TtD supplement #297 : seven questions for Laressa Dickey

Laressa Dickey is a dance artist, writer, and bodyworker based in Stockholm whose recent projects explore the politics of care, the effects of state violence on the human body, and space junk. Her work spans disciplines and modalities. She’s the author of the poetry books Syncopations and Twang, among others. Together with sound artist Andrea Steves, she published Radio Graveyard Orbit, a speculative book about space junk. For Bergen Assembly 2019, she and her partner Ali Gharavi created How to Pass Time With No Reference, a multi-media installation about their experiences inside/outside the Turkish prison system. Her artistic research has been supported by the Kone Foundation; she researches the dancer's use of language and the writer’s use to/for dance. She’s a member of the performative collaborations MISLEADING SUBJECTS and WITHING and teaches occasionally at Stockholm University of the Arts.

Her poem “Heart bulge” appears in the forty-eighth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about “Heart bulge.”

A: “Heart bulge” is a piece that originated in residency while I was working on an ongoing project called Mammillary bodies. I hope someday it will become a book of lyric essays. I have been working on it, on and off, for about 8 years and it's still going. The Heart Bulge piece was written during an artist residency at Saari Residence in Finland in 2022. I was working in the dance studio with an text called The Ontogenetic Basis of Human Anatomy by Eric Blechschmidt, the phenomenological embryologist. And I was reading and devising movement scores from this speculative embryological text which describes the morphological forces at work in the embryo’s development, forces which lay down the spatial map of us as humans and mammals. I was really interested in those forces as a creative problem and as a way of thinking about the creative process. That something dynamic and increasingly differentiated is forming our particular shape. It’s happening before DNA activation. Something else is at work in us, when we are taking shape. That seemed thrilling!

So “Heart Bulge” was a piece of text taken from that book. It is a moment in the embryological development of the heart before fits itself into place between the lungs—well, this is a creative way of saying it—because as Fanny Howe taught us, language literally fails to deal with actions that occur simultaneously—but before it becomes the advanced vascular system of compartments, it is a bulge in a main vertical vessel. But I took it as a score for a dance process, which led me into writing, eventually.

Heart Bulge as a phrase became a lens through which to think about how our bodies and selves are also shaped by family, by landscapes we grow up and evolve in, by the social body that we grow up inside of. And the simultaneity and complexity of all that happening at once, but also in different temporalities.

Q: How does this poem compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: Heart Bulge is different from other things I’m doing now, some of which are boring, like grant applications. What creative writing I'm doing is more collaborative. Together with a collective called WITHING, we’ve made 6 online episodes for Radio Worm in Rotterdam. The episodes are experimental language sessions, let’s say, derived from common scores we work on together, apart. It’s a collective, more programmatic approach to writing—poetic at times, but not necessarily calling attention to itself as such. Nobody in the group has a hold on what we are making—what it is or will be; it’s slippery and yet, we are making it together. I find myself writing things I don’t recognize as me and I love that.

https://www.researchcatalogue.net/view/2835793/3980073

Q: Is this shifting the ways in which you approach your own work, when you return to it?

A: It’s making me see my own idiosyncrasies through reflecting on the idiosyncrasies of others. I suppose this is really just a reading process, a reading as a writer process. I think moving between the collective and my own work also brings up the question for me about the use of the writer, the use of the singular voice, what it is, how it exists, what it does, thinking of it as material and materiality. And maybe it clarifies the basic conundrum: how do I want to say this? How can I say this?

Q: Do you have any models for the kinds of work you’ve been attempting? 

A: I have things I reach for, or reach back to, in terms of syntactic logic, classics like My Life by Hejinian, or the feel of a dance, Dogs of Devotion, made by Jeanine Durning. Maybe the tone of voice, that odd tallness, in Samuel Beckett in The End.

Q: With a handful of published collections, as well as your current works-in-progress, how do you feel your work has progressed? Where do you see your work heading?

A: Oh man. I feel like I’m finally getting a handle on the sentence and the paragraph, the units of meaning they organize and what they can do. I have developed more tolerance to use “I” in work, in a way I hadn’t, and I am more willing to move into prose, that is, the prose poem, or the hybrid, etc., when the work demands that. I hope to write a novel someday, but I suppose it will be a weird thing.

Q: What do you feel the prose poem allows in your work that might not be possible, otherwise?

A: For me, the prose poem allows a different kind of control of the movement of a text. In it, I can feel access to rhythms, stops and starts, reversals, the impulse toward and subversion of story. It allows my improvisatory thinking to form and holds it in form. Play play play! Probably someone has written this before, but the economy of the prose poem interests me. It’s often sparing, reticent, and yet it can roam across the page. It pretends and promises but ultimately does what it wants. I relate to this as a kind of freedom, a space to grow into and form, rather than being formed by. Though I suppose both are happening simultaneously. Thought is growing and forming lines and sentences, and thought is also being formed by the page and by the limits of the technology and by the limits of me as a person, thinker, writer.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: I often return to Etel Adnan’s Of Cities and Women (Letters to Fawwaz) or her work, In the Heart of the Heart of Another Country, and I do that because of the presence of/in the voice. I read Tove Jansson’s Summer Book every summer and never fail to feel amazed by those stories. About every 5 years, I go back to Gary Young’s No Other Life. I recently read Helen Garner’s diaries and already know that I’ll be back.

