a life, his & others’. I had already started with an essay on death & illness before my dad died (published in the Queen’s Quarterly in 2022) & I think the next work will build on that. But it’s showing itself slowly, still in all the notes, but hopefully soon I can sit with it a little more.
Q: Have you had any models for the kinds of work you’ve been attempting?
A: I can’t say that I have any models that are pushing me strongly one way or another. I have read many good memoirs, or versions of, over the past years – by Sabrina Orah Mark, Sarah Manguso, Kate Zambreno, Sina Queyras, Kyo Maclear, Anne Boyer, among others. But the hybrid memoir I seem to be angling towards, not so sure, & I am at the beginning of this search. (Definitely want to read Christine’s Toxemia!)
Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?
A: Laynie Browne’s The Desires of Letters has been very important to me, especially for the work-in-progress, as well as Fred Wah’s Music at the Heart of Thinking. Daphne Marlatt’s What Matters, & many other works of hers. Phil Hall’s Killdeer, and others. And Lisa Robertson, Boat & The Baudelaire Fractal in particular.
Monday, September 16, 2024
TtD supplement #263 : seven questions for Lori Anderson Moseman
Her poems “Swill-n-swagger,” “Afloat,” “Mid-tide,” “Ripple. Tank.,” “Unremarkable,” “Thread” and “Stick in river’s mouth” appear in the forty-second issue of Touch the Donkey.
Q: Tell me about “Swill-n-swagger,” “Afloat,” “Mid-tide,” “Ripple. Tank.,” “Unremarkable,” “Thread” and “Stick in river’s mouth.”
A: Impetus: A flash fiction workshop leader asks for a six-word autobiography. I offer a seven-word fish tale—the opening words of “Swill-n-swagger.” Then I wonder: “why seven seas?” Having moved close to the Pacific Ocean, one of my childhood landscapes, I am once again confronting my fear of wading in, riding the waves. The poem plunges not only into seas I’ve seen but other water/land interfaces floating in my mutating memory bank. Hence the “I lie.” All autobiography is fishy. “Afloat” enacts that process when the unreliable narrator confesses in the poem’s second ending. “Thread”—also a memory piece— tries to puzzle out a connection between humans’ holding objects dear and cougars’ need to prey on deer. “Mid-tide,” and “Stick in the river’s mouth” re-enact recent encounters along the Oregon Coast. “Unremarkable” explores re-enactment but not mine: my partner’s neurological disorder allows them to physically act out dreams in bed. This often poses a danger for me, but so far the threat dissolves as it does in the “Ripple. Tank.”—a poem that withholds the actual bomb threats made repeatedly at a high school across from a YMCA where my limbs swim. All these poems open the first section, “Sound Water,” of my manuscript, Fathom. The rest of that section includes epistolary and ekphratic prose poems that reference writers Barry Lopez and Meredith Stricker, musicians Steve Reich and Maurice Ravel as well as artists Luis Buñuel, Krist Goto, Leah Wilson, and Eva Kmentová, Georgia O’Keefe. We could call these prose endeavors “diary entries,” but they travel in time and place from trauma to bliss. There is Ghanaian dancing at Naropa and mopping up of flood mud in NY’s Southern Tier. On the simplest level, I am composing to meet an assignment I gave myself: write only prose for a year.
Q: How do these pieces compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?
I got several projects going—each spilling out of each other. A version of Fathom had a fourth section called “Bound Daughter” featuring letters to my ancestors. My goal for Fathom was to hand-sew (stab binding) the “finished” manuscript. I experimented and settled on an 8.5-inch by 8.5-inch format devoting only one page per poem. The prose blocks in “Bound Daughter” were too long to fit on a single page, so now they are their own entity—Reverse Dance. That title is borrowed from a tune for the hurdy-gurdy (vielle à roue) by Andrey Vinograd here. I got turned on to the hurdy-gurdy after seeing Le Vent du Nord here in Eugene. You can hear Nicolas Boulerice here. The opening poem in Reverse Dance addresses a paternal great-great grandmother who (along with her younger sister) came to the U.S. as a “hurdy-gurdy gal.” In 1854, the city of Murrhardt, Germany thought it cheaper to send orphaned teens to San Francisco than to keep them as wards. Previously, I wrote a failed novella about her sister who was murdered by a suitor who then killed himself. For years I’d accepted the account my dad found in an 1857 newspaper, but maybe it is a lie. What if the second gun, the derringer, belonged to my great-great grandmother. “Did you murder your sister’s murderer?” I ask in a letter to g-g-grandma Charlotte.
The second project also springs from a panel book structure I am learning to make. (I just took a fabulous class from Elsi Vassdal Ellis at the Focus of Book Arts festival in Monmouth, Oregon.) The unfolding structure will feature: 1) a heart-shaped Yellowstone agate book was cut-n-polished by my maternal grandfather that my mother bound onto a pounded copper belt buckle she made; 2) tale of my paternal grandmother’s grief after her brother drown in the Yellowstone River in Glendive; 3) tale of maternal uncle’s deep diving escapades in the same river.
I have been traveling often to Montana to tend to my 89-year old maternal aunt who is losing cognitive function rapidly. To deal with the stress of that, I’ve become obsessed with my paternal grandmother (who died before I was born). When she was 15, her newlywed brother drown in the Yellowstone while bathing. His body, I presume, rode the river. Nonetheless, I keep taking my maternal aunt to see his 1914 grave marker which is a half-hour drive north of Glendive. Why? My aunt never knew him. He’s no relation to her. But she still loves a road trip. She never seems to mind where she goes. She never remembers going. Juxtaposing my “ghost” grandmother’s grief over her brother’s death with my real aunt’s concern about her memory loss is my coping mechanism.
