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Poetry

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Murmurations published by Gaspereau Press

Murmurations, a book of poetry by Annick MacAskill, is about the flora and fauna of love, and the geographies of the heart. The poems conjure up roaring rivers, ecstatic waterfalls, the pounding waves of Nova Scotia’s Atlantic, the frozen lake of Ontario, the cry of the she-wolf lost in the Rockies and formations of birds high above Monet’s bridges. The natural world stands in for human lovers who are lost and then found again.  

The poet is mistress of word economy. She deftly throws away lazy and sluggish words, and those that remain are lean, crisp and clean. So, each word, grateful to be alive, takes up the task of creation and becomes a universe in itself—layered, exacting and wondrous, and a world where opposites meet in joyous union.  

MacAskill is a trickster. When we think she is talking about magpies, we realize she’s conversing more so about her love, her emptiness, her fear. In “Water Hunger,” the humble magpie is elevated to cosmic seer.  

And who cannot fall in love with a poem like “Banff” with a mountain carved personally by the hand of God? “Ninth Floor” shows the poet at her trickiest and playful best. I smiled from ear to ear as I read this poem. “Ornithologists” teaches us the alphabet and vocabulary of birds. It is menacing, seductive and tentative at the same time.  

Birds, with the exception of doves, are everywhere—hawks, herons, ravens and ducks. They are ravenous and craven, brave and brazen, shy and unshaven. In fact, the poet is bird obsessed. We are told that birds are messengers of the soul. If this is so, then MacAskill writes these poems as soul messages to bring us back to love. And by calling on the denizens of the sky, she shows us how to fall in love again and again.  

Annick MacAskill

Winter is also everywhere. Her love stories take place in winter: the beginning, middle and end, and in various topographies. Lake Ontario, Queen St. The Rocky Mountains, and the Canadian Prairies. Sometimes winter’s snow is pristine and playful, other times moody and brooding, sometimes cold, hungry and insolent.  

But through it all, there is always love: fierce, bold, demanding and in perfect surrender. In the poems Eros narrates to us the beauty and joy of sex. Love and passion invoke prayers, as incanted in “Vespers.” 

You are my midnight prayer, that dark-room hymn,
Know this: I’ve waited long enough to make certain demand—               
Collapse the sky and run your body through my veins,
Taste what can be made of us, 

The diverse Canadian landscape is a central motif in this collection. Yet the poems conjure up other temporal periods and geographic spaces. I read about falcons and I go to ancient Egypt, to the mythic story of Horus, the bravest and strongest of all falcons, but with the tender heart of a dove; the turbulent rivers, lakes and oceans sound a verse from the Psalms in my head: “Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me”; and chattering birds presents themselves as the Hoopoe bird, the most sageful bird in history, special messenger to King Solomon. The wisdom of the Hoopoe bird is chronicled in the Quran through the love story of the bird-wise King Solomon and the original Queen of Gold Arms, Sheba.   

Though MacAskill is kindred to Sue Goyette, Gwendolyn McEwen and Rosario Castellanos, she is her own woman poet. And she has found her voice. What a voice it is—tender, compassionate, inspiring, wise, warrior-strong and brilliant. This voice sings to us wedding songs worthy of the Shulamite’s love.  

Murmurations is a joy to read and hear!  

Afua Cooper

Dr. Afua Cooper is a multidisciplinary scholar and artist. Her 12 books range across such genres as history, poetry, fiction and children’s literature. Her latest book of poems and photographs by Wilfried Raussert is called Black Matters and is published Roseway. Dr. Cooper served as Poet Laureate of Halifax Regional Municipality for the term 2018-2020.  

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In Carol Hobbs’ first book of poetry, New-found-land, the poet brings the perspective of someone who has spent equal parts living in and leaving Newfoundland, a place which she still longs to be as an expat living in Boston. What she left behind is a “Perfect World” (the first section of the book, detailing the poet’s Newfoundland upbringing), later destined to a life in “Exile” (the second section, which predominantly shares her life in America, punctuated by reminders of home).  

In the first section, common outport themes like hunting, fishing and foraging are recalled with the innocence of childhood memories: “The caribou’s eyes are open so I sing to it. . . My father hums along, and cuts away the skin from the severed hind quarter” (p.28). Familiar references, for example, to the 1992 cod fishery collapse, offer original insights: “the people scatter into the dark quadrants of the mainland, broken, their mouths open—the desperate thirst of them” and “Houses flake paint over stones, over gardens… boats sinking into indiscriminate ground” (p.36). Her language is evocative and lyrical, for example, describing a whale’s eye as “oily in the dark cup, me mirrored in the eye-slick” (p.3); while, of a bonfire, she writes: “Sweet myrrh and spruce needles tangled like worms in the knit of sweaters… flankers spit into the night, fell back smoking onto our hair” (p.13). 

For those raised in the province, they’ll especially appreciate the references only a Newfoundlander could muster such as to mom’s preordained suppers (“Fridays, salt fish in drawn butter”) (p.7); a pantry of traditional bottled goods (“Cabbage pickles with bright mustard and black beads of pepper” p.19); and nan’s quilt-making (“On hands and knees, she mapped out the world of the garment” p.15).  

In the second section, Hobbs shares milestones from adulthood like the failing health of her parents—first her mother (p.40), then her father (p.59); how she became a writer (in line at a bookstore, p.64-65); and her encounter with 20th-century American poet, John Ashbury (1927-2017) (p.66). Most telling is her poem, Exile, where she reveals the parts of herself that have persisted, even after considerable time away: “Some accents take longer than others to dissolve” and “I like to be called my love, my lass” (p.71). 

While most of the book is an ode to family and culture, the final poem, “New-found-land,” pays homage to land, sea and wildlife: “In the beginning Conception Bay was gold in that soft belly of kelp. There were green rocks smoothed and thrown to oval, and squids full of circular scars” (p.73). It’s a perfect note on which to end this poetry collection – an enjoyable read for Newfoundlanders, expats and visitors alike. 

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Bren Simmers’ Pivot Point is a beautiful publication. The softly textured book jacket, the evocative line drawings by Emma FitzGerald, and the high-quality cream paper with plenty of free space all show that Gaspereau Press lavished attention on this book.  

Even the font choices warrant a two-page explanation by the publisher. Before one reads a word, the book is already a work of art. 

Pivot Point is a poetic travelogue, following three long-time friends and their partners as they paddle and portage the canoe circuit around Bowman Lakes in British Columbia. The author takes us on a day-by-day journey, and each day’s reflection ends with a poem. She describes not only the physical aspects of the trip but also her emotional and interpersonal experiences. 

