Category Archives: Canadian Poetry

Some Lines of Poetry from the notebooks of bpNichol, edited by Derek Beaulieu and Gregory Betts (Coach House Books)

Some Lines of Poetry from the notebooks of bpNichol, edited by Derek Beaulieu and Gregory Betts (Coach House Books)

bpNichol is not well known in Britain, although he crops up here and there in anthologies and reviews, and is a big name in the Canada poetry world. He died in 1988 and this book was published to celebrate what would have been Nichol’s 80th birthday. 

The book is a healthy and surprising mix of outtakes, works-in-progress, poetics, notes, translations, homages, visual poems and a lecture, revealing the myriad influences and confluences that informed Nichol’s writing. 

His visual poems are as likely to be concrete and typewritten as hand drawn, and in several places, he works on an idea in several iterations and variations. For instance, ‘fish swimming out of alphabet’ is opposite ‘nothing swimming out of alphabet’, both composed on the same day; and, elsewhere five ‘Turin texts’.

Sometimes, the mutating texts or drawings are laugh-out-loud funny, other times they are elusive and obscure: ‘some lines of poetry’ simply extends lines out from a handwritten word, poetry, down from the stem of the p, up and across from the t, up from the final loop of the y, whilst the bird of ‘Seascape With Bird’ is the u lifting off from a handwritten seagull. Both are wonderful, but despite knowing who Kurt Schwitters is and what he wrote, I do not ‘get’ the drawn shape of ‘Homage to Schwitters’.

When he is most successful, Nichols’ work reminds of me of Robert Lax’s. Playful, focussed and profound, with just enough going on to make a point, to draw attention to a facet of language or experience, to make the reader think, to say something in a different way.

Elsewhere in this beautiful paperback edition, work seems less finished, with various examples of annotations, ideas and possible revisions. Arrows suggest digressions or flights of associative imagination, sometimes it seems that poems are first imagined as instructions or diagrams rather than language, whilst ‘IM: mortality play’ presents revisions and scribbled notes in a far more traditional way.

The piece I have reread the most, however is the lengthy closer ‘Don’t Forget the Author’ a transcript of a 1985 lecture given at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity. Despite being a formal piece, it is in many ways the most personal and revealing work in the book and is an intelligent and informed piece of writing – along with the discussion that followed the lecture – about writing, editing and publishing, in the widest sense.

So, although there is mention of marketing and sales here, there is much more about writerly intent, contractual negotiations, book design, freelancing, audiences and reader/writer expectations and relationships. It’s clear that Nichol was a realist, sometimes prepared to compromise, but also that he positioned himself within the (mostly) small press world to get the work and books he wanted published, published in the way he wanted. 

The poems here evidence a playful, generous spirit. Yes, the work is often experimental, but it invites the reader in, to wander and wonder, whilst the lecture is serious but also self-deprecating, amusing and truthful. The same spirit informs the editor’s foreword, enticing readers to read on, to engage with what they call ‘Nichol’s wild, free literary thinking’, noting further on that ‘[h]is range is, as always, astonishing.’

Considering that this, as the blurb puts it, ‘is a map of hidden corners’ and ‘a guidebook to poetic play’, I am looking forward to engaging further with bpNichol’s main body of work.

Rupert Loydell 25th February 2025

Tears in the Fence 80 is out!

Tears in the Fence 80 is out!

Tears in the Fence 80 is now available at http://tearsinthefence.com/pay-it-forward and features poetry, prose poetry, translations and fiction by Joanna Nissel, Claire HM, Morag Kiziewicz, Geraldine Clarkson, Mary Michaels, Hanne Bramness translated by Anna Reckin, Jill Jones, John Freeman, Peter Dent, Cindy Botha, Lucy Hamilton, Michael Farrell, Rosie Garland, Tiffany Farr, Biljana Scott, Peter Larkin, Jane Wheeler, Robert Vas Dias, Kate Firth, Norman Jope, Steve Spence, Andrew Henon, Mark Goodwin, Randolph Healy, Jennifer K Dick, Lynne Wycherley, Eliza O’Toole, Nigel Jarrett, Danielle Hubbard, Vanessa Ackerman, Caroline Maldonado, Richard Foreman, Huw Gwynn-Jones, Kathleen McPhilemy, Charles Wilkinson, Rachel Spence, Valerie Bridge, Lesley Burt, Vivienne Freeman, Jonathan Catherall, Elizabeth Cook, Susanne Lansman, Beth Davyson, Mary McCollum, Evelyn Schlag translated by Karen Leeder, Andrew Duncan, Cathra Kelliher, David Punter and Kareem Tayyar.