Minding how stories are told keeps me in the present. My aunt: “I told you I fell in the shower the other night. But now (we are in the doctor’s office), I think I fell in my mind. If I had fallen in the shower, I’d have pulled the curtains down. So I must have just fallen in my mind.” The gouge in her ear and the scab on her elbow are ample evidence of a fall, but I love how she uses words as a veil between her worlds. That’s why I’m interested in moments we called “curtains.”
Q: I’m curious about the way you discuss your compositional process, blending elements of music, book binding and hand-stitching. What brought you to your writing being but one element of these larger hybrid structures?
I grew up watching my mother, an outsider artist, making sculptural objects from scavenged junk. Our whole stucco house was her studio/ gallery. Consequently, art play—moving objects in space to sound— is always a part of my literary composition process. The most formative period this kind of hybrid making was when I was earning an MFA in integrated electronic arts at iEAR Studios at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (1999-2001).
There, I was in constant collaboration with musicians (Seth Cluett, Warren Burt) and artists (Caz McIntee, Marco Loera). Influential faculty include Tomie Hahn, Curtis Bahn, Branda Miller, Pauline Oliveros. Silly me, I thought digital integration of image, sound and word would supplant book structures. Financially, I could not keep pace with every-changing software and operating systems. Within five years, my digital work was no longer accessible because it was in “formats” that were obsolete. I turned to making physical zines by hand.
Poets Deborah Poe, Laura Moran and I offered homemade books for “art” displayed at the first of the High Water Salo[o]n chapbooks. I had started a salon series and the press Stockport Flats in the wake of a 500-year flood on the Upper Delaware River. Deborah Poe went on to curate the Handmade/Homemade series (originally through Pace University). I took a bookmaking class with book artist Laurie Snyder in Ithaca, NY. A few years later I worked with Pauline Myers-Rich at her No. 3 Reading Room & Photo Book Works in Beacon, NY. Now, I am meeting and learning from the book artists in the Pacific Northwest through Focus on Book Arts. The physical challenge of working with knives, papers, glues is keeping my cognitive function alive.
Q: Do you tend to see your work as a singular, ongoing project or an overlapping sequence of self-contained works? How do you keep it all straight?
Both. Lately, a pleasant sensation comes over me often as I realize all my work is one long conversation: iteration plus iteration plus iteration plus …. ad nauseum(?). Maybe this gestalt is a product of aging. Or, maybe I am getting better at recognizing design principles of gestalt (good figure, proximity, similarity, continuation, closure, symmetry). Nope. I doubt it is increased awareness—just more googling. Overlapping sequences are not confusing to me: such imbrication is vital connective tissue. Maybe I can blame my early training in hypertext.
Book publication creates the strongest “end stop” to a writing obsession. Or newness. Suddenly, I fascinated with thermophiles—those colorful mats of microbes that thrive in thermal pools. My partner and I will be visiting Mammoth Hot Springs at Yellowstone next week as we head back to Montana to tend to Aunt Audree. Maybe the thermophiles I meet will spark some new poems that aren’t ghosts of old ones. [Note: we never made it to the hot springs. In the backroads of Idaho, my husband got very ill. He is recovered now. My fascination with thermophiles is on hold.]
“Keeping it straight” is only important when shopping manuscripts. In question #1, I said I chopped on the last section of Fathom because it didn’t fit the hand-binding format I wanted. Well, I just got an encouraging rejection note (“engaging book” and “it came very close”) from Fonograph Editions’s open genre contest for the full manuscript ( last section included). Now, I will shop both versions. But I will also use the last section (“Bound Daughters” …see question #2) to start a new manuscript Reverse Dance. The failed novella I mentioned in question #2 is now a ten-page poem with two nine-line stanzas because I needed a long poem to make a stick-bound book in last-week’s book arts workshop (I used a 4-inch sail needle as the spine). Maybe that poem is part of the new manuscript too. Everything is mutable.
Q: With a handful of published books and chapbooks under your belt, how do you feel your work has progressed? Where do you see your work headed?
A: Progress? Do you think about your writing within a narrative frame of progress? I don’t. I’d like to do a better job wrestling/resisting the legacy of settler colonialism and white privilege I was born into. That is a life’s work and extends beyond writing, but I hope my current and future poems help me live as a human who does less and less harm to others.
I have a poet friend who wants to win a Pulitzer Prize, and she might just do that. My goals are smaller: at first, I just wanted to outlive my parents. That’s done. Now, I want to outlive my aunt who I am helping. Pretty soon my focus will shift to my sibling and my partner’s siblings. In these “hospice years,” I make short term goals: learn a handful of artist book structures and write work to populate their pages; explore Oregon’s literary presses; study climate change in the bioregion where I live; develop relationships with non-human beings. As I feel my own cognitive decline increasing, I try to immerse in the present.
Q: I think of progress in terms of progression or evolution, certainly. I’m not the same writer I was five or ten or twenty years ago. Different experiences and concerns prompt shifts in the ways in which I approach or even consider what it is I do. Do you see yourself and your writing in the same way as you did a decade ago, or further?