TtD supplement #296 : seven questions for Jessie Jones

Jessie Jones is the author of one poetry collection, The Fool, which was published in 2020 with icehouse poetry, and was shortlisted for the Raymond Souster Award and a finalist for the A.M. Klein Prize for Poetry. She grew up in the prairies and now lives in Montreal.

Her sequence “Four Methods” appears in the forty-eighth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about “Four Methods.”

A: I heard many years ago that Strasberg at the Actor’s Studio by Lee Strasberg, transcriptions of the private acting classes that he taught at the Actor’s Studio in New York starting in the late 40s, was essential reading for writers (I don’t remember why now). So, I dutifully purchased it and put it on my shelf. Years later, I finally read it. In addition to disabusing me of many preconceived notions about “method” acting, it made me appreciate the difficulty of assuming the role of another person, and the effort—expense, even—involved in doing it convincingly. We attempt this all the time in writing—adopting a persona or the voice of “the speaker,” creating characters. I especially appreciated Strasberg emphasizing the strangeness of this impulse, and how drawing a line between the character’s experience and our own deepens what we’re trying to convey and, under ideal conditions, better connects us to ourselves. So the poem is four attempts at inhabiting that strange psychic space, not yet that character and no longer just oneself, preparing to pass from one to the other by way of some sense or emotional memory. This poem and the reading around it also connected me to a broader project, now a manuscript, which is about the consuming nature of being an artist, seeing everything through the lens of creation, the ways it requires a relentless investigation of your past, your interests, even banal daily life for “material.” That makes it sound cynical, but I mean more the unconsciousness aspects. Like great acting, it’s reacting to what presents itself to you and getting involved in it.

Q: How does this poem compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: Thematically related, but tonally different and formally denser. Newer works are a little looser and “voicier,” I think. 

Q: What prompts the difference in approach, in your thinking?

A: A higher density of diction can create some welcome distance, which I usually prefer when I’m experimenting with something new or trying to write in a voice other than my own. Sometimes, I switch into that mode almost defensively. In some of the newer pieces, I’m trying to stay closer to whatever is driving the poem and to be a little more comfortable owning an idea or feeling. 

Q: Do you have any models for the kinds of work you’ve been attempting? Are there any particular writers or works at the back of your head as you write?

A: Honestly, the biggest one has been Philip Guston, the painter. I’ve been reading and rereading many books about him, his lectures, writings, interviews, correspondence with friends, including I Paint What I Want to See and Guston in Time by Ross Feld. This became a bit of an obsession, resulting in a trip to the UK to see his retrospective at the Tate Modern, one of the highlights of my life. I love his way of speaking and writing about art. It’s gutsy, funny, and most concerned with openness and curiosity. He’s very casual, though intelligent, and a great talker. He wants to bring people in. Finding him felt like the thrill of meeting someone you know you’ll be great friends with. He went through a serious artistic crisis as he was considered to be at the peak of his career, and built a new style from rock bottom that renewed his love of artmaking and redefined him as an artist, even while turning a lot of his fans (including some of his dearest friends) against him. There's something in that experience, I think—the reckoning, the doubt, and, ultimately, transcendence—that made him more comfortable with the mystery of artmaking, the surprise, and to find kinship in trusting what may seem like a mistake. So, I’ve been literally influenced by the way he speaks and writes, which I find so charming, but also by his great capacity to seek and let others into that process of seeking, which is powerful and intimate. While I adore and admire so many writers who seem to drop wisdom fully formed and jewel-encrusted into their works, I discovered how much I like the mess of discovery through Guston.

As for poets, I’ve also been lately influenced by and found a similar kinship with the works of Sara Nicholson, whose first two books (The Living Method and What the Lyric Is, both from The Song Cave) marry the linguistic and philosophical rigour that I love with a humour and casual ease that I aspire to.

Q: With a published full-length collection, as well as your current works-in-progress, how do you feel your work has progressed? Where do you see your work heading?

A: I feel my work has deepened since my first collection. It’s still very much me, still my style, but perhaps holds less back, which feels great. There was a lot of nervous energy around my writing in the past; I was afraid my practice would slip away from me, that I wasn't worthy of doing it, not educated enough to write intelligently. That’s gone. Now it’s just a part of my life that grows with me. My next project, which I’ll dig into as soon as this manuscript is wrapped up, is larger in scope, more narrative, more researched, more outside of me, and will, I hope, stretch me creatively and formally. I’m a little bit afraid of it! But I think that’s a good sign. 

Q: Do you see your work in terms of projects, then? How did you move from someone who works on individual poems to someone who works on projects?

A: No, I don’t usually see my work in terms of projects, at least not at first. My first book and the manuscript that “Four methods” is a part of came together over time, poem by poem, and became a project as thematic unity between the pieces emerged. I like that approach and the way it allows one’s particular, timely interests to guide the writing. Only when I start to notice a pattern do I narrow my focus and read in a more directed way that will nurture the rest of the work to be written. With my first book, this didn’t really happen until I was at the very end. With the new manuscript, it happened more quickly and was more obvious from looking at the books I was reading—they all seemed to lead me to the same point. 