Simmers’ poetical background is reflected in her concise and evocative language. There is so much portrayed in passages such as:  

“two well worn stones, my head fits in the hollow of Adam’s arm. Held in that river eddy before the great packing and unpacking and repacking that is breakfast.”  

Partway through the trip, she is challenged by a fellow traveller (not one of her group) to defend the role of poetry in the world today. She freezes and cannot think of a response at the time, but later formulates her reason for writing this poetic book, “to capture the spirit of this place, so that others can know it.”  

She succeeds in her quest over and over again, with descriptions such as:  

“Enter the blue hour, where twilight cycles through its cyanometer and trees dim to inky silhouettes.”  

I have witnessed many such a Canadian evening but have never heard it described so well. 

As with most poetic writing, the sparseness of words means there are unelaborated references that, if understood, make the book infinitely richer. In Pivot Point, there were a fair number of canoeing terms that I looked up to make sure I was envisioning the right thing: sweepers and standing waves, prys and draws, thwarts and yokes. Enter the handy “Glossary of Canoe Terminology” on paddling.com.  

I also had to brush up on an isosceles triangle (two equal sides) and check out a number of people I didn’t know (the American writer Barry Lopez and the Canadian musicians Ember Swift and Lindell Montgomery are now on my radar.) Simmers under, rather than over-explains, and challenges us to use our intelligence and imagination. 

Right from the start, Simmers pushes herself, physically and mentally. Both journeys are fascinating.  

Not being a canoeist myself, I probably romanticise the idea of a camping canoe trip, but Simmers quickly dispelled my fantasy with her descriptions of the physical travails of this kind of “holiday.” The portages are arduous: Simmers describes potholes, squelching mud, broken pack straps, imbalanced carts and canoes that bruise hips and roll into ditches. The paddling also takes its toll, with sore muscles, blisters, hands frozen when the “steady showers scour sideways.” 

But even more challenging, I think, are the emotional challenges Simmers undergoes. She describes a tough moment near the beginning of the journey:  

“We snap, then fall silent. My mind flash-floods with negative self-talk, tears come before I can trace the thought trail back to not strong enough, holding everyone back, shouldn’t have come.”  

Later on, she challenges herself to rise above her negative thoughts:  

“These people are not the ‘campsite competition.’ When will I learn to see allies first, not enemies? Source from abundance, believe that there is enough to go around, ditch the scarcity narrative that no longer serves me.” 

Halifax-based artist Emma FitzGerald provides whimsical illustrations that make you wonder if she weren’t along for the trip. The details are all there, be it the bear-spray cover illustration or the flies in the powdered-lemonade-and-whisky cocktails. The larger landscape illustrations beautifully mirror the verbal descriptions and add another level of understanding and enjoyment to the book. 

Pivot Point is a pleasure to look at, hold, read, ponder and revisit. 

 

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It,
all for a few moments
seems so far away,
in another community,
another province,
another country.

And then in another few moments
it is right there
in our stomachs,
our hearts,
and then down our cheeks.

It,
deserved of such a description
I will not say otherwise
other than
it has paused the tides.

April 20, 2020
Truro, NS

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Katie Vautour is a visual artist and writer published in a variety of literary journals, and though she dabbles in all genres (including fiction, non-fiction and playwriting), her main focus is poetry. An Unorthodox Guide to Wildlife is her debut collection and explores the spaces where humans and other animals meet. shalan joudry is a poet, performance artist and storyteller. Elapultiek is her first play and deals with complex themes of reconciliation, science and the natural environment. The two poets shared a conversation about their work:

shalan joudry: What an interesting idea for a series of poems about such a diversity of wildlife. Where did the concept come from; did you set out to create this as a collection? And how did you observe or learn about these animals?

Katie Vautour: Most of my poems’ starting points come from personal observation or experience. That can range from direct interaction with animals, whether in nature or zoos, as pets, or consideration of documentaries and books.

I’m a visual artist as well. My work is very intuitive, so I try not to think much about it while writing. Sometimes I’ll start writing from a brief stream-of-consciousness concept from an image or sketch or memory, or begin with a very rigid poetry form, depending on what I think the subject matter requires. This often changes during editing. Normally, after an initial draft, I wait a few days, at least, then go back and look over the piece.

It’s then I’ll often print out the text. That’s when I discover that, well, maybe this short story actually wants to be made into several poems, or maybe this elegy should be free verse instead.

So I’ll physically cut out words and sentences and begin to rearrange them on a separate page, until the visual placement appears to suit the subject matter and experience I wanted to capture. At least, as best I can.

That’s what I really love about poetry; I think it’s the most visual and visceral form of writing, in terms of text on the page. Looking back on it, I have no true agenda, other than to write what seemed right, ha.

How about you, shalan? Your inspiration was that you worked on Species at Risk, isn’t that right?

sj: Yes, I watched and counted Endangered Chimney Swifts over the course of four springs for Maritime Swiftwatch. I have also worked with various non-Mi’kmaw biologists and those experiences created a great inspiration for this work.

My years with other ecologists have provided the time for relationship building, to be able to move important conversations deeper and build more trust and understanding. I also wanted to tell this story focusing on a specific species at risk.

We have so many species losing habitat and struggling to survive in the changing landscapes and I wanted to talk about one as an example. The chimney swifts are really amazing to watch as they circle in the sky at dusk to descend together into their communal roost.

There’s a roost in an empty house in downtown Bear River, not far from my community, and I love to watch the swifts in the spring. You end up standing there on the sidewalk with other people in anticipation and then you end up chit chatting about life as you wait. One day I realized that was the backdrop to a story.

You wrote about the clash between animals and humans in your book, sometimes the specific hardships of certain animals. Did you feel that you were being a witness as a writer, or do you have a hope with these…?

KV: I didn’t necessarily set out to write a book primarily about animal and human relationships. I don’t have a particular agenda while writing or making art. I’ve simply always been curious about animals and the natural world, and how humans decide who, or when, or why, they think owns the natural and man-made world, or the creatures within it.

I think it raises some important, if tricky, questions, about the personification of creatures, and how people observe and come to understand (or not) nature and different species, including humans themselves.

Regarding specific poems, one was originally tilted “My Brother and the Hare,” but is now “Military Survival Training.” It does sound particularly specific, which is true, since my brother is in the military and was, in fact, given a pet hare to care for, then had to take it with him into the woods.

My brother wasn’t given any food. You can guess what happened to his poor pet rabbit after a few weeks. I was interested in working with very constricting forms at the time and it seemed the repetition within the sestina served the subject matter well.

shalan, in Elapultiek, Bill, a non-Mi’kmaw biologist, struggles with Nat, a Mi’kmaw character’s, way of doing things. Why do you think there is that resistance among scientists to believe in cultural practices?

sj: There can be quite a clash of worldviews between mainstream science and Mi’kmaw cultural practice; however, I found in real life that there is a growing awareness and openness to what we now call Two-eyed Seeing, thanks to Elders like Albert Marshall where we view the ecological project with both the mainstream science and the cultural eye, without one overpowering the other.

