Thursday, June 11, 2015

Shimmer Report in Ekstasis Catalogue

The Ekstasis Editions catalogue is now online, with Shimmer Report in it.  The book won't be out until August or September, but you can order in advance here.

Here's the text which will appear on the back of the book:

Shimmer Report tells of a couple who do not fall in love so much as ascend together into love from their own dark places. He, a poet, musician, teacher; she, a visual artist and author, has also had to endure the psychiatric system. Life and love are but a shimmer—but this is a report on hard realities, as well as on flashes of colour, delight, and whimsy.

Years of suffering
like gas into flame
have drawn air
into your light—
a leaping, lambent figure
in mist, burning bright
Shimmer Report is a book of searing honesty and shy grace. To read its poems becomes an act of witness as Brian Campbell explores his city and his heart, evoking the requirements of love as well as the vexed nuances of survival. I admire his courage.”
~ Mark Abley, author of The Tongues of Earth 
“In Brian Campbell’s Shimmer Report, the poet asks, “What dilemma is this now?” Using urban, multi-language Montreal for a backdrop, and a palette of telling details in shades of wit and compassion, Campbell explores today’s creativity and relationships through echoes and upshots of complicated pasts. These are poems of love and survival—in spite of, and because of, the curiosities of the world we live in.”
~ Maxianne Berger, author of un renard roux/a red fox

Shimmer Report: Cover

The cover of my upcoming book with Ekstasis Editions... the image is detail from a painting by my wife, Jocelyne Dubois.

Friday, April 17, 2015

Reading at Lapalabrava, last Thursday, Montreal


Me reading a selection of poems from Shimmer Report.

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Shimmer Report to be published by Ekstasis




Great news! My latest poetry manuscript, Shimmer Report, has been accepted for publication by Ekstasis Editions. It's to come out this fall.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Review: Zachariah Wells -- Career Limiting Moves

My review of Zach Wells' Career Limiting Moves is up at Rover.
Zachariah Wells isn't one to shy away from an argument. His collection of critical writing Career Limiting Moves is pugnacious, hilarious, and illuminating.
ROVERARTS.COM

Sunday, February 08, 2015

Book recommendation: Conversations with a Dead Man: The Legacy of Duncan Campbell Scott by Mark Abley


Duncan Campbell Scott (1862-1947) was a disturbing enigma.  A career bureaucrat, he was the overseer of Canada’s destructive Aboriginal schools policy—but also one of our country’s important poets.   It was natural for Mark Abley, a fine poet himself as well as socially concerned journalist, to imagine bringing Scott back to life in order to have a conversation.  The ghost story—or more precisely, a series of interviews with a ghost visitor—is a superb narrative strategy, injecting humour, irony, and drama into what could have been a pretty dry slog had Abley simply followed a more conventional research paper format.  Abley portrays Scott as a product of his time, and yet open to persuasion; he contrasts mores, manners, mentality and even linguistic usage in a way that wouldn’t otherwise have been possible.  An absorbing and delightful read!  Highly recommended…

Wednesday, February 04, 2015

Nina Bruck video + CBC interview

From Julie Bruck's FB page:
For friends of Nina B's, a video by Raphael Bendahan, that ends with her chapbook launch reading.
Also, CBC Books has re-posted David Gutnick's mini-doc on Nina from The Sunday Edition.
It's a tonic for me to see and hear the fully-engaged Nina of 8 years ago. She so enjoyed her 15 minutes of fame, and she would have loved this, too.  (--Julie Bruck)

Tuesday, February 03, 2015

RIP Nina Bruck

My wife and I loved her and her poetry. Her chapbook, Still Light at Five O'Clock Raphael Bendahan and I published when she was 85 -- and I treasure my one remaining copy. She was a kind woman, serene in her whimsical intelligence and wisdom. All my condolences to her family and other friends.
Somehow, I deleted this post. A strange way to undo what can't be undone. I'll try again, with that same heavy heart:
BRUCK, NINAMAE (nee FINKELSTEIN),
Died peacefully at home in Montreal on February 1, 2015, at 92.
Nina was a poet, photographer, and open-hearted observer of the beauty, injustice, and oddness of life. We were lucky to have her love and her whimsical humour for so long.
Predeceased in 2013 by her husband, Gerald Bruck, she is survived by her sons, Jerry Jr. and David, her daughter Julie (Lewis Buzbee), and her adored grandchildren, Zoe and Jacob Bruck and Madeleine Buzbee, by her nieces and friends, and by her loyal caregivers during her last years, especially our dear Hermie Granados. 
At her request, there will be no funeral service. A memorial gathering of her family and friends will be planned in the coming months.
Donations in her memory can be made to Chez Doris (http://www.chezdoris.ca), or to the charity of your choice.