A: I tend to think of my writing in cycles or orbits. Patterns repeat themselves—not necessarily with the same frequency or amplitude—but they repeat themselves. When I was a kid, I saw this amazing juggler televised (on the Ed Sullivan show?): he didn’t toss similarly shaped objects of the same heft. Instead of five orange balls, he tossed a ping pong ball with a clothes iron and a shoebox and a wet sponge. Then he’d throw in an axe. Not sure when I started describing my writing as juggling, but I did start warning audiences at readings to expect these ingredients: a slice-of-life-experience + plus a pinch of literary theory + some scientific curiosity + a punch of primal drama + some musicality (mind you, not a melody or chorus) + some word play with a tinge of political rage or ambivalence. The particulars and pyrotechnics of these juggling acts were and continue to be influenced by the techniques and preoccupations of my writing communities as well as my body’s bandwidth. When I was younger, I thought our language experiments could one day permanently break the subject/object relations always already in syntax. When I was younger, I thought our protest poetry and the liberation is brought was part of an ongoing progression/evolution improving the material conditions of all beings. Now I see cycles, impermanence, an ongoing _____. Now, I am not able to just fill in the blanks. My writing practice always involves experimental reading, thought play, art play, sound play, body play, water play, dog play and prayer and conversation and listening and +++++. Discerning the quality of the resulting “product” or its place in some literary evolution is a task for ______.
Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?
A. Reading Don Mee Choi, Jordan Able and Paisley Rekdal at the same time is electrifying. This summer, my immersion is in Mirror Nation, Empty Spaces, and West: A Translation. The political power, the historical reach, the technical range, the image/word interaction, the heart the heart the heart. The book designs. The continuity. I love how each of these “new” collections send me back through each writer’s previous work.
I am also reentering Christian Bök’s The Xenotext, Book 1 in response an essay poet Don Byrd sent me. Byrd meditates on AI generated images he and a bot recently created: “But I’m in a fix. I don’t know what I am seeing, even though I am the initiating agent.” I am still trying to respond to Byrd’s essay and images. My gut instinct was to use Bök’s words to help me do that. Now, The Xenotext is becoming linked (weirdly? aptly?) to U.S. electoral politics. I write some postcards to voters in Georgia then I reread Bök’s reworkings of Virgil’s Georgics, Book IV. Bök’s book prompted me to start chapbook, Whittle Gristle (to date it is 27 pages long.)
Today, my answer to your question about evolution of writing sent me back to this 1993 book: I downloaded a pdf of The Embodied Mind: Cognitive Science: Cognitive Science and Human Experience Varela, Thompson and Rosch. I have owned hardbound copies of that book twice before; it is a book I like to share. I return this tome once a decade not because I better understand Cognitive Science but because I have grown more mindful of my daily life. The first chapter is entitled, “A Fundamental Circularity.” This time around, I might need to read the updated version to see if/how thinking about being has changed.
A book that comes off the shelf more times than I can count is Pentti Saarikoski’s Trilogy translated by Anselm Hollo. I can always find a page that talks to me. “Today a new bird came to the yard / mute / no need to look for it in the book / the bird of the god of song.”
Friday, September 6, 2024
TtD supplement #262 : seven questions for Ariana Nadia Nash
An excerpt from her work-in-progress “WE” appears in the forty-second issue of Touch the Donkey.
Q: Tell me about the work-in-progress “WE”
A: “WE” tries to think about ecological disaster in terms of collective responsibility. For me that means thinking about collective identity—a sense of global identity and how to give that voice—and what alienates us from this collectivity, which in turn means thinking through mechanisms of atomization and exploitation historically and concretely. So, I’m trying to map out ideas like primitive accumulation, surplus value and profit accumulation, and racialization, but I’m trying to do it through a collective voice that foregrounds the human body, and each individual body's relationship to other bodies, and the metabolic relationship of our bodies with the environment, which is being destroyed.
Q: How does this piece compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?
A: Honestly, this piece is the work I’ve been doing lately. In its entirety, it’s almost a book-length poem, and my writing time has been spent revising it and sending out the book project that contains it. The excerpt is a good fragment of the whole, which works similarly, though it tries to build from laying out the problem of alienation and exploitation to manifesting a solution within collectivity and the forms of revolutionary activity that communality makes possible. So the second half of the poem is hopefully heartening. Your question comes at a good moment, though, since I am starting to think about what I want to write next. I’m not quite sure yet, but I’d like it to center the individual more and the tension between individuality and collectivity, as well as more of the socio-historical concrete that makes up activities like labor organizing and other forms of activism.
Q: What prompted you to aim for something book-length? What was it about this particular piece that pushed you in that direction?
A: This is a great question, because the length of the project is so important to me. When I started this work, I was just writing in response to different texts I was reading: poets like Daniel Borzutzky and Layli Long Soldier, and also Marx and Marxist ecological thinkers like John Bellamy Foster. So everything was initially discrete, but despite reading such different works, everything I was writing was coming out very similarly, and I realized that what I was writing had coherence in that I was exploring how capitalism affects the global body. And doing that meant also exploring how capitalism affects individual bodies, what it means for the experience of labor, and aspects of labor’s organization, including racial hierarchies, as well as trying to capture capitalism’s historical instantiation. So, as I went I was, as Lukács says, trying to totalize, which doesn’t mean I think the book touches on everything, but rather that in its fragments and refractions, it tries to give some sense or aspects of the pattern of the whole.
Q: With a published collection and chapbook under your belt, how do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see your work heading?