I do understand their hesitancy, though. We’re taught in university science programs about the importance of keeping objectivity. Cultural biases are supposed to remain outside the work.

However, many people realize that cultural bias is indeed within all that we do and how we see the world around us, how we interact and analyze information. Mi’kmaw methodology in ecology is very much about subjectivity and your personal relationship with the topic.

That’s a difficult difference to agree on when you’re sitting on a species recovery team. Although, we find ways to weave back and forth, allowing both the “objective measuring” to take its moment and then allow the subjective cultural practice to have a role as well. I tried to demonstrate that possibility and hope in this work.

Katie, you used spacing as a way to say more with the words, to invoke a different sensation, I believe. How did you decide when and where to move the words around the page?

KV: I think it’s because I’m a visual artist as well that my sense of words on the page are also my way of best representing the meaning.

For example, the poem about the giraffe was inspired (for lack of a better word) by watching a giraffe lean over a lake, in the awkward way that they do, trying to decide whether or not to take a drink. He was looking down like he was staring at his own reflection, the narcissist, so I stretched out the poem vertically down several pages, with a lot of white space, in an attempt to visually reconstruct that image and concept.

So I guess, often the subject dictates the form, and occasionally vice versa.

sj: I’m not a visual artist and so I find that fascinating. Many of my projects are based on words and I find the particular medium for each piece that wants to come into the world.

For example, I’m also a poet but this story of Bill and Nat needed to be a play. The theatre company Two Planks and a Passion called on me a couple years ago to ask me if I would consider writing a play and I was happy to tell them I already had an idea for a play.

It was perfect timing and a great experience. The printed version came about so that others—who weren’t able to watch the play performed—could read the story. I believe that art has a way of finding the right form to move our hearts and minds, often in ways that workshops and speeches can’t.

 


Elapultiek: We Are Looking Towards
shalan joudry
Pottersfield Press


An Unorthodox Guide to Wildlife
Katie Vautour
Breakwater Books

 

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As a poet and mathematician, Hugh Thomas’ work has led him around the world, and his international, multilingual outlook is a clear influence in Maze. In his new poetry collection, Thomas sets out to translate the works of other poets, both contemporary and historical, into English. The only obstacle is his inability to speak the languages of these poets. However, he doesn’t let this setback stand in his way. While his Spanish, Norwegian and Ancient Greek might need some work, Thomas is fluent in the language of poetry.

Thomas doesn’t so much translate these poems in a literal sense, but instead tries to capture the poetry in what he thinks the works mean, using the flow and the sounds of these foreign texts to guide him, not a dictionary.

Some of the interpretations Thomas presents us with include a fresh take on Federico García Lorca’s “La guitarra” entitled “The Guitarist,” artful selections from foreign-language dictionaries, a phonetic take on some Sapphic verse, and even an attempt to translate Norwegian and Catalan versions of English poems back into English.

With his sentimental, figurative adaptations of foreign-language poetry, Hugh Thomas shows himself to be a pioneer in the field of what can only be described as “abstract translating.”

The 65 poems that make up Maze deal with an array of themes and subjects, most notably observations that Thomas has made while abroad. Despite the alien origins of more than half of these poems, they read like original works that differ greatly from the source material. It’s not until the end of the text that Thomas cites his “sources,” which allows the content of Maze to stand on its own merits.

Hugh Thomas’ Maze is sure to find a grateful audience in poetry enthusiasts who consider themselves “of the world,” and language lovers alike.

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The space between translation.

Nuance has always been a key component of translation. Certain words and expressions don’t always transfer well from one language to another and intended meanings can often get lost in the shuffle. The French phrase “pas terrible” (literally, “not terrible”) may seem straightforward enough, but native-level speakers know it’s actually used—bafflingly—to mean “not that great.” To European Spanish speakers, “coger” may be just an innocent way to say, “to take” or “seize,” but in Latin America, the verb takes on a more vulgar meaning.

Poetry is not a medium that is famous for precision and straightforwardness. It’s the way a poet toys with language and uses it in unorthodox ways that makes the form irresistible to its admirers. But this radical use of words makes it a form particularly difficult to accurately translate. Rhyme, alliteration, and other devices are often sacrificed when a text is published in a foreign tongue.

The complexities of poetry translation are not lost on Parliamentary Poet Laureate Georgette LeBlanc, who is currently working on a French translation (with Éditions Perce-Neige) of Halifax-based poet Sue Goyette’s poetry collection Ocean. Published in 2013 by Gaspereau Press, the collection of free-verse poems mythologizes humanity’s relationship with the sea. In 2015, the book won the Lieutenant Governor of Nova Scotia Masterwork Arts Award.

Sue Goyette and the ocean.

Goyette was enthusiastic about the project from the beginning. Trusting LeBlanc to take it in her own direction, she had no concerns about how her personal voice and writing style would carry over into the French version.

“I knew of Georgette and her work, and I trusted her integrity,” says Goyette. “So, I knew that the book was going to be heard, and I knew it was going to be in good hands.”

LeBlanc initially struggled to translate the sharpness and wit of the poems. At first, she chose to write the poems in a standard, textbook style of French, more concerned with trying to capture the original spirit of Goyette’s writing than to have the translation make literal sense. Nevertheless, she felt confined by the rigidity of the unexciting, standard French. It wasn’t until she was well into the translation process that she decided to add some colour, making the decision to translate the collection of poems using her own, personal voice and dialect.

“When I finally tried it in my French, the French that I write in, it felt better,’ says LeBlanc. “I was having more fun. I was laughing and finding more pleasure in the work.”

Goyette was excited to hear LeBlanc had chosen this route, noting “the fact that she switched to her language, which she’s way more comfortable with, made me so happy. Because I think that freed Georgette to actually engage with the work poetically rather than cognitively or intellectually.”

The French LeBlanc chose for translating Ocean is influenced by the Acadian dialect spoken in Baie Sainte-Marie, Nova Scotia, where she grew up. The decision to write in her French was never a conscious effort to promote the dialect. LeBlanc says it’s just the voice she expresses herself best with. “Sue’s writing in her English, James Joyce wrote in his English,” she says. “Everyone writes in their own version of whatever language they were given by their mothers.”