The next book, “the project,” however, requires me to think of it as a unified whole from the beginning because it’s more narrative, adopts a particular form and vernacular, and will require more planning. All very new, exciting territory. I’m not sure why the move to a project is happening now, but I suspect it’s a way to stay interested and not get too comfortable. I’ve also been working on a collaborative novel for the last two years with another writer, and thinking large-scale narratives for so long might have tunneled into my poet brain.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: There are so many! It’s hard to narrow it down. But the more consistent mainstays are Lisa Robertson’s The Weather, Alice Notley’s The Descent of Alette, John Ashbery’s Flow Chart, Elizabeth Willis’ Meteoric Flowers, Lucy Ives’ Orange Roses & The Hermit, Fred Moten’s The Service Porch, and Peter Gizzi’s Archeophonics. I have noticed, though, that I may have greedily overdrawn those accounts and need to start developing a new set of resources for this phase of life and writing I’m in. Reading “forward” as opposed to “backward” has proven useful for me over the last few years, as has trying to broaden my conception of what can generate a poem. In the past, I had to read a poem to write one, and now I can read an essay or academic paper or work of philosophy or a novel and feel equally energized. I also regularly return to Pitch Dark by Renata Adler, my favourite novel. I recorded me reading the first chapter of it for a podcast called Women Reading this spring and it was a totally new way of engaging with a very familiar text. There were so many things that I had missed or breezed by in prior readings! I feel like as I age, I also see new things in my favourite works, so reading them again now is a little like reading them for the first time. They’re speaking to a very different person.

TtD supplement #295 : seven questions for Tanis MacDonald

Tanis MacDonald (she/they) is the author of Straggle: Adventures in Walking While Female as well as six other books. She has won The Malahat Review’s Open Seasons Award for Nonfiction twice: in 2021 for her essay on female friendship and in 2025 for her essay on adoption and ancestry. Her next book, Tall, Grass, Girl, is forthcoming in fall 2026 with Book*hug Press. Tanis is the former host of the Watershed Writers podcast and was a Professor in the Department of English and Film Studies at Wilfrid Laurier University for many years before retiring early to gad about and do cool shit.

Her poems “Decimal Dance Party,” “On hearing that it is time for me to decide,” “For Real” and “Prognosis” appear in the forty-eighth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poems “Decimal Dance Party,” “On hearing that it is time for me to decide,” “For Real” and “Prognosis.”

A: I crave the strange when life gets a little repetitive. I like low-culture-high-culture mash-ups and mishearings and false profundities and flash absurdities. I write narrative poems, too, though with a poem, narrative is always relative, but I like the process of shaping happenstance and an accrual of images (and “misimages”) to create not a portrayal, but an unarticulated space where a portrayal could be. That sounds fancy, but I don’t mean it to be. I think it’s how many people – including me -- perceive the world on an everyday basis: not always seeing the thing itself but instead the swirl around it. For a poem like “Decimal Dance Party,” the collaging of those moments as best and second-best is both absurd and familiar, just as the small events themselves are. “For Real” takes up an old question of the nature of reality. “Prognosis” is so named for the couplets’ interrogation of mental processes. And did I decide? All the time!

“For Real” will appear in my forthcoming book, Tall, Grass, Girl, and the rest are from a manuscript in process.

Q: How do these poems compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: In my forthcoming book with Book*hug, Tall, Grass, Girl, I have styled a poetic narrative: low on declaration, strong on using language to convey the difficult.  I’ve been refining that kind of narrative about escaping violence and becoming tall (my metaphor for thriving) for a while, and it has been a tonic more recently to switch up my perspective to an “I” that is less lyrical – that is, less personal and contextual – and more gleefully declarative and happily grouchy. I can see, looking at these poems now, how they have emerged from a mind crammed with detail and external influences and are focused on not only how meaning is made, but how to make it bounce. The moment with the library patron was something I overheard  and knew that it was a piece of the mosaic I was assembling about how different generations speak to, dance with, remember each other. Sometimes I think the most important skill writers can practice is the ability to recognize patterns.

Q: What brought about this particular structure, and how different is that compared to some of your prior work? Is approaching a collection as a self-contained project, whether through structure or content or both, how you usually approach building collections?

A: One manuscript begets another, if we are lucky, and I have questions outstanding from Tall, Grass, Girl that will make appearances in the new manuscript. That said, building a collection is different every time.  Content is so dependent on structure. Writing the new poems keeps my head above water as I undergo a big life change and I am guessing that they will find their places in a lyric dialogue about being an aging badass.  

I’ll never be done with the lyric mode, but I am forever questing to discover places where prose and poetry meet and where I can cartwheel with language as much as I want. Poems (and do) turn into essays, and vice versa, and sideways, and like a cement mixer: literary chimaeras are my jam.

Q: Is that how manuscripts emerge, from a series of outstanding questions? And it suggests you see your work in a kind of trajectory, yes? How does that sense of trajectory show itself within the context of book-length, theoretically self-contained, works?

A: I can’t speak for anyone else, but inquiry is important for me as a fuel for writing, especially poetry. Which doesn’t mean that this is an intellectual exercise: not at all. The writing mind is a curious mind, all the better to approach a single subject, or a single question, from a variety of angles. In terms of a trajectory – well, yes, but not a consciously planned one, and not a trajectory that needs to have special importance to readers, necessarily. When I am putting a manuscript together – or testing out poems to see if they could speak to each other in a manuscript – that’s when I start thinking consciously about what I’m asking (myself, the reader, the poem). If we are talking about how manuscripts look and feel after they are published as books, the trajectory is likely to be mysterious to everyone but me; and if we are talking about me as the person generating the work, then the trajectory – as I see, hear, or feel it – is everything. Everyone gets from one book to another somehow and this kind of inquiring bridge is one of the ways I do it.

Q: With a handful of published collections over the years, as well as your current works-in-progress, how do you feel your work has progressed? Where do you see your work heading?

A: To the moon and back!