A: This project is very different from my earlier work. My first book was centered around an “I” that was definitely a persona for myself. The book was very interested in the way that self-identification coheres and fractures in relation to identifications with others, with trauma, and over time. The poems experiment some, with ekphrasis, voice, and form, but they stay firmly within the lyric tradition. My chapbook is composed of entirely formal poems – particularly obsessive forms – and persona poems that try to think through motherhood and childhood, particularly in relation to violence and trauma. These were not about my personal experience, but they were an attempt – on the part of a young woman – to grapple with questions of intergenerational trauma as I contemplated the possibility of parenthood later in life. The chapbook was very influenced by Ai – a very underappreciated poet. I’m very proud of both, but this later work turns fairly completely away from myself as a locus of meaning. My work labor organizing and becoming a mother enters into it -- but I didn’t write from a place of self-exploration but social exploration, which often meant trying to get outside of my own experience as much as possible.
Q: You mention the poet Ai; what was it specifically about their work that sparked your own? And have there been any other poets or works that have been influencing your current directions?
A: Ai wrote over her long poetic career entirely in persona poems. There are a couple of poems that are drawn from her biography, but these are indistinguishable from the others, and this alone is a remarkable experiment in selfhood and voice. She also often enters into the voices of working-class people -- who continue to be under-represented in literature – and also the voices of people who perpetrate violence. Increasingly, I think non-violence is an untenable position in the face of climate catastrophe, racist policing and mass incarceration, and other forms of capitalist exploitation. The slow violence that millions are experiencing daily cannot be met only with non-violent forms of resistance, though those are incredibly important too. Anyway, other poets I’ve been reading recently include Martín Espada, Ch’oe Sūng-ja, Mahmoud Darwish, and Noor Hindi, all writers whose work embodies the spirit of anti-capitalist and anti-imperialist resistance. Particularly right now, I find it so important to read Palestinian voices, particularly those that can situate the current Israeli violence in a longer history of oppression.
Q: What role do you think literature holds in such moments, and how do you approach the political through the form of the poem? Do you see poems as witness, as document? As call to action? Or something other/further? How does one write around such topics without looking like a tourist?
A: Yes, bearing witness and calling to action, to arms, in the sense of putting our bodies in service of social transformation. I think that poetry, at its best, does both and illuminates underlying causes, and in doing all of this in a form that can, even for a moment, bring people together, maybe enacts the very kind of collectivism that I think is needed. And yes, this issue of not looking like, or more importantly, not being a tourist, or worse, a settler-colonist (though there is a historical relationship between the two that points to the very problems with being a tourist) is at the center of my struggles with this writing. I’m not sure I always succeed. Particularly in trying to write about exploitation, racism, and the impacts of climate catastrophe, and in doing so thinking about collective identity, and using “we,” which implies an “I” who is representing the voices of others, I have worked to try to avoid appropriation and speaking for others, rather than with them. I do know that the kind of solidarity I’m looking for in the text, and that I think we are all in need of to respond to global catastrophe, cannot be found in expecting people to dissolve their differences in service of some abstract togetherness, nor can it be forged if we don’t see the forms of exploitation and the liberatory potential we share. The poem is about that, so at least I hope in centering that complexity, I avoid the worst pitfalls of “tourism” poetry.
Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?
A: A lot of poets I’ve mentioned already fall into this category, especially Ai, Daniel Borzutsky, Layli Long Soldier, Martín Espada. I’d put James Wright, Pablo Neruda, Don Mee Choi and Lucille Clifton in that list, so many more. I’ve spent a lot of time in the past few years with the work of nineteenth-century African American poets Paul Laurence Dunbar and Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, and I think their work and their model for poetry – their real concern for everyday life and its liberatory forces – is going to influence my future writing. And sometimes also I find that the most reenergizing reading I do isn’t poetry but other genres: Marx, Charlie Post, John Bellamy Foster, Thulani Davis, Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor, Hadas Their, Olúfẹ́mi O. Táíwò – all thinkers who help illuminate questions of inequality, race, climate catastrophe – and also novelists like Sembène Ousmane and Emma Donoghue. I’ve been coming back to these two novelists again and again for the way they tell stories of individuals and also societies in motion simultaneously. I’d like my poetry to do that.
Wednesday, August 28, 2024
TtD supplement #261 : seven questions for Grant Wilkins
His poems “Fragments from: Stutters And Space (Recycling Poetry And The Obsolescence Of Language)” and “Becoming (after Stuart Ross, after Paulette Claire Turcotte)” appear in the forty-second issue of Touch the Donkey.
Q: Tell me about “Fragments from: Stutters And Space (Recycling Poetry And The Obsolescence Of Language)” and “Becoming (after Stuart Ross, after Paulette Claire Turcotte).”
A: Both of these illustrate my general approach to creative projects, which, in addition to always being processual in some manner, often involves sponging up other people’s good ideas, or glomming onto any interesting figments, fragments, strategies or devices I happen to encounter, and using them as a starting point for something of my own.
To take the second project first, “Becoming” came out of an idea I picked up from Stuart Ross during one of the very cool series of “Razovskyville” livestreams that he made through the first spring/summer of the pandemic.