Sue Goyette sees the act of poetry translation as an art all its own. Whenever she reads the work of a poet not originally published in English, she always makes sure to pick up a bilingual version of the text. While growing up in Québec, she read English translations of francophone poetry alongside the original French. This back-and-fourth reading enriched her understanding of the poems and helped her better see what the author was trying to convey.

“I like watching the space between the translation,” says Goyette. “It’s really fascinating to me. I see the original word and the direction the translator has taken and wonder, is it a literal translation or a figurative translation?”

LeBlanc has a similar fondness for translation. As a budding poet, she was influenced by the works of Chilean poet Pablo Neruda but was limited to reading his Spanish-language work in French. Despite this obstacle, the payoff was life-changing.

“I didn’t really understand Spanish the way I understand it now, so it was my only way of reading Neruda,” says LeBlanc. “Had there not been a translation of Neruda, I never would have known Neruda, and I never would have found a friend.”

One of the more practical benefits of poetry translation is that a whole new audience becomes exposed to a previously inaccessible work of art. Goyette says she’s grateful to gain a new, francophone audience and hopes that LeBlanc’s version helps further a conversation about art, the ocean, and our place beside it.

“It’s great. It should happen more, all the time,” says LeBlanc. “It’s great for Sue, it’s great for us. It’s great for everyone.” “It’s a happy place,” she adds, laughing. “Translation is a happy place.”

Ocean
Sue Goyette
Gaspereau Press

 

 

 

 

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Governor-General Award-nominated poet Phil Hall is the University of New Brunswick’s current Writer-in-Residence, until May of this year. He is located in the English Department in Fredericton. His work includes conducting readings around the province with Acadian poet Rose Deprés, mentoring students with their writing, visiting classes and meeting with the general writing community. He also has a showing of his visual collages at the Harriet Irving Library until Feb 1. Hall graciously agreed to chat with Atlantic Books Today about his experience to date:

Atlantic Books Today: You’ve been at UNB since Sept; what are your impressions to date and what do you think you’ll miss most when you leave?

Phil Hall: My native country is Ontario, so it is an adventure to get to know this other settlement and its writing ways, a bit further from centre, with different gods.

I have met some terrific writers at the university, and in the larger community. That UNB is one of the only two universities in Canada now to offer a Phd program in Writing (Calgary is the other) makes the UNB English Dept a vibrant place to be.

I have wanted to meet M Travis Lane for years; now I have. And of course, Herménégilde Chiasson is one of my favourite Canadian poets—in November, I saw his art retrospective at the Beaverbrook Gallery.

In the Harriet Irving Library, I can sit under the big painting of Alden Nowlan, look down and across the river, and read the manuscripts that have been sent to me.

Every province thinks it knows the true meaning of what rural is, but New Brunswick has a special claim: no metropolis, fewer people. All this silence breeds deep listening, raucous stories, poems of place. There’s a strong pull to all that.

I have been welcomed quickly and easily here.

ABT: You’ve been doing readings around New Brunswick with the Acadian poet Rose Deprés, who translated your book Killdeer into French. What have you learned from Rose?

PH: Rose is a terrific poet and translator. She has helped me see my own book newly, as good translators are able to. She has also led me to the best second-hand shops!

Reading with her has been one of the best things about being here. Alternating French and English in our readings from Killdeer/Le pluvier kildir—we have been able to offer audiences that wider scope our literature should have. We need more braiding of languages—the two official ones, & the Indigenous ones, as well as all the others that are here.

Rose has been my guide in the field. She and I will be going to the Northrop Frye Festival in the spring too. I’d be nervous to do it without her.

ABT: You’ve also been visiting classes and meeting with students about their own writing. What have you noticed about these writers in training? Do you get a sense of anything different about New Brunswick in terms of poetic interests?

PH: The students, of course, are from all over Canada. There are graduate students from the States as well. They all bring the interests that are current everywhere now: gender & transgender issues, racism & violence against women, global weather-shifts, borders and immigration.

I have also met students from French homes in the north of the province. They have been grateful to hear French read (by Rose) at some of our poetry readings—because they miss their language, miss home.

I’d say there is a strong base of provincial literary pride here. This includes a stronger belief in writing about the Poor than I notice in Ontario now—a belief in not having to be educated before you speak up or sing your song.

But what do I know—I’m just visiting. (Though I believe in the same things too.)

ABT: You’ve been described as a terroir-ist; how do you find being transplanted (and in fact translated) then? Is the new locale useful to you going forward in your work? Is it just more grist for the mill or does it offer any fresh, perhaps unexpected, perspectives?

PH: Yes, there is a certain slope of homestead in Ontario where the gooseberry wine of my poems can be traced to.

I’m from Bobcaygeon. Like the Tragically Hip song. But that was long ago, and it sounds like ad-copy now. Where I grew up…

In truth, I have lost or discarded the map to where that slope is, and so my writing becomes more wayward, more un-localized all the time.

While in Fredericton this winter, I’ve been writing a long travel poem called “Prodigal.”

It mentions Guyana—where I was last winter—but also The Happy Baker, where I buy sourdough bread each week.

I like it here. I’m filling notebooks.

ABT: Reading your poetry I get a sense of process as product (if you’ll forgive that term, which sounds like an economist wrote it), by which I mean your techniques as you work through the English language are on full display, to fantastic effect. I particularly felt this reading “The Rogue Wave” in Conjugation. What is the significance of writing that way—in a sense exposing yourself emotionally as well as poetically—for you?

PH: My practise is to invite words over time to share and chronicle my living processes, as opposed to making set pieces that are products in that they would strive for perfection and publication.

The long sequence and collage—forms I mostly work in—are anti-perfection. I seek words to embellish my flaws.

I am trying to change the nature of revision—so that instead of chiselling away at a first draft to sculpt it, I might instead invite more into it, and keep adding, toward cornucopia.

That’s why I started writing essay-poems: so the kitchen sink would know it was welcome.

I expose myself in my poems because I trust the reader to know what is dishonest and what isn’t.

I try to be honest. I try to find forms in which to be honest. I try to be musically honest.

When I first write something it is usually occasional and personal, but if I keep writing outward, I will come to an underlying rage, or an underlying joy that is impersonal—and that is shareable.

That’s why I write: to share music and form, rage and joy.

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The poet with the poet. Chad Norman stands beside a statue of Dylan Thomas in Swansea.

Nova Scotia poet Chad Norman, author of 17 books including Selected & New Poems, recently returned from a literary tour of Wales, Scotland, Ireland  and Northern Ireland, during which he served as a missionary of Canadian poetry. Norman graciously spoke with Atlantic Books Today about the importance of honouring elder poets, something he says Canada fails to do.

Atlantic Books Today: It seems your focus across the pond was broader than your own work, promoting Canadian poetry in general. What inspired you to do so in Wales, Scotland, Ireland and Northern Ireland? Why was this important to you?