On the best days, the work of poetry makes me think better, breathe more deeply, feel in the world instead of feeling like I’m drifting through space. If progress has been made – such as it is, in poetry – it’s because I’ve discovered something and surprised myself. I think I am becoming both more energetic and more relaxed as a writer –energetic about possibility and relaxed about what the outcomes may be. Changing my life to invest in art over a daily grind is a big shift, and I hope that my work is heading towards a harvest of everything that can grow from my decades of (literary) planting.

Q: What is it about the form of poetry that attracts you so deeply? What do you feel possible through your work with the poem that might not be possible otherwise?

A: Leonard Cohen wrote “If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.” And I wonder: what’s a burning life, and do I have one? And Emily Dickinson: “When I feel like the top of my head has been taken off, I know that that is poetry.” And Kafka: “words should be an axe for the frozen sea within us.” I think of all these elemental ways of describing poetry as explosive, and ash, and metal striking salt and ice. 

Poetry is the best form to convey not that which is unsayable, but that which defies, and is sometimes betrayed by, the limitations of the declarative statement. To state something baldly can be, ironically, a form of misdirection; it suggests limited meaning, limited affect, limited narrative. But the implications and language work of poetry allow room for the extraordinarily human: lived contradictions, everyday oddnesses, and simultaneously felt emotions (think of times you have been grateful and guilty, or angry and relieved, or joyful and exhausted). Its music, and the way it reaches for our inner organs, is another attraction of poetry; prose can do that too, but it’s poetry’s raison d’être. If I can spend time each day in a space where this is possible, in what I’m reading or what I’m writing, then it’s a good day.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: The Poets:
Lisa Robertson, Erín Moure, Phil Hall, Adrienne Rich: all poets who light my mind on fire. I have been reading and thinking about their work with line, language, repetition, and lyric for decades.   
Marge Piercy, Lucille Clifton, and Kim Addonizio for their audacity and sheer breath-changing effect of their poetics.
Emily Dickinson (whose Tell It Slant Festival held each September is an online must-attend) and Jay Macpherson for reminding me to touch base with formal work.
Shakespeare and Yeats for the music.
Rumi for surprise and to reset my brain.

The Prose Writers:  
Melissa Febos for her spirit of risk.
bell hooks for her combination of compassion and sternness.
Louise Erdrich to remind me where I’m from and who I owe.
Toni Morrison to remind me to stay conscious. 

TtD supplement #294 : seven questions for David Hadbawnik

David Hadbawnik is a poet, translator, and medieval scholar. Books include a translation of the Aeneid (Shearsman, 2023); an edited volume, Postmodern Poetry and Queer Medievalisms (Medieval Institute Publications, 2022); and a book of poetry, Holy Sonnets to Orpheus and Other Poems (Delete Press, 2018). He currently lives in the Minneapolis area with his wife and son.

His poems “Screaming,” “Melody,” “Vertigo,” “Squeeze” and “Substance” appear in the forty-eighth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poems “Screaming,” “Melody,” “Vertigo,” “Squeeze” and “Substance.”

A: I began writing these pieces as “anti-poems” several years ago, coming out of the pandemic, and in the wake of completing my years-long project of translating the Aeneid. The translation had occupied me for about ten years, from 2012 to 2022 or thereabouts. And even though I’d written some poetry during that time – a lot of which was collected in Holy Sonnets to Orpheus, published by Delete Press in 2018 – I’d kind of lost my feel for what was going on in poetry and my place in it. But I was still writing. I had and continue to have a daily notebook practice, which I’ve remained devoted to for almost a decade at this point. So among the things I was jotting down, I started scribbling these sonnet-like pieces.

As it happened, over time, a lot of the pieces did have something to do with family relationships and fatherhood; my son, now 7 years old, is a big part of our everyday life. So that first piece, “Screaming,” was written on my son’s birthday, with him in mind, trying to capture a bit of his spirit.

The next three, “Melody,” “Vertigo,” “Squeeze,” are all examples of starting with a certain phrase or idea and plunging in and riffing on it, without steering it one way or another, keeping it going without pause. The syllabic constraint leads to some interesting line breaks, which I then worked on in revision, in some cases “sanding off” the edges a bit by deleting words that seemed like mere filler, so that some lines only wind up with eight or nine syllables... I had not yet, at that time, read Dale Smith’s wonderful book of sonnet-like pieces, The Size of Paradise; he’s such a great craftsman that he manages to put a lot of disparate ideas together, which still feel cohesive within the poem, while maintaining pretty exactly a ten-syllable line. Everyone should check out that book!

“Substance,” the last piece, has more stops and starts in it; as such, it's a bit of a call-back to a previous mode of writing for me, which carried over into the translation work, shorter sentences alternating with longer ones in the mode of Thomas Meyer, perhaps. 

Q: How do these poems compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: In terms of poetry, I’ve been pushing things in a more intentional way, in response to the critical moment we’re in politically and socially, which I consider to be an inflection point where – not to hyperbolize – we’re really balanced between continuing as a project of “civilization,” for better or worse, or falling into a dark period of authoritarian chaos. I’m trying to do so in a way that plays to my strengths as a writer, which involves attending to subtle interactions between people, the way they connect or fail to connect. This seems especially relevant, since there seems to be a real breakdown in the ability to interact with and empathize with others, whether people are moving through a supermarket or sitting in a cafe or just walking down the street. So the recent poems have been an extension of this project, but more focused thematically, and tending to make more use of negative space on the page.

Q: I’m curious: have you any models for the kinds of work you’ve been attempting in this particular mode? 