(I continue to hope that Stuart eventually does more of these – he’s a really engaging guy, and I found his deep dives into poetry and poetics incredibly interesting)
Anyway, somewhere along the way Stuart mentioned this “writing between the lines” strategy – maybe it was a writer’s block solution, or maybe it was an exercise he taught to students, I can’t recall – but the idea was to find a poem you liked, and then write a line or two of your own in between each line of the poem – something that worked with the poem, something that fit structurally, thematically, rhythmically or whatever – and then erase all of the original lines, and use that as a starting point.
I quite liked this idea when I heard it, and filed it away for future reference.
Sometime afterwards, I encountered Paulette Claire Turcotte’s remarkable poetry – first through her chapbook SAID OR said, from the late John C. Goodman’s Trainwreck Press (2021), and then her book What the Dead Want (Ekstasis Editions, 2019), both of which blew me away. After reading through Turcotte’s work a couple of times, I think Stuart’s writing exercise popped into my head simply as an excuse to stay engaged with her poetry for a while longer, to dig a little deeper into it.
Anyway, “Becoming (after Stuart Ross, after Paulette Claire Turcotte)” is my “writing between” take (as opposed to a “reading through” or “writing through”, which are two of my more usual approaches) on Turcotte’s “LEAVING: I” poem from What the Dead Want.
*
I’d describe my “Stutters And Space (Recycling Poetry And The Obsolescence Of Language)” project as the final state of the serial accretion of several different approaches and ideas that ended up getting piled on top of each other in a vaguely geological sort of way.
Originally, it started out as my entry in the 2022 edition of CV2’s 2 Day Poem Contest. My approach to that was to do a rough-and-ready diastic reading-through of the two sources I was using (Margaret Atwood’s The Circle Game and John Dee’s Hieroglyphic Monad), randomize the results, and then use this raw material as the starting point for the contest poem.
I wasn’t crazy about my first take on the poem, and although I tried re-editing the result after the contest was over, I was never very happy with the way that worked out. I really did like the way the raw material I was using worked together though, how it had been configured by my process… so, as with “Becoming”, I stashed it all away for future consideration.
(Although the specifics will vary from project to project, my diastic “reading through” method often results in many pages of text fragments and lines that I’ve sifted out of my source texts, randomized and broken up into blocks.)
Anyway, a while later Chris Turnbull passed along a book of Leslie Scalapino’s poetry & images that she thought I’d be interested in… and she was right: Crowd and not evening or light (O Books, 1992) hit me like a ton of bricks. I loved the fragmentariness of it, the elusiveness, the implied stoppages and silences, and the focus on little shards of often lexically insignificant text.
This general form seemed like a perfect fit for my collection of fragments, so – because I wanted to generate a bunch of short pieces without over-thinking it all, I went through my blocks of sifted text with different coloured pencils, circling, squaring & underlining the different fragments I wanted to use with different poems. After assembling and tweaking these fragments, I ended up with a sequence of a dozen pieces that I thought worked quite well – including the four you’re printing in Touch the Donkey.
After I finished this, I realized that I also really liked the look of the multi-coloured circles and lines on the pages of my sifted-text blocks… so I reprinted the pages in a large type size, redid the lines and shapes in more brightly coloured ink pens, and then went at the blocks with whiteout, removing a fair bit of the text.
The resulting pieces still seemed incomplete somehow, so I dug through some Phyllis Webb poems looking for questions… which I tacked to the bottom of each piece, one question per.
(I was surprised by how few questions Phyllis Webb asks in her poetry)
Anyway, the full “Stutters And Space (Recycling Poetry And The Obsolescence Of Language)” sequence is now a small chapbook manuscript of seven of the text-fragment pieces (like you’re printing in TtD) and seven of the coloured-circle pieces. I like the way it works and looks, though I realize that by adding colour to the equation I’ve made it much less likely that it’s going to find a publisher.
Q: I’m fascinated by the engaged and recombinant collage aspect of these responses. How did you come to reworking such overt engagements with other works? Most writers might be attempting variations on work they admire as a way to think through new ways to approach work, but rarely so overt as “response works” in their pieces as yours. What brought you to working this kind of poem?
A: One strand of this, I think, comes out of the fact that I am exclusively a process poet, and that everything I do necessarily begins with words that I’m not the author of. Depending on the project this can be a text – or a piece of a text – that another writer has written and that I’ve applied some sorting, sifting or transformational process to. Sometimes it will be text that I’ve gathered on my own in some other way – words or lines I’ve seen or heard in passing, signs, menus, headlines, etc. I’m often inclined to think of myself less as a writer and more as an arranger – or maybe a re-arranger – of the work I do and the words I work with.
Although the “Stutters and Space” sequence did end up as an unexpectedly extreme example of serial reprocessing – like a text caught looping back and forth between parthenogenesis and cannibalism – it still ultimately followed the general approach that I first came to through bpNichol’s Translating Translating Apollinaire (Membrane Press, 1979), and from there followed back to John Cage and Jackson Mac Low, and their range of chance, indeterminant and non-intentional forms of writing.
I’ve found Cage and Mac Low’s general approaches particularly appealing, in that they worked to remove – or at least to minimize – the place of the writer’s ego in their work. Ultimately, I’m not a poet who writes from inspiration or aspiration: I don’t have much I'm trying to say as a writer, and except in the broadest aesthetic sense I don’t really have an agenda I’m trying to carry forward.
I – as a subject “I” – don’t need or want to show up in any of my poems. They aren’t about me – they are about whatever ideas, images or meanings my processes and poetics have managed to sort out or shake from the texts I’ve chosen to work with. To quote Cage from his book Silence (Wesleyan University Press, 1961): “I have nothing to say / and I am saying it / and that is poetry / as I need it.”