Chad Norman: I have given readings and tours for years celebrating Canadian poets and poetry, and simply believed it was a good thing to accompany such an event with a reading of my own work. But  if you know anything about the readings Dylan Thomas did in the early 50’s, you now know my influences. Wow! He read from Thomas Hardy, WH Auden, to open his most famous readings.

So it wasn’t difficult for me when I was a very young poet to know to honour your “elders” can be part of things when you get a chance to read from your own works. And to entertain the possibility when I start to put a reading/speaking tour together.

Ireland, Wales, and Scotland suddenly landed [as a] possibility, after I had the success I did in Denmark and Sweden in 2016. But knowing those countries from the UK had long histories honouring poetry, it became so easy to make the decision the tour would be all about them.

And it was important to me because at this point in my path surviving as poet here in Canada, I needed to be deliberate about how much I believe the reading aloud of poems is so important, and how I’d grown tired of the Canadian scene. It seemed to me, [the focus was exclusively on] the promotion of the book. Not for me. The reading of the poems aloud, just like Dylan did, that caused the entire tour.

ABT: You’ve been quoted as saying you were unable to find government funding for this trip even though you were promoting Canadian poetry. Should Canadians be concerned that governments aren’t supportive enough of our own poets?

CN: I believe Canadians may not care, or give a darn, about what their poets are up to. Which is a shame to me because it is their tax money fuelling the Canada Council [for the Arts], the major funding source here in Canada for poets. So when their government doesn’t get it, why, perhaps, should they. Our country, really, is such a baby when it comes to honouring poetry. Why?

Well I know more about that now that I have toured countries that actually support poets, countries that realize how much poetry has been part of their history, therefore realize its necessity today. So when the Canada Council and Arts Nova Scotia wouldn’t come through with any funds, what am I left to feel. I felt neither got it, they don’t hear what I am planning to do in order to celebrate Canada.

So, as you can imagine, I am not impressed. I have 18 poetry titles. I have published across Canada in pretty much every “necessary” literary journal or magazine, and around the world in a number of other countries. But one source tells me, “You didn’t tell us what poets you are going to celebrate” as well as, “Your support material isn’t impressive,” and I sent in poems that have appeared in recognized journals across Canada, all published over my 35 years. And it doesn’t end there; Canada Council tells me my grant application has been “recommended” but there “can’t be any funds awarded.” Get your head around that. Go ahead.

And all I asked for, after [having] been advised by one of their program directors, is a measly $1,500. And, know this, the Canada Council turned my travel grant down when I applied in 2016 too. Another tour to celebrate Canadian poetry. Imagine that, being as I may have said, 35 years into it.

[There were] numerous times of embarrassment when I was in the UK. How many couldn’t believe my provincial and federal governments would support me.

ABT: What was the response to Canadian poetry in a land with such a rich poetic history of its own?

CN: The response to Canadian poetry in all three countries was filled with wide eyes, smiles, times of contemplation, and best of all, loud clapping after the poems I read. But the conversations I had and heard after the readings were the most valuable because they were made up of, time and time again, appreciation. Appreciation of the selection I chose, being thankful for the poets I promoted, and how I was able to read them in ways that audiences told me they appreciated so much. Being out on the road there isn’t anything more you wish to hear. But I knew the poets and poems I chose would cause all they did. Our poets deserve it.

ABT: Did you get to meet any local poets while you were there? How does their view of poetry compare to that of Canada’s or Atlantic Canada’s?

CN: I met a number of poets in each country because that’s how I set up the tours. Each city or stop I asked to have certain poets join me. Why wouldn’t I? And the poets in each country were so quick to help me either find poets, or agree to share the events in their cities. Their views of poetry are nothing like Canada’s or Atlantic Canada’s poets, which doesn’t surprise me, living in a land that places poetry right alongside theatre, music, painting/art; they get it. They are part of such a long history of poetry being important or meaningful, or part of everyday living. So I sat back and listened, and came home with all kinds of advice and hope for changes in our country, especially when it comes to how the government distributes funding.

ABT: Did this experience change your perception of Canada at all, particularly with regards to our poetry?

CN: This tour totally changes how I see Canada. We are behind. We are tailing. Poetry is some “little” hobbyish kind-of art form. And that is how it is treated, other than what the control and domination of Academia has over it, where Poetry “seems” to matter, and let’s pump out those who aren’t prepared to live lives as poets.

There are many in our country, many who have ridden on funding they don’t deserve. For instance, did you know, one can be a long-term member of the League of Canadian Poets, a long-standing funding source for poets, and still make the same amount of money for readings and travel as a member who has just came onto a full-member eligibility. Think about that for a minute. I am nearly 40 years in, and some beginner makes the same amount of funding as I do. And, think about how I feel, because I know what other countries are doing for their poets. So, mine has got to get its poop together…real fast.

ABT: Which of your own works did you read and how did you select them?

CN: I read from my recent title, Selected & New Poems. And I selected what I did as I always do. Based on a quote from Dylan Thomas, “I read the poems I like.”

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Correspondent
Dominique Bernier-Cormier
Goose Lane Editions

With its icehouse poetry imprint, Fredericton’s Goose Lane Editions is fast becoming one of my favourite poetry publishers in Canada. In addition to special projects like The Witch of the Inner Wood, a selection of M Travis Lane’s long poems (2016) and the Collected Poems of Alden Nowlan (2017), it has recently released a number of impressive debuts, including Stevie Howell’s eclectic and engrossing [Sharps] (2014) and Kevin Shaw’s exquisitely composed Smaller Hours (2017).

It seems fitting that Correspondent, Dominique Bernier-Cormier’s first collection, should be part of this imprint. Comprising three main sections, a prologue and an epilogue, the book showcases the poet’s facility with both free verse and prose poems. The three central sections provide lyric narrative accounts of three crises from recent world history: “Kursk” sketches the sinking of a Russian submarine in August 2000; “Massoud” depicts the assassination of Afghan political leader Ahmad Shah Massoud on September 9, 2001; and “Nord-Ost” represents the hostage crisis at Moscow’s Dubrovka Theatre in October 2003. These events are known to Bernier-Cormier through the work of his father, a CBC/Radio Canada correspondent.

These sections contain the book’s prose poems, while the prologue and epilogue are written in free verse. The prologue is a bilingual poem in English and French that announces the book’s themes of communication and the limits of human language. Across the three prose sections, Bernier-Cormier will come back to this poem’s central message, the recognition that not all human language successfully transmits meaning, and that not all communication of meaning happens via the spoken word. “[M]es doigts sur le piano parlant mieux le Russe [sic] que ma bouche” the speaker says here in French, recalling his childhood in Russia—“My fingers on the piano speaking Russian better than my mouth”.