A: I’ve actually been involved in an ongoing mail exchange with Chris Vitiello. He’s a prolific, interesting, and challenging poet. I don’t even know how to categorize the type of poetry he’s been writing, which is kind of an extension of the work he was doing in his last published books, Irresponsibility (2008) and Obedience (2012); a lot of what he does is stripped bare of the usual poetic tropes and devices, tending towards declarative utterances that push at the borders of what language can mean. This has pushed me to head somewhat in that direction, so that I’m really focused on the mysteries of the everyday, the space between people, as well as the inner space of myself and others to the extent that I’m able to detect and respond to it, note it down, and turn it into something.

Q: With a handful of published collections over the years, as well as your current works-in-progress, how do you feel your work has progressed? Where do you see your work heading?

A: I don’t know that it’s progressed. In terms of poetry, I feel I’ve gotten better at recognizing what’s working or not working, and separating the wheat from the chaff so to speak. I don’t waste as much time going down blind alleys. I better understand what my strengths are. But in a lot of ways, I still feel like a beginner, someone who’s still learning. Aside from that, I’m working on a “creative memoir” based on journals I kept during the 1990s, when I lived in San Francisco. A big portion of it was just published in late December. That’s going to be occupying me for a while, as I try to type it all up and edit it. Hanging around with Damion Searls (translator of Jon Fosse, among others) has gotten me excited about translation again, so maybe I’ll hunker down and try more of that.

Q: I’m curious about your work in and through translation. What do you feel it introduces to or allows for your own writing, if anything?

A: I guess I took translation on as part of the learning process, in an Ezra Pound sort of way, which came to me via Diane di Prima, when I studied with her from about 1998-2003. There was just the basic, “ah, I see how this poet is putting things together, constructing lines, keeping the poem alive and moving,” and so on. You can get some of that through reading, but when you’re grappling with the language on an elemental level and having to make those decisions yourself, there’s a lot more to learn, I’d say. So I felt coming out of the translation work on Aeneid and returning to my “own” poetry was like taking off another set of training wheels that helped build confidence in a different way.

Q: Do you see the shifts in your writing due to translation predominantly as structural, then? Did your work in translation broaden possibilities, or simply turn you into different directions?

A: I would say the practice of translation, alongside study of medieval poets and poetry during grad school – I had a dual emphasis in Medieval Literature and Poetics – was hopefully a broadening of possibilities, on balance. The most important thing I learned, though it maybe doesn’t always manifest itself in the day-to-day work, is that the idea of translation as a separate category from so-called original work would never have occurred to a poet like Chaucer. It was all just part of the poet’s range of activity. You translate a bit of Virgil here and some Ovid there, shellac some original verses in between, adapt some from Boccaccio and Boethius, and it’s all one poem. What I would like to do is move further in the direction of incorporating as much source material as I can, without worrying about where it’s coming from or what I'm doing with it.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: That changes, but I’d say most re-energizing for the kind of attention to the quotidian that I’m trying to bring to bear is Peter Handke’s early work, particularly The Goalie’s Anxiety at the Penalty Kick and The Weight of the World, the latter of which is a book of his raw, daily note-taking, which was extremely essential to me in establishing my own daily practice a long time ago. Recently, I rewatched Wings of Desire, the Wim Wenders film for which Handke wrote most of the dialogue, and that was incredibly stimulating. Then, too, everything by David Lynch is generative.

TtD supplement #293 : seven questions for Monroe Lawrence

Monroe Lawrence was born on Vancouver Island, Canada. They grew up in Squamish on the traditional territory of the Skwxwú7mesh Úxwumixw. They are the author of About to Be Young and Gravity Siren.

Their poem “Silt” appears in the forty-eighth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about “Silt.”

A: “Silt” dreams an art practice where genres blur, gender toggles and shimmers, dance intersects with (and becomes) architecture, and the sky is recruited as a grafting and projecting of intention onto weather. To make “Silt,” I drew on my experience as audience member to various kinds of art-making in and around public spaces in Colorado, and on memories of films and poems I once experienced in Canada and in Greece. “Silt” is interested in artworks so capacious in their sense of diegesis and surround that a random bird flying overhead might take on the glimmer of the intended, so the frame dilates to include an entire world. As I composed, I spliced together images and affective clusters of language taken from dreams and walks and reading (and a friend’s doctoral thesis) to produce a vision of an oneiric elsewhere. What, in that elsewhere, might art look like? What might architecture sound like? How might buildings or parks feel to be in? And in “Silt” the presence of spaceships and motherships and cockpits—as much as beaches, crabs and wildflowers, the beloved details of our present—helps us, bluntly, ask if that elsewhere might feature in our future, distant or near.

Q: How does this poem compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: “Silt” resembles the longer, untitled poems from my forthcoming poetry collection Gravity Siren—some lines long, some short—but here “Silt” has a title, obviously. I like how titles make a poem feel unarbitrary and forthcoming, like a pronouncement, instead of some scrap of unknowable language the reader has stumbled upon. (That’s how I sometimes want my other poetry to feel.)

Q: Has your sense of the poem shifted at all since putting together book-length manuscripts? How do your poems come together to form books? Is it an intuitive process, or something more deliberate?

A: Yes, publishing books has changed how I think of poems. It’s helped me trouble my (and perhaps the reader’s) sense of where the aesthetic “zones” end and begin. I like to think about the arbitrary, conceptual forcefields we erect around poems, around books. What’s less arbitrary—the category of the ‘poem’ or the category of the ‘book’? Gathering text in a codex seems less arbitrary, for me, sometimes, than some idea of a language event truly starting right here and truly ending over there. 