The other, more prosaic strand to this is that I came to poetry writing after having spent quite a few years focusing on letterpress printing and papermaking – both very physical and very material forms of art-making – and I can see this way of working with poetry as being very much in the same vein. In many respects, the materiality of moving little bits of lead type around in a galley to set an Archibald Lampman sonnet is quite similar to rearranging words and text fragments extracted from a Margaret Atwood poem.
To maybe address your question about “response works” more directly – ultimately, I don’t think I view most of what I do as actually being responses to the writing or the writers I’m engaging with.
(There’s an asterisk here: the “Belonging” piece certainly was a response to Turcotte’s poem – a respectful one, I hope – but it’s also probably the least “processual” thing I’ve written in ages.)
Maybe it’s a matter of semantics, but to my mind, the idea of “response” in this way entails an element of intentional interrogation that I don’t think I’m usually engaging in.
The specifics will vary a lot from project to project, and the results will vary a lot from process to process, but what I think I’m doing is using my process to shake images, ideas and meanings out of texts that were already there – even if just in some atomized state.
In many respects it is, as you noted, a form of collage-making. Depending on the project, I may just let these newly sorted images and sequences stand where they emerge, with not a huge amount of editing – the text of Reading The Great Classics Of Canlit through Book 5 of bpNichol’s The Martyrology (above/ground, 2022) – came out that way, as the result of a straight diastic reading-through of the book, with no intervention to the “index” words and as little as possible to the “wing words” that accompany them.
In contrast, the first “Stutters and Space” sequence involved the reading-through of the Atwood and Dee texts, with the resulting fragments then being thoroughly randomized, resorted, and laid out in blocks of ten lines. I then went through these blocks with an eye to picking out bits and pieces that looked like they’d work with the sense of fragmentariness I was trying to get. After I’d assembled the dozen pieces that came out of this, I did some further editing to both break things up even more, and to smooth things out… with the four pieces in TtD being amongst the final results.
In the end, the two source texts provided a lot of the images and imagery that show up in the final pieces, and the contents of the source texts certainly provide the backbone of both parts of the text of the larger project… but I don’t really see the final result as being a response to either of the original texts or the authors in any useful way. Maybe it’s a reinterpretation, after a fashion, but I don’t think it’s a response.
Q: I know you worked for some time with jwcurry as part of the sound poetry and performance choir Messagio Galore, as well as doing your own solo sound performances. How did the experience of working with curry affect the way you approach your current work? How did your ongoing work with sound affect your current work with text?
A: Certainly, getting involved in curry’s Messagio Galore project (I participated in Messagios # 6, 7 and 8) turned out to be incredibly important to the way that my writing and performance practices have developed, and in the people and ideas I’ve ended up connecting to.
From my perspective, the first one – Messagio # 6 – was the most significant. The idea of me performing – anything – in front of an audience was simply not something that had been on the books before that, so the way that it worked out (with the largely sound-based Messagio performances) opened up avenues for me that I hadn’t thought about before, and that I’m still exploring. I’m never going to be really comfortable in front of an audience – but now I know that there are things I can do and ways I can do them… which helps a lot.
As a performance, Messagio # 6 was wrapped around a multi-voice reading of John Cage’s “Lecture on Nothing.” I’d been aware of Cage before then, but getting to see the other performers working with this text on an almost granular level gave me a huge appreciation for Cage, and led me to further explorations of his work, his ideas and his influence – to the point where now, as already mentioned, he, with Jackson Mac Low and bpNichol, are main anchor points of the literary universe I work in.
The opportunity to interact that closely with the other members of the Messagio group also turned out to be very important to me. Sandra Ridley, Carmel Purkis, Roland Prevost and the late John Lavery were the other members, along with curry, the host/arranger/leader of the project. I already knew everyone involved at the point that we started, but it was still a tremendously enlightening and formative experience getting to see these folks working on the material we were performing up close and personal like that – and Sandra and Carmel in particular have remained important voices in my ear.
Possibly the most important result of my participation in Messagio # 6 is that – as well as leading to my taking part in iterations 7 and 8 – it led directly to an invitation to join in the literary responses that visual artist Michèle Provost commissioned for three of her gallery exhibitions, via Max Middle’s AB Reading Series.
The first of these – ABSTrACTS / RéSuMÉS (http://www.micheleprovost.ca/abstracts) – required me to write poetry in a much more focused and considered way than I had before, and not just as the sporadic experimentation that I’d been doing up ‘til then, which had been largely for my own amusement. In hindsight, it was exactly the motivational kick that I needed, exactly when I needed it, and ultimately, I think, that’s what really got my writing practice going.
In terms of sound and my current work, I am still playing around with sound poetry and with ideas about the making and arranging of sounds. In recent years I’ve also begun to pay much more attention to how the rhythm, rhyme and metre of my non-sound poetry works as well – and have gained a greater appreciation for how these things can inform the way a piece is read on a page, as well as heard. So for me, perhaps belatedly, sound has become relevant textually, as well as sonically, for a lot of what I do.
My experience with sound work has also led to have a finer appreciation of – and an interest in working with – elements of voicing, vocal space and breath… as may or may not be evident in the way the “Stutters and Space” pieces are composed.
Q: With a handful of published chapbooks and journal publications under your belt, how do you feel your work has progressed? Where do you see your work headed?