The prose poems provide a narrative coherence within the book’s sections while allowing the author to explore the range of his stylistic talents. The sections are polyphonic—written from the perspective of the poet as well as those caught within the depicted tragedies—and multilingual, with brief passages in French and Russian. (I can’t comment on the Russian but the French passages are unfortunately marred by the occasional spelling mistake.) They feature text from other sources—notes from the captain of the Kursk, a Facebook post by Massoud’s son and a documentary on the Moscow theatre hostage crisis—interspersed in the poems and indicated by bold and italic characters.

In relating these tragedies, the poet returns to his initial musings on language and communication. So in “Kursk” are the men in the sinking submarine shown punching “rescue signals in Morse code against the walls”, their attempts to reach the outside falling short: “They take turns punching, so the sentence never ends, the wave never breaks. Trying to write on the outside of the ship, their steel fists rising out like Braille. So in a hundred years, tourists will dive to the wreck and run their gloved hands softly along the hull, reading their silent screams.”

Bernier-Cormier’s ear is impressive. He balances short, clipped sentences and fragments with more complex sentences to create a smooth cadence. There is the occasional subtle half rhyme, as in the “Nord-Ost” sequence: “An NTV journalist breaks from the line, lifts the police tape. A cameraman and a doctor walk with him. White coat blowing in the wind, wet stethoscope around his neck. Cameras follow them. The city holds its breath”.

As this passage shows, the poet also has a talent for vivid description, though he does not shy away from figurative language. A particularly evocative metaphor comes in the section “Massoud,” where the poet represents his father conducting interviews: “Behind doors my father can’t open, women lift the blue skies of their veils and tell Tania about their lives”. Here Bernier-Cormier juxtaposes a literal enclosure—the women’s houses where his father is not permitted—with a figurative opening up of narrative.

Correspondent is a book of re-casting and re-telling stories. In the collection’s end matter the poet acknowledges the limits of his perspective and the creative liberties he took in the project. While his tone is deferential, almost apologetic, I am not wholly convinced that these stories are for Bernier-Cormier to tell. Nevertheless, his poetic skill is undeniable and I am intrigued by what he has to say about human communication and the inevitable failings of our languages.

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Raymond Joseph Fraser, 77, B.A., ONB (Order of New Brunswick), D.Litt (St. Thomas University), writer and poet, storyteller and singer, passed away in Fredericton, NB on October 22, 2018.

Ray authored 13 books of fiction, a memoir, two biographies (including the acclaimed life of light-heavyweight boxer, Yvon Durelle, The Fighting Fisherman), and six collections of poetry. He edited the anthology of Atlantic Canadian writers, East of Canada, and three literary magazines—Intercourse, Pottersfield Portfolio and The New Brunswick Reader.  Dozens of his poems and short stories have been featured in Canadian magazines as diverse as Canadian Forum and Weekend Magazine, and in many academic journals.  His poems, essays and stories have also been included in 16 North American anthologies.  He is a subject in several books and graduate theses.  A number of his stories and poems have been aired on CBC radio and television.  His play The Heart Sound was performed by Montreal’s St. Joseph’s Theatre Group.

Ray was born May 8, 1941, in Chatham, NB, son and third child of Ursula (Graham) Fraser and Robert Fraser. Besides his parents, he was pre-deceased by sisters Carmel (John Greatrix) and Helen.

He was educated in Chatham at St. Michael’s Academy, St. Thomas High School and St. Thomas University. As a youth, he was an athlete, playing both baseball and hockey. In university, he played with the acclaimed St. Thomas Tommies, always one of his happy memories. In later years, he was also a golfer, a cyclist and an enthusiastic walker. Throughout his life, he’s been a dedicated spectator of hockey, baseball and, more recently, basketball.

Ray’s muse claimed him early and he knew from a young age that he would spend his life telling stories, through poetry, novels and short stories. When he graduated from St. Thomas, he taught high school for a year in Bellisle, NB, and then moved to Montreal where he became immersed in the literary scene that was active in the city in the ’60s.

For a paycheque, he worked for a number of years as an editor, chief staff writer and freelance writer for the tabloid newspapers, among them, Midnight, which survives today on supermarket shelves as the Globe.

While pursuing his own writing, Ray founded Intercourse: Contemporary Canadian Writing (1966-1971) a seminal “little magazine” in the development of modern-day Canadian literature journals. Such literary luminaries as Leonard Cohen, Irving Layton, Alden Nowlan, Elizabeth Brewster, Fred Cogswell, Al Purdy, Hugh Hood and Al Pittman all contributed to Intercourse during that time.

In 1971, Ray and fellow authors Hugh Hood, John Metcalf, Clark Blaise and Ray Smith established The Montreal Story Tellers Fiction Performance Group, which did readings in high schools around the Island of Montreal.

During the ’70s, he and his then-spouse, Sharon, travelled in Europe, most extensively in Spain where they often stayed for lengthy visits.

Some of Ray’s happiest memories were of the times he spent aboard his converted fishing boat, Spanish Jack, plying the waters of his beloved Miramichi River and often anchoring at the mouth of the Black River, near the land and the elderly house that he later bought and where he and Sharon lived for a number of years.

He lived again in Fredericton, then in Paris and Montreal before returning to Fredericton where he settled permanently and did some of his most satisfying and prolific work. While in Fredericton, he mentored young aspiring writers as Writer-in-Residence at Fredericton High School.

As well as the Order of New Brunswick and the honorary degree, Ray was the recipient of New Brunswick’s inaugural Lieutenant-Governor’s Award for High Achievement in English-Language Literary Arts in 2009.  An earlier book, The Bannonbridge Musicians, was runner up for the 1978 Governor General’s Literary Award for Fiction.  In 2007, When the Earth Was Flat earned The Bernell MacDonald Prize as well as the Lion’s Head Best Book of the Year Award.  Five of his books are listed in the 2009 publication, Atlantic Canada’s 100 Greatest Books, a distinction shared by only three other authors.  This year he was awarded the Senate Sesquicentennial Medal.  Ray also received a Woodcock Grant from the Canadian Writers’ Trust, four Canada Council Grants and six New Brunswick Arts Branch Creation Grants.

Many thanks to the dedicated staff at the Hospice House in Fredericton and his medical care givers, to his loyal friends who spent time with him until the end, and to the organization that not only saved him but added value to a life well-lived. Ray joined Alcoholics Anonymous 35 years ago and never looked back. It added another dimension to his life and deepened his understanding of human nature.