In a practical sense: At the end of many months of polishing hundreds of pages of ‘scraps’, I throw away over half, and spend a final month ordering the remaining scraps into the sequence that is the book. It’s all intuition. But that sequence contains many other possible sequences…

Q: With a couple of published collections under your belt, as well as your current works-in-progress, how do you feel your work has progressed? Where do you see your work heading?

A: One thing I can say is that I tend to prioritize the excitement of a fresh challenge over the execution of something I know how to do. This explains my attempts to write stories, chapbooks, peer-reviewed scholarship, book reviews, etc. And it certainly explains my turn to fiction. There, I’ve been trying to learn a whole new regime of language use, one that is often entirely at odds with the disjunctive poetic regimes in which I’ve marinated. Building and blocking out a world (“representational” language) calls for sentences that are so different, for me, than the sentences that draw me to poetry. (Often my poetry is not interested in sentences at all.) The free-wheeling excitement of cramming objects and characters and dialogue into paragraphs is for the time being the most exciting literary endeavour. But it’s hard. I wonder if I will ever succeed in unlearning my poetic training and elaborating a new writerly capacity. Anyway, poetry once felt very hard… Perhaps my next poetry project, whenever it arises, will constitute a kind of admission of defeat in some sense—returning, if not to the known, then at least to an unknown I know how to face.

Q: Do you have any models for the kinds of work you’ve been attempting? Are there any particular writers or works at the back of your head as you write?

A: This is a question that has preoccupied me for a long time. There was a stretch in my early twenties when I was extremely concerned with eschewing “influence” of any kind—intentionally setting out to prevent my work from imitating or resembling anything I’d seen before. I’m sure I was unsuccessful. But I think that rejection of influence was an entirely fair reaction to some of my previous, even more misguided efforts to mimic writers I had nothing in common with, Cormac McCarthy or Tao Lin for instance. So I did go through the meat grinder of trying to “avoid” influence for a while, which may have been in some way admirable. 

During my MFA, though, I realized something that astonished me: Most writers were, by contrast, picking one or two of their favourite writers and shamelessly emulating them as closely as possible. I was shocked by how good, and how actually original, the results were. After an initial period of bitterness, I kind of gave in and started doing this more, too, and often do compose with certain writers in mind. Nearly ten years post-MFA, I sense that this method is actually how the majority of even quite good literary writing is created. Setting out with the express purpose of mimicking another writer, you often sort of “can’t help” but be yourself along the way, and you end up with a novel linguistic creation that, paradoxically, is largely your own. It’s possible I am describing a just basic, Bloomian structure of titrating influence, but anyway. 

I recognize I am sometimes doing something much more groundbreaking than at other times, and sometimes I am just vampirically repurposing someone else’s invention. But I’m less and less bothered by that. My recent poetic efforts (like “Silt”) are extremely involved with the work of J.H. Prynne, his The White Stones, for instance, but that book is so beautiful that I hope that even if my emulations are unoriginal, the resultant surface beauty might be worth it. So influence can carry a sense of duty even if it sometimes carries a sense of guilt.

Q: I would think that writing—in structure, certainly—can’t help but come from writing. Why would you think influence “sometimes carries a sense of guilt”?

A: I think I mean that in a very informal, pragmatic sense of how it feels—to me—to navigate the socially-oriented experience of reading and writing, rather than elaborating some watertight view of what literature is or can be. It’s possible I have a feeling that some writing (of mine as much as of others) is coming too much from other writing—repeating past patterns of thought and language rather than transforming or inventing or intervening. Pound said “Make it new!” and I maybe let that utterance take on the status of all-encompassing, ahistorical injunction. (Probably not the kind of thing you want to do with Pound’s comments.) So the guilt or perhaps shame is a better word emerges out of a cluster of impulses pertaining to originality rather than a distaste for writing that flows from other writing.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: Once upon a time I took a kind of dietician’s approach to literature—very targeted (and enormous) inputs, with the hope of engineering specific and calculated outputs. So if I was writing minimal fragments, I would go on a diet of minimal fragments; if I was writing prose in first-person present tense, I would go on a diet of first-person present tense texts. This is a similarly linear structure of thinking to my response to the “influence” question. I had a sense that if I imbibed enough of x, it would—excuse the image—be extruded out as an excellent version of y. (As you can see from these questions, my approach to poetics is fairly psychotic.) But lately I’m less interested in that input-output phenomenon. I know I’ve read enough to fuel my ongoing projects, and I have less of a sense that I need to “desperately read everything or I’ll die.” I watch a lot more TV, pay attention to the beats, the scenes, the narratology. I read a lot more non-fiction. I see reading as an end rather than a means—the pleasure located more completely in the present than in some belief (also pleasurable) that I’m “hard at work.” My friends Alex Toy, Anna Bonesteel and Lee Cannon-Brown are some of the most fascinating writers and thinkers on earth and I’m blessed to be in daily dialogue with their work.