A: One significant element in my progression as a poet has been to fully accept the fact that the processual route that I’ve taken in poetry-making – or the mode that I’ve chosen, maybe – is broad enough and allows for work that’s expansive enough that I no longer worry about the fact that I don’t write “real” poetry, in any traditional sense.
I am not, and I was never going to be, the sort of poet who wrote because I was inspired by the sight of a sunset, a snowstorm, or an ancient vase. That whole Wordsworthian “spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" thing (recollected in tranquility or not) just doesn’t work for me – I’m never going to be a poet who writes pithy observations about the world as it goes past my window, or who feels compelled to write about my unhappy love affairs, my traumas or my latest meals.
I’m not knocking poets who can do this – good poetry can be written about anything – but I can’t do it: my little brain just isn’t wired that way… and this is something that it actually took me a while to come to grips with.
Fortunately, having initially started writing poetry using very mechanical modes of word, text and sound sorting, I’ve been able to broaden my approach to and my understanding of the notion of processing. Getting into the work of writers like Erín Moure, Caroline Bergvall, M. NourbeSe Philip and Lisa Robertson in more recent years has really helped to expand my thinking about, well, the process of poetic process – and to inform and fill out the model that I first built out of the work of bpNichol, Cage and Mac Low.
Anyway, the more time I spend exploring notions of poetic process the wider and more adaptable this mode of making seems to be… and the happier I am to continue going in this direction.
In terms of where my work is headed… there was a not-yet-fully-formed idea about breath & breathings that came up while I was working on the last stage of the “Stutters and Space” sequence that I think will require further exploration. Of course, I’ve also been feeling like I want to do some more mesostic pieces... which will require a source text/texts and a general approach… I’ve also come to appreciate the potential for collaborative projects… and I’ve also been thinking about the idea of manifestos… So, who knows where I’m going, really?
Q: Do you see yourself attempting larger manuscripts, whether in terms of a larger-scale project, or through assembling certain of your shorter texts into a book-length structure?
A: I do have several projects that have ended up as book length manuscripts, more or less unintentionally. One wasn’t so much a poetry project as it was a faux translational thing, but I do have a poetic response sequence (a response to Michèle Provost’s Roman Feuilleton exhibition (http://www.micheleprovost.ca/roman-feuilleton) that resulted in my going through the alphabet twice, generating 48 pieces running about 70 pages or so. I’ve also used the diastic reading-through approach of my Reading The Great Classics Of Canlit through Book 5 of bpNichol’s The Martyrology chapbook on all but the last book of The Martyrology. Book 9 is giving me trouble because so much of it is musical score, which I haven’t figured out how to handle yet. Once I get that sorted out though, the whole thing will certainly be book length.
Ultimately, I tend to approach my projects as just that – projects – as texts and processes to be combined, as ideas to be worked out, as experiments to be run. I’m not usually thinking about things like length, form or final destination when I’m in that mode – I’m mostly just concerned with whether or not they’ll do something interesting, whether they’ll teach me anything, and whether they’ll be interesting for anyone else to read.
One side effect of this broad approach is that a fair number of my projects end up being awkwardly sized or inconveniently formatted, from the point of view of trying to get them published. It’s not that publication isn’t on my radar when I’m writing – I’m always really happy when something I’ve written finds its way into print – but I tend to see it as something to worry about later, after the thing has been created, and something that will be dependent on the quality of the work – which is what I prefer to work towards.
Having said that, one of the things I’m going to try to do this summer is to finally put some effort into knocking some of these projects into coherent shape, and get them out the door, looking for homes.
Q: You seem to wrestle with calling what you do “poetry” and with the designation of “poet,” so I’m curious as to how you consider what you do. Do you see your work entirely as non-authorial but recombinatorial? At what point does reworking another text turn into authorship? In the context of the kinds of work you’ve been doing, is this sort of naming important?
A: That’s one of those questions, right? Naming and labeling this sort of thing isn’t usually very important… except when sometimes it is.
As I think I implied earlier, it took me a while, but I did eventually to come to grips with the idea that what I am doing is best described by the phrase “writing poetry.”
I realize that this comes off sounding like a tremendously precious bit of head-up-my-assery, but I was – and still am – very much aware of the fact that what I write isn’t in the same ballpark as – and isn’t even really the same sort of thing as – what Sandra Ridley writes, or what you write, or what Sneha Madhavan-Reese writes, or what Stuart Ross writes. There doesn’t really seem to be a better label for it though – or at least not one that wouldn’t always immediately require a long explanation. So, because I’m not interested in making these things more complicated than they need to be, I just kind of uncertainly go along with the idea that yes, OK, this is poetry, which ipso facto tra-la-la-la-la must make me a poet.
To be honest, I expect that a large part of my uncertainty about these labels is simply a hangover from the fact that for the first 15 years or so of my hanging around the edges of the literary world here in Ottawa I didn’t write poetry: for a long time it was entirely normal for me to go to a reading and be the only one – or one of the only ones – in the audience who wasn’t a poet. So maybe this is just me still just trying to convince myself.
Having said all that, the labels “poet” and “poetry” are actually fitting a little better with what I do these days. As I said earlier, the work of Moure, Bergvall, Philip and Robertson have been particularly helpful in showing me new approaches and paradigms, and in giving me new contexts and models through which to view the notion of authorship – poetic or otherwise. Everything I produce still starts with text that I’m not the author of – but the longer I do this the broader my take on what constitutes poetic process becomes, and the more flexibility and nuance I discover in how I can work with texts, and what I can do with or to them.