Ray is survived by nieces Cheryl (Greatrix) Chase (Robin) and Nancy (Greatrix) Tremblay; nephews Mark Greatrix and David Greatrix; by his former spouse Sharon Fraser (Dan O’Connor); by long-time dear friend and supporter, Cynthia Losier; and by many friends, fans and readers, both near and far.

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The Year of No Summer
Rachel Lebowitz
Biblioasis

The Luminous Sea
Melissa Barbeau
Breakwater Books

The Rest Is Silence
Scott Fotheringham
Goose Lane Editions

Amphibian
Carla Gunn
Coach House Books

“Inspiration sometimes comes straight out of facts,” says Nova Scotia author Rachel Lebowitz in her Biblioasis interview for her linked lyric essay collection, The Year of No Summer. “I read about birds falling dead from the skies and I knew I had to write about that.” (The facts as I write this: oil tanker protesters are dangling from the Ironworkers Memorial bridge in Vancouver, the Rusty Patched Bumblebee is now an endangered species, and the headlines scream “Red Hot Planet: All-time heat records have been set all over the world.”)

Much environmentally themed creative literature arises from real-life events. The year following the eruption of Indonesia’s Mount Tambora on April 10, 1815, for instance, is what inspired Lebowitz’s collection. She weaves prose with direct quotations from historical documents, novels, poetry, myths and parables, and in doing so provides a darkly fascinating account of how people responded to global weather disruption, disease and famine. Whereas we may take amusement in apocalyptic films and movies, during this particular summer not so long ago, many believed the world was ending.

Along with “acts of God,” though, today’s writers have a broad array of human-caused environmental crises from which to choose. These, of course, have provided fodder for contemporary apocalyptic and dystopian fiction, such as Margaret Atwood’s MaddAddam trilogy. The magnitude and complexity of environmental problems and conflicts loom large, and with the pace of destruction ramping up, writers can’t help but reflect this in their fiction.

Take, for example, plastic. There is a constant stream of news stories about the negative impacts of this impervious stuff. In the recent novel, The Luminous Sea, a story of a sea creature and the conflict over her fate (which can be read, I think, as an environmental allegory, with the sea creature emblematic of nature), Newfoundland author Melissa Barbeau draws our attention to the way plastic has changed the landscape:

“Broken bottles transformed into sea glass. Boats rotted into the grass, ropes disintegrated in the water. Now you have all this plastic everywhere and it’s getting harder and harder to disappear us…We’ve finally found the way to immortality, found a way to keep company with everything ancient down there, and it’s through trash.”

In The Rest is Silence, a 2012 novel by Nova Scotia author Scott Fotheringham, plastic is central. In the very near future scientists have discovered a bacterium that breaks it down and effectively recycles it—but these bacteria are released into the ecosystem with dramatic unintended consequences for humans.

And plastic inspired my own eco-novel, Amphibian. When my son was nine and biking along the trails near our home, he suddenly hit the brakes, jumped off his bike, hurled it aside and raced toward a plastic bag that was floating across the path. “Don’t people know sea turtles choke on this stuff?” he screamed, shaking the bag in his clenched fist.

Anxiety (do you see what I see?)

As you might expect with “crisis” fiction, anxiety is palpable. In The Rest is Silence, Benny experiences increasing frustration by what she sees as inaction on environmental issues. In The Luminous Sea, Vivienne is deeply disturbed by the callous treatment of the sentient sea creature her supervisors refer to as “the specimen.” And in Amphibian, nine-year-old Phin is overwhelmed by anxiety in response to the destruction of the natural world.

Although one reader told me that by page 30 she experienced so much anxiety that she hurled Amphibian at the wall (which struck me at the time as odd as I thought I had written a funny novel), if you’re among the one third of pre-teens who believes the Earth won’t be around by the time you’re an adult, crisis fiction may simply be imitating what you already know—and you find comfort in the knowledge that others know it too.

As Scott Fotheringham puts it, “Environmental fiction offers some solace to know that there are others out there who care about the world. Isn’t that one of the most beautiful things about fiction—that we get to not feel so alone?”

“He suddenly hit the brakes, jumped off his bike, hurled it aside and sprinted toward a plastic bag floating across the path. “Don’t people know sea turtles choke on this stuff?”

Despair (processing, processing)

In Amphibian Phin created stories to help make sense of and cope with dark realities. In The Year of No Summer Lebowitz highlights the parables, fables and myths we humans created to weave meaning into our lives and to

which we return for comfort. We need stories to help us process our experiences.

Dystopian environmental fiction, like The Rest is Silence, may be of particular importance to us collectively as it introduces scenarios that we can imagine (and may already have imagined) happening. Since we humans are horrible at responding to events that we perceive as far off in the distance, this sort of fiction elicits the sense of urgency that we need to feel before we act. Many environmental advocacy groups are aware of this and craft messages to overcome the problem of temporality.

In particular, I am reminded of a climate change public service announcement from about a decade ago: “Climate change? That won’t affect me,” says a man standing on railway tracks. Suddenly he steps off the tracks and his young daughter takes his place as a train comes hurtling toward her.

Moreover, although set in different times, The Year of No Summer and the Rest is Silence both prompt us to explore how people respond to a crisis that has already occurred or is in the process of occurring, and then to use these stories to project ourselves into the future. After relating the horror of the sinking of the ship, Medusa, in the summer of 1816 and what hunger incited the surviving crew members to do, Lebowitz muses about the future: “I’d like to think it takes thirty days, not two, for us to bite.”

For some, fiction with such severe themes may be too intense. For others, it helps them prepare psychologically for possibilities. I have a friend who may or may not have inherited a fatal disease. She has envisioned what the future may hold and has mentally worked through various options. This exercise has, to a certain extent, relieved some of the anxiety. For many, a sense of predictability—even when what’s predicted is horrific—is better than unpredictability.

Love (break it to me gently)

For some readers, however, more of a “Love not Loss” theme may be most palatable. In fact, in recent years some organizations, such as the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN), advise that environmental organizations move away from fact-based campaigns that emphasize death and destruction and instead toward messages that draw attention to the beauty and value in our natural world. The idea is that we will want to protect what we love.

Deep love and respect for the natural world are reflected in many Atlantic Canadian works of fiction. Along with descriptions of seasons, flora and fauna—which pepper Fotheringham’s The Rest is Silence—New Brunswick author Beth Powning’s beautiful prose springs to mind.

Whether the intention is to encourage a deeper affinity with our natural worlds, this perhaps is a consequence, especially if the prose evokes the reader’s own memories and love for natural areas.