TtD supplement #292 : seven questions for Frances Cannon

Franky (Frances) Cannon is a writer, editor, educator, and artist based in Edinburgh, Scotland and Burlington, Vermont. She is the Reviews Editor for Poetry Wales, an editorial reader for The Kenyon Review, and an affiliated scholar at Kenyon College, where she recently completed the Mellon Science and Nature Writing Fellowship. She has an MFA in creative writing from Iowa and a BA from the University of Vermont. She is the author and illustrator of several books: Walter Benjamin Reimagined (MIT Press), Fling Diction (Green Writers Press), Willow and the Storm (Green Writers), Tropicalia (Vagabond), The Highs and Lows of Shapeshift Ma and Big-Little Frank (Gold Wake), Sagittaria (Bottlecap), Predator/Play (Ethel), Uranian Fruit (Honeybee), and Grotto (above/ground). She also has a chapbook forthcoming with Ethel: Bitten by the Lantern Fly; and a book forthcoming with Valiz: Queer Flora, Fauna, and Funga.

Her poems “Consider the orchid,” “East Wemyss,” “Self-portrait as the five of cups” and “Scandal” appear in the forty-eighth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poems “Consider the orchid,” “East Wemyss,” “Self-portrait as the five of cups” and “Scandal.”

A: Consider the orchid:
It’s important to complicate the narrative about our human relationship to ‘nature’—so much of our language and worldview has historically painted nature as other, as an untouchable ideal, wilderness as ‘unspoiled’ and pristine, flowers and butterflies versus man and machine. I am drawn to stories about species which expand and confuse this overly simplistic view of nature—I’m fascinated by beings that hold both the beauty and the bite. 

East Wemyss:
This is a tribute to the people in my life who are proud nerds, celebrating the strangeness of language and science, noticing details that are generally overlooked, such as fossils in an abandoned mine, and insect music.

Self-portrait as the five of cups:
This poem is the result of a prompt that I gave to my own students during a workshop that I co-taught at the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop this past summer. I'm interested in tarot as a creative, generative historical material—not as a divinatory tool, but as a thought-provoking tool for visual and mental stimulation. I’ve taught a few courses in various contexts using tarot cards as prompts for short fiction and poetry, and in this case, the prompt was to write a self-portrait poem in 20 lines (10 syllables each) in conversation with the tarot card that picked you. I’m lucky if I find the time to write a poem while my students write.

Scandal:
This poem makes me laugh—although it conveys the story of violence and drama, it’s also a simple story about life in a small town in the Midwest. While teaching at Kenyon College in Gambier, Ohio, I experienced the village as if on a theatrical stage or a sitcom—every minor conflict felt exaggerated and amplified by the local gossip. This gossip included the conversations amongst my students, my colleagues, the townsfolk, and the campus newsletter.

Q: How do these poems compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: Ah! My creative work shifts through genres as though through seasons or tides; I wrote a flurry of poems leading up to this chapbook, and now I am mostly writing nonfiction, fiction, and illustrations, as well as a wide range of editorial projects.  I’m primarily focused on editing an anthology titled Queer Flora, Fauna, and Funga, forthcoming with Valiz Press in 2026. Keep your eyes peeled midsummer! I’m often motivated to write poems as a creative response to intense life events, moods, adventures, misadventures—I would be thrilled if an idea for a poem presented itself soon, but I’m also content to wait for the inspiration to come naturally. In the meantime, I’ll be writing, editing, and drawing.

Q: How does your work in different forms—poems, fiction, nonfiction and illustration—interact? Do you see each of these as separate threads, or are they in conversation? 

A: Themes bleed together between these varied forms, and most of my work is hybrid in that it incorporates text and image together. The forms of poetry and prose stay relatively separate, although I tried an experimental ‘conversation’ between these forms recently—I wrote a poem that encapsulated the mood and plot of my unpublished novel manuscript. I enjoyed the challenge and the result; this type of poetic constraint is fruitful for me.

Q: How did you get to the point of working such hybrids? Do you have any models for the kinds of work you’ve been attempting? 

A: I have always been inclined to blend forms and genres. I’m inspired by many hybrid authors; a few that come to mind are Lynda Barry, Alison Bechdel, and Bianca Stone. I read a lot of graphic novels; Drawn and Quarterly is perhaps my favorite publisher of comics and illustrated texts. 

Q: With a handful of published titles, whether as author or illustrator or both, as well as your current works-in-progress, how do you feel your work has progressed? Where do you see your work heading?

A: There are a handful of forms and genres that I have been working towards throughout my writing career, and I haven’t yet achieved—one is to create a fully realized graphic novel/graphic prose book. All of my hybrid works include text and image in various formats, such as single-paged pieces of visual poetry, or typed prose with alternating illustrations, but I have not yet been able to carve out the time and space required to create a graphic novel in which all of my text is fully integrated into the visual art composition, handwritten and incorporated into the design of the page. If that sounds confusing, it is! I find that creating graphic texts is three times as much work as the mediums of writing or artmaking on their own—the synthesis of the two feels like another medium all its own. SO, that’s a goal of mine. Another goal is to publish a full-length book of fiction, either a novel or book of short stories. I have books in many genres and forms, including autofiction, poetry, and nonfiction, but I haven’t written more than a handful of short stories, and I’ve been sitting on my novel for too many years. Time to get this book out there, it’s like a guest that has overstayed their welcome. 

Q: I’m curious about your movement between Burlington, Vermont and Edinburgh, Scotland. How do you engage with these two very different literary landscapes? Do you see a shift in influence or engagement impacting your work at all, as you spend time in each?