Tuesday, August 13, 2024
TtD supplement #260 : seven questions for Taylor Brown
Her poems “glyphs,” “Gryllus pennsylvanicus,” and “mouton mort” appear in the forty-second issue of Touch the Donkey.
Q: Tell me about the poems “glyphs,” “Gryllus pennsylvanicus,” and “mouton mort.”
A: glyphs:
This poem is meant to make tangible and visceral the experience of becoming highly intellectually and emotionally connected with another person, even (or especially) if that connection is not romantic in nature. It attempts to capture the feeling of “reading someone’s mind” without implying there is anything extrasensory going on. That is, these two people share a soul connection, and the so-called “magic” of that connection is made real by the interaction between collections of neurons that inhabit each of the two people; although this seems at first to be a rather ordinary and material explanation for something that feels so extraordinary, the realization of this simple fact perhaps actually adds to what makes it such a magnificent experience.
Gryllus pennsylvanicus:
As you may have already figured out, the title of this poem is the scientific name for the Fall Field Cricket. I wrote this somewhat cheeky poem after a comical realization one beautiful September evening in southern Ontario, Canada, that the nostalgia we humans experience (at least across a large swath of North America, where this species lives) when we hear crickets chirping on a warm summer or autumn evening is the result of a projection of our own feelings and memories onto this auditory stimulus that is nothing more than an insect trying to find a mate and pass on its genes.
mouton mort:
This poem is based on something I experienced while conducting ornithological fieldwork on Seal Island (Nova Scotia) during my undergraduate degree. Seal Island is a fantastical place, with resident semi-feral sheep that are sheared and harvested by farmers who live on the mainland and visit only periodically. Whilst walking along the beach there one day, I stumbled across the skull of a deceased sheep and mused over how odd it felt to find the evidence of this domestic animal, in my mind usually associated with bucolic, peaceful landscapes and careful husbandry, on a rugged island beach surrounded by ocean where it had lived out its life in a relatively “wild” way. In my mind in that moment, this animal that is very familiar in life was bestowed an air of mystery by its uncharacteristically wild death of unknown causes.
Q: How do these poems compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?
A: Although these poems are between 2 and 7 years old, I am still writing on many of the same themes: nature, connection, intimacy, and wonder. I have recently been experimenting with using longer stanzas and longer poems in general, to delve deeper in both my thoughts and in describing natural phenomena. I am currently working on a collection of poems that describes my observations of the natural seasonal changes that occur throughout the year in southwestern Ontario (where I'm from) and look forward to releasing them as a chronological arrangement.
Q: Have you any models for the kinds of work you’re doing? What poets or poems sit at the back of your head as you write?
A: I think the poet from whom I draw the most inspiration is Harry Thurston, with his elegant and observant descriptions of wildlife and natural phenomena. I was introduced to Thurston’s work by fellow poet and dear friend Lance La Rocque, whose poems I read to experience new, abstract ideas and thought structures that I then try to weave into my own poems. The writings of Henry David Thoreau and John Muir also never cease to inspire my Romantic / Transcendentalist tendencies by resonating with a side of my brain that is not altogether stimulated by the purely scientific writing that dominates my daily life.
Q: What first brought you to blending science and poetry? What is it specifically about the form of poetry that allows you to think through some of these concepts?
A: I think it was simply my love for science that brought me to think about it in ways more nuanced than simply how to practice it in my career or how to further expand upon scientific ideas within my discipline. More specifically, my appreciation for the beauty of biology and of life itself, and my admiration for the evolution of all the many millions of varied life forms that we have come to know as “species”, inspire me to ponder (and write) about the infinite ways in which these organisms experience the same world.
Scientists like myself (and everyone else, too, without realizing it) use the scientific method all the time as a structured way of thinking logically about how things work: make observations, develop hypotheses, test hypotheses, repeat. But writing poetry allows me to liberate and reframe my ideas on scientific topics in any number of new and experimental ways – often, these are ways that better satisfy my soul’s yearning to understand and connect with nature and the wider world.
Q: How are you finding the process of attempting to shape a first manuscript? Or are you focusing instead on each individual poem as it comes?
A: I have mostly been focusing on writing each poem as it comes. I do still try to shape them into a coherent collection as I go along though. Having a set framework and/or topic in the back of my head has been a good mental exercise in forcing myself to take notice of aspects of that topic that I otherwise might not have. But yes, the process is difficult at times! Still, I’m in no rush to produce a manuscript so I don’t feel much pressure to figure it all out at once.
Q: It would seem your poems explore an interest in writing both the abstract and the tangible. Do you find, at times, a difficult balance between the two?
A: I think the interplay between the abstract and the tangible that emerges in my writing is reflective of my organic stream of consciousness. In daily life I often reflect on everyday objects or concepts and find therein surprising hidden connections to the wider human (or animal) experience. The tangible provides the initial fodder for the abstract, and the abstract ultimately precipitates back into the tangible, but I do not necessarily make a conscious effort to balance the two in my writing.
Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?
A: I find that I’m most energized by and most often return to work by scientific / nature writers and poets. Examples include Charles Darwin and Rachel Carson, John Muir and Henry David Thoreau as mentioned previously, Emily Dickinson and Gary Snyder, and a number of others. Thoreau’s Walking is a favourite work that I like to return to periodically.
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