The critical section consists of the Editorial by David Caddy, Andrew Duncan on Jeremy Reed, Jack Martell on Jack Martell on Laura Oldfield Ford, David Annwn on Randolph Healey, David Caddy on Emily Dickinson’s Letters and Natural Magic, Gemma Garcia on Beatriz Hausner, Steve Spence on Ian Seed, Mandy Pannett on Séan Street, Norman Jope on Sicilian Poetry, Rosa Parker-Cochran on Ken Edwards, Joanna Nissel on Elvire Roberts, Rachel Spence, Steve Spence on Alasdair Paterson, Elaine Randell on Brian Marley, Steve Spence on Fran Lock. Morag Kiziewicz’s Electric Blue 15 and Notes on Contributors.

This year’s annual Tears in the Fence Festival at the Stourpaine Village Hall, Stourpaine is on 20th to 22nd September in celebration of our fortieth anniversary and eighty issues. It is also a fundraiser for the journal. More details at https://tearsinthefence.com/2024-festival/

David Caddy 15th August 2024

A Year of Last Things by Michael Ondaatje (Cape Poetry)

A Year of Last Things by Michael Ondaatje (Cape Poetry)

Michael Ondaatje’s poetry is rooted in memories and an attempt to make connections between them. It is a quiet, persuasive poetry with a sense of otherworldliness to it. Sometimes this is due to a fuzziness of recall, a sense of distance and time; sometimes due to geography and place (poems about going to school in Colombo, Sri Lanka); at other times a deliberate engagement with the unknown or other, be that ‘the plotless thirteen hundred / pages of a Sanskrit dictionary’ he reads in ‘Definition’ or the totally unknowable combination of veterinary treatment and animal sounds:

     THE CABBAGETOWN PET CLINIC

     For years I wrote during the day

     above a veterinarian

     The howls, the heavy breathing, the sighs

     from that faraway untranslated world

Of course, whilst neither Ondaatje or the reader can know the language of animals, what Ondaatje can do is recreate the experience of writing in solitude and hearing what is going on below. I like the fact there is no description of his room, where the clinic is, or what he is writing, just the establishment of occupation and the metaphor of what is being written as another world which he is struggling to access. Simple but complex. Four lines. Done and dusted.

Of course, very few of the poems in this book are this compact. Many tell stories, or ponder, philosophically, on the emotions or scenes being recalled. ‘Lost’ moves from the narrator ‘remember[ing] the afternoon I kept losing you / at the Evolution exhibit in Cambridge’ to a suggestion that ‘one of us became the forsaken lover / who somebody might wave from a subtitled dream’ to a more dramatic final questioning last verse:

     How did we let slip each other’s hand

     in the carboniferous era on the third floor

     before we wandered down the Triassic times.

Here are not only a couple losing each other, physically and emotionally, but also an evocation of a huge sense of time and distance, separation; perhaps of humans adrift in the vast universe.

Love and longing are frequently the subject, or one of the subjects, of poems here. ‘Leg Glance’ considers ‘The dangers of the subjunctive mood / when love affair are still all coal and smoke’, using cricket as a sustained metaphor for desire, noting that ‘not bothering to move / from the path of the dangerous ball’ is ‘how you make a song / out of someone else’s rumour’. Or perhaps it is a poem about cricket using love as a metaphor?

It is this uncertainty that I enjoy, the fact that these poems, in many ways traditional free verse narratives, can not be simply pinned down and defined. Ondaatje’s poems are slippery and complex. The six part poem ‘A Night Radio Station in Koprivshtitsa’ could be considered a travelogue (‘Crossing the mile-wide ten-mile depth / of the San Andreas fault and three time zones’), a history lesson (‘Ottoman rule prohibited the building of churches / higher than a horse and rider’), or a metaphysical or religious poem. In part 4, ‘How to Paint an Icon’, we are instructed to

     Depict new rain whenever it arrives over the hills.

     No sunlight. Everything is sunlight.

This is physics, colour as reflected light, but also tied up with the notion that icons are a window to God, not a representation of the saint depicted. Part 5 expounds upon ‘the silence in icons’ and also notes the ‘deafness in icons’ and the fact that ‘Icons do not travel.’

By now the poem sequence has become a prose poem. Part 6, the longest, returns to the theme of ‘How to paint an icon’ but also considers the lives represented by icons; notions of pilgrimage, confession and veneration; offers us a part of a travel diary which includes the radio of the poem’s title; and recalls being shown ‘a photograph of three poets standing together, each half blind, so they had only the perspective and depth-of-field of three eyes among them’. They are not named or described, but it is clear as the 11 page sequence ends that it is another allusion to how we see, represent and (mis)remember what we desire or once knew. ‘”I recall what you were wearing, even now”‘, says the narrator in closing, ‘”when I did not even know of you, had not yet even desired you, and was awake all night.”‘

Whether in the realms of dreams and the imagination or the realities of ‘What can be Named in the Earth’, Ondaatje is adept at swimming in the rivers of memory he creates, enticing us into the complex currents of time. A Year of Last Things is an engaging and personal book, offering an ‘intimacy that comes with trusting a fiction, a non-personal truth, going towards what you do not yet know.’ The author is exploring too, suggesting that he ‘will not even remember writing it.’