When it comes to what dosage and intensity is best suited to which reader, the jury is still out. I’m reminded of a cartoon I show in my psychology classes when we talk about therapies and how there needs to be a level of “readiness” before clients can accept insights: Kermit the Frog is seated in his doctor’s office and is about to be shown an X-ray of his spine, revealing a human hand that extends right up to the base of his skull.

“Sit down,” says the doctor, “what I am about to tell you may come as a huge surprise.”

From US National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s Coral Kingdom Collection, taken at the Gulf of Aqaba, Red Sea, by Ben Mierement

Heartless (I really don’t care, do u?)

Recently Rebecca Solnit, in a Literary Hub article titled “Not Caring is a Political Art Form,” argued that many of the crises we face—gun violence, climate change, agendas of the “alt right”—are all “exercises in not feeling and not connecting,” or what she calls the ideology of disconnection.

Many novels, including environmentally themed fiction, explore how injustice is facilitated by callousness. Some bring attention to how this enables the destructive corporate mindset of “progress” at any cost, which often involves the exploitation of “others”—whether those others be humans, animals or the natural environment. Lebowitz references multiple historical examples of cruelty in the Year Of No Summer, such as in the early rubber industry:

“You walk more than twenty miles to the European agents, who weigh the rubber. You are paid with a piece of cloth, a handful of beads, a few spoonfuls of salt. You skirt this spot here where Rene de Permetier has all his bushes and trees cut down around his house, so he can sit on the porch and use passerby as target practice.”

In The Luminous Sea, Vivienne’s supervisor warns her that her efforts to blow the whistle on an act that reflects an astounding callousness (that parallels the treatment of the sea creature pivotal to the story) will be futile:

“Telling anyone else about this will not make things better for you. Your story will be like one of those dolphins…This dolphin swam right into the beach where all those Spring Breakers were getting pissed, and someone spotted it and hauled it in and everyone had a picture with it, everyone got a selfie, and rubbed their tits on it, and the next thing they knew it was dead. Mauled to death.”

By focusing on injustice and the heartlessness that so frequently underlies it, environmental fiction can be emancipatory. It prompts us to examine both the individual and systemic variables at play and consider where we stand—and perhaps collectively emboldens us to take a stand.

Empathy (walk with me)

The poet Theodore Roethke wrote, “I learn by going where I have to go.” You can exchange “going” for “feeling” and it also holds true.

In contrast, psychology literature is full of examples of what people do when they can no longer consciously experience emotion: nothing. The Year of No Summer, The Luminous Sea, The Rest is Silence and Amphibian all evoke big doses of emotion: anger, sadness, curiosity, disappointment and joy, albeit in different proportions. One emotion they are all effective in eliciting, though, is empathy. And when it comes to environmental issues, this may be the most important of them all.

Researchers are attempting to tease out the relationship between fiction and empathy. In one experiment, participants read literary fiction, genre fiction, nonfiction or nothing, and only literary fiction had the effect of markedly increasing levels of empathy. Another study found that those who read fictional scenarios about an individual dramatically impacted by climate change spent more time afterward reading educational materials about climate change and voluntarily took this material home.

“We’ve finally found the way to immortality, found a way to keep company with everything ancient down there, and it’s through trash.” -Melissa Barbeau in The Luminous Sea

Action (a kick in the pants)

Does the empathy elicited by fiction inspire action on environmental issues? To attempt to answer this, let’s return to plastic.

Many of us know that straws and other plastic waste are negatively impacting wildlife. We’ve read the statistics—like how over 100 million marine animals die each year due to plastic debris. We know all of this but we don’t feel it. However, when a straw is lodged up sea turtle’s nostril and there’s a video documenting this poor creature’s plight, well, we’re suddenly mobilized.

Why? The simple explanation is the psychological finding that when something horrible impacts many lives we care less about it than when it affects few lives, but the deeper explanation may be that when something is personal and woven into a narrative, it engages our emotions and not just our minds. That individual sea turtle’s struggle makes it relatable (imagine a straw stuck up your dog’s nose, or your own) and children take up the cause.

In a similar, albeit more horrific vein, the image of the body of a little Syrian boy washed up on shore saw donations to the Swedish Red Cross jumped from $8,000 over a period of months to $430,000 in just a few weeks.

One of the powers of fiction is that, like real-life stories, it draws us into a personal narrative. Stories engage the heart and this is key to motivating us to act. Although it’s anecdotal, readers of Amphibian wrote to tell me that Phin’s struggle changed the way they viewed animals and that this was in turn influencing their product choices.

I am reminded of a parable: a starfish is washed up on shore and a young boy throws it back into the ocean. An old man scoffs, “But there are thousands of dying starfish, what difference does it make?”

The boy replies, “It made a difference to that one.”

California Clear-cutting photo by Tomas Sennett, US Environmental Protection Agency

Hope (storying a way forward)

In order to act, people need to feel that what they do will have an impact. But when the scale of disaster looms large, we feel helpless and are often thus paralyzed. “What’s the point?” we think.

We may look to God for meaning and direction, or to those we believe have more knowledge than we do. “If there is wisdom, it’s nothing I know. It’s all just birds and storms and hauntings. We look behind and scoff, as if those ahead weren’t doing the same,” writes Lebowitz.

These days we turn to science and government for reassurance that something effective can and will be done. But when these institutions fail to give us the reassurance we seek, we end up feeling frustrated and disillusioned. This is what happens to Bennie in The Rest is Silence: “What was needed was rapid planetary triage. Throwing a spanner in the gears was the obvious means of disabling the machine that continued to spew all over the planet.”

How do we collectively overcome feelings of futility? That’s an open question. Recently, however, I came across an exciting project funded by The Trudeau Foundation called Storying Climate Change. Headed by York University professor Catriona Sandilands, the goal of this project is for writers, artists, activists and academics to work together and produce a collection of stories that the group can use as a vehicle to engage the public and start meaningful conversations.

In this collection, I anticipate that we will see protagonists who choose to act and for whom these actions have consequences that are positive and affirming. Turning pessimism into optimism is not a one-dose cure, but the more we are exposed to these stories, the more they will seep into our collective consciousness, perhaps inspiring us to respond to the very real threats facing us.

Adaptation (“Those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything” -George Bernard Shaw)

We hear a lot these days about physical adaptation to climate change, like using scarce water resources more efficiently, but I would argue that psychological adaptation is just as important. This sort of adaptation takes many forms and can be fostered through reading environmentally themed fiction in all its variety.

We relate to the anxiety and frustration experienced by Benny in The Rest is Silence and we feel not so alone. We witness Vivienne in The Luminous Sea respond to injustice and we are prompted to consider how individual acts are important. Through reading fiction like The Year of No Summer, we come to a deeper understanding that both continuity and transformation are imbedded in the human experience, and in doing so we ourselves are transformed.