A: I have spent two decades in Burlington, on and off, so I am more familiar with ‘the scene’ so to speak, but every time I move away I feel as though I have to re-acquaint myself. It’s such a small city (a town, really), which means that everyone knows everyone else in the literary world of Vermont. There are only a handful of literary publishers, and only a few bookshops and performance venues that consistently host literary events in Burlington, including Phoenix Books, and a roaming open mic that migrates around various coffee shops and bars. I have a lot of affection for this scene, and in contrast, the literary community of Edinburgh currently feels vast and intimidating, because it is so new to me. However, that means I have a lot to explore, and there are many more possibilities; countless bookshops, performance venues, literary festivals, living rooms, pubs, publishing houses. I have attended a few open mics at a bookshop called Typewronger, which is a tiny and truly delightful space (although it gets a bit crowded!) I also often attend readings and book launches at the Portobello Bookshop, Lighthouse Bookshop, and Toppings & Co Booksellers. So much more to learn and explore. I also find that the creative work I have produced in Scotland is less personal and more research-based; perhaps because I don’t have as many interpersonal connections there (yet), so the subjects that I seek and find are in libraries, botanical gardens, museums, and other archives. 

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: Very recently, I ‘discovered’ the work of Eva Baltasar, a Catalan poet and novelist. I found her books on the shelves at one of my favorite bookshops in London, Gay’s the Word. Three slim novels—I’ve consumed the first two: Permafrost and Boulder—and I can’t wait to read the third, Mammoth. I have been reading a lot of poetry collections, piecemeal; I just started a new job as the Reviews Editor for Poetry Wales, and this requires researching new titles from global poetry presses, and reading short samples and poems rather haphazardly. I wish I had time to read every new poetry collection in full! I did manage to read and thoroughly enjoy Joelle Taylor’s C+nto, with the added layer of seeing Taylor perform their new collection, Maryville, live in London recently. Taylor rewrites the history of the underground queer culture of London to include a utopian butch lesbian bar. More, please!

TtD supplement #291 : seven questions for Adam Haiun

Adam Haiun is a writer and poet from Tiohtià:ke/Montréal. His first book, I Am Looking For You in the No-Place Grid was published with Coach House Books in 2025.

His poem “Didn’t Work” appears in the forty-eighth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about “Didn’t Work.”

A: Fear is so different when you’re a kid. It’s so different that I wonder if it shouldn’t be classified as a separate emotion from fear as we feel it in adulthood, if there shouldn’t be a separate word for it. I suppose we say some fears are rational and others are irrational, but I don’t think it’d be fair to discount children and their experiences that way, or to assume that we haven’t just become desensitized to things we were right to fear then. All this is to say I wanted to try and revisit that state in this poem, just how sensorially overwhelming the world is when you’re new to it, how it almost feels made to frighten you. At the same time you’re also new to yourself, your impulses and desires and actions are just as incomprehensible and alien to you as the outside world. I think that’s what I was trying to get at with this one.

Q: How does this poem compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: I’m still plugging away at a draft of a novel, so formally quite different! But in a lot of the work I’ve been doing recently I’ve been interested in setting up the world as operating by strange laws (I mean that mostly in terms of like, laws of nature, but sometimes legal ones also) and forcing characters or subjects to wriggle around navigating them, which is represented a bit here.

Q: Are you finding a difference in your approach to writing now that you’ve a published book under your belt?

A: Knowing I was able to get the first book out, I feel more drawn to long-form projects than ever. It doesn’t feel impossible anymore haha. I’ve participated in a couple workshops since, which are great encouragement for producing one-off pieces like this one. But I really enjoyed the work of making the first book and its concept feel internally consistent in a sustained way, so I want to do more of that, though not with the same style or subject matter.

Q: Have you any models for the kinds of work you’ve been attempting? Have you any particular writers or works at the back of your head as you write?

A: I only just recently got to reading Austerlitz by W. G. Sebald and it’s been in the back of my head ever since. The way time operates in that book, the strangeness of this interrupted and yet not interrupted conversation between two people, memory and its attachments to place, all of that. I love how careful that book is with its absurd element, it’s not trying to be cute with it. I want to emulate that.

Q: I’m fascinated by your use of grids, of space. What prompted your particular engagement with space on the page?

A: I have a love of documents like packing slips, invoices, official mail; these non-artistic ephemera have interesting and sometimes beautiful conventions in terms of their use of the page. I find something funny in the way these documents are often designed for legibility, and how when art is presented in those same shapes it often feels less legible.

Also my dad worked with computers, and we always had computer parts around the house when I was little, and I would stare and stare at these computer chips, with their grid network of roads and endless variety of buildings, and I’d imagine factories and apartment blocks and offices and water towers et cetera.

Also I played around a lot with SketchUp, the 3D modelling software, when I got my first Mac, it must have come with it. I would build these crude cities and fortresses out of extruded cylinders and blocks and then fly through them with the camera. I think from that time on I developed an association with the grid as the starting point of anything.

I could go on!

Q: With a published collection, as well as your current works-in-progress, how do you feel your work has progressed? Where do you see your work heading?

A: When I started writing it was writing without subject matter. I wanted to select and arrange a lot of pretty words. Writing with no sense of personal or political selfhood. Maturing outside of writing has resulted in the maturation of my writing, surprise, surprise. I hope I continue to grow up but I’m very bad at looking ahead. My plan is to keep working and lift my head after the next project ends and see where I’ve ended up. Right now I’m trying to become a better researcher, that’s something.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: Robert Hass’ The Essential Haiku is a really useful book to have around. Open to relevant seasonal poem, read, look out of window. Always refreshing. There are books I open up once a year like Plainwater or Invisible Cities or Gravity’s Rainbow. The Blind Owl by Sadegh Hedayat and Swamp Angel by Ethel Wilson are summer reads.