Rupert Loydell 4th July 2024

Surface Tension by Derek Beaulieu (Coach House Books)

Surface Tension by Derek Beaulieu (Coach House Books)

I have several Derek Beaulieu books on my poetry shelves; his work fascinates and intrigues me, but I still don’t feel I know how to read them (or perhaps the term is process them). Concrete poetry is an established genre and I am happy to put Beaulieu into that lineage, I’m also happy with poetry that uses the visual as a guiding or organizing principle, and poetry that doesn’t prioritise content or narrative or epiphany.

Yet, Beaulieu’s poems are beyond that. Often constructed from Letraset rub-down lettering, they are visual patterns and constructs, sometimes in sequences, sometimes seemingly treated even more (or made differently): “Calcite Gours 1-19”, published and given away by rob mclennan back in 2004, and my introduction to Beaulieu’s work, contains a ‘suite of poems’ which are circular-ish explosions of ink, reminiscent of star clusters. They are as seductive and engaging as the night sky, too.

That book is also dedicated to the memory of Bob Cobbing, which offers another lineage to place Beaulieu’s work into, that of improvisation and sound poetry, hand-in-hand with the farther reaches of experimental poetry. Beaulieu states that the work ‘is an attempt at engaging with the materiality of language; treating the construction of poetry as a physical task’, going on to reference ‘painterly/gesture based movements and modes of construction influenced by abstract expressionism’, to be considered as ‘an examination of mark making’.

Surface Tension is much more clearly made of letter forms, not only prompting the question ‘where on earth does the author find Letraset in the 21st century?’ but also offering a way in to the work through variation, change and mutation: the work in each sequence is clearly related and shares source material as it slides, disforms and reconfigures itself. My favourite sequence is ‘Dendrochronology’, which swiftly develops from a curvy conglomeration of letters into enlarged topographies of black and whites forms, reminiscent of rock strata or map details.

The book is also interesting for the poetics on offer, presented as prose between the series of poems. The first of these offers several interesting ideas and facts: that ‘Surface Tension creates landscapes from the remnants of advertising’ (which made me feel less guilty about my landscape comparison); and that ‘[t]hese reflections and distortions work to keep concrete current, in flow, a fluidity refusing to solidify around power.’

This idea of fluidity as a tactic to resist power is an interesting one, and Beaulieu builds on it in a later text where he states ‘that the usages of language in poetry of the traditional type are not keeping pace with live processes of language and rapid methods of communication at work in the contemporary world’, and also reminds us that ‘[w]riting is not aboutsomething, it is the something itself.’

Even if we want to argue with that notion, perhaps saying we want a poem to be about something as well as being something, we must be aware of  those ‘live processes of language and rapid methods of communication’, perhaps even the idea of society, nature, knowledge and matter itself in flux. I am reminded of Helen Vendler’s statement in The Given and the Made, when discussing the early work of Jorie Grahamthat:

‘The instabilities of matter must now be assumed by the self; and so any poem spoken in the voice of the material self must be an unstable poem, constantly engaged in linguistic processes of approximation.’ 

Beaulieu’s way of dealing with the unstable and approximate is to create ‘poems that refuse linearity in favour of the momentary’, poetry that ‘move[s] past declarations of emotion into a form more indicative of how readers process language’. To resist modern culture, advertising and the transient by producing poetry that works in the same way is an odd form of engagement, but it is an intriguing approach, and serves as a provocation and reminder that ‘[e]motions and ideas are not physical materials’, and that poems ‘are not rarified jewels carefully chiselled for a bespoke audience.’ 

Beaulieu prefers poetry to be constructed with ‘nuts and bolts, factory made, shifting from use to use’, thinks that ‘[l]iterature is not craftsmanship but an industrial process’, and states ‘[t]he contemporary poem is an understanding of juxtapositions’: all admirable responses to and rebuttals of the egotistical, lyrical hangovers and shaggy dog narratives we find in so much contemporary poetry. 

Once we realise it is okay to just enjoy Beaulieu’s poems for what they are, in the moment, a weight lifts and we no longer have to worry about content and understanding, can find our own way of engaging with these original and distinct poems. We should also be aware that how we read and what we read, changes. Jacques Derrida perhaps says it best, in ‘Living On / Border Lines’:

‘unreadability does not arrest reading, does not leave it paralysed in the face of an opaque surface: rather, it starts reading and writing and translating moving again. The unreadable is not the opposite of the readable, but rather the ridge that also gives it momentum, movement, sets it in motion.’ 

In Surface Tension Derek Beaulieu continues to set all sorts of things in motion, extending and refining the possibilities of poetry.

Rupert Loydell 31st January 2023