Friday, December 19, 2014

Bridging Solitudes: review of books by Maxianne Berger and Annie Molin Vasseur

My review of un renard roux/a red fox by Maxianne Berger and La voix de l'ombre by Annie Molin Vasseur is now online with Rover.

These two small poetry books, both bilingual editions, carry far greater impact than their diminutive size might suggest.
ROVERARTS.COM

Monday, November 10, 2014

A Private Collection

On Saturday night I launched my new Sky of Ink chapbook, A Private Collection, a series of ekphrastic poems inspired by works of art in my home. Appropriately enough, it was a private launch in my home. About 25 people were present, including a number of artists (some of whom are featured in the chapbook) and writer friends. We all had a wonderful time.
http://youtu.be/wYVXCqLk5Ho


The private goes public: the private launch in my home of A Private Collection, a chapbook of poems inspired by works of art in my house. Recorded Nov. 8, 20...
YOUTUBE.COM

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Line by Line, E-Books Turn Poet-Friendly (New York Times)

I remember my first e-book anthology -- actually a book of essays including a lot of poems, Edward Hirsch's How to Read a Poem. Line breaks were so badly mangled and the text so riddled with errors I eventually ordered a hard copy. Kay Ryan's Selected, which I downloaded the hour I read she had won the Pulitzer Prize, fared better because her short, skinny poems could be easily formatted in unalterable PDF images. I don't generally order poetry in e-book format -- I like to thumb through poetry books and dip into them -- but this is interesting news.

Friday, August 01, 2014

Mariela Griffor: The Psychiatrist

Child’s Eyes

People say that children see and hear things
they themselves cannot see or hear,
and this child breaking into
the room to hug and kiss
his grandmother, Wilma,
hasn’t seen me yet.
I am afraid of his eyes,
touching like a hummingbird
the cornea of my eyes.
I don’t want him to see
the puddle of
old pain and rusty love
that grows inside of me,
the spider web of my disappointment,
a beaten heart that
has never overcome the loss of him.
I am afraid of this child
running around with his two frank
years, afraid of me breaking.
I’m sure he would scream
if I let my pupils touch his,
and the room would look
at me knowing the truth of
what he sees.
I am afraid and old,
smashing day after day
a memory of innocence.
I know too much.
My mind is fragile.

This is a favourite poem of mine from “The Psychiatrist”, Mariela Griffor’s latest collection, sent to me for review by Eyewear Publishing last year.  Searingly poignant, simply put, the poem expresses — in a way I don’t think I’ve seen elsewhere — how one can feel confronted and even intimidated by the innocent life force of a young child.  With this poem, I have only one — albeit small — quibble: it’s with the antecedent of the pronoun “him” in the line “has never overcome the loss of him”.  We can assume it’s not the child itself, but a man, an adult love to which she is referring — Ignacio, perhaps, mentioned in an earlier poem, or the unnamed subversive in “Love for a Subversive”, the unnamed lover in “Rain”?  There is probably some way around this, but at the same time, that pronoun in this poem has its own brute force. 

Mariela Griffor was born and raised in Chile, and came into adolescence and early adulthood under the Pinochet regime.  As a young woman, she joined a revolutionary group, and doubtlessly ended up on a blacklist.  In 1985, she left Chile for Sweden under involuntary exile.  Much later, in 1998, she moved with her American husband and two daughters to the United States, where she is now Honorary Consul for Chile in Michigan.

Here are poems of subversion, exile, and solidarity that ache to be told: elegies for friends who were tortured or disappeared, evocations of nights of insomnia, furtive meetings under code names, a character sketch of a relative who was a possible undercover agent for DINA (National Department of Intelligence.)

All contemporary Chilean poets – indeed, Latin American poets – write under the shadow of Pablo Neruda.  Indeed, Ms. Griffor will soon be coming out with a new translation of his Canto General, published by Tupelo Press. Her own style, though, doesn’t bear a trace of his lush, surrealistic influence.  She reminds me of certain Eastern European poets — Czeslaw Milosz, Tadeusz Rozewicz, Wislawa Szymborska among others  — or of her own countryman, Nicanor Para: poets that speak unvarnished truths with simple irony and measured declaration. In some later poems in the collection, the Griffor’s free verse becomes rather too prosaic for my taste:

My grandfather did not talk about what Mr. Monzalves said,
but it was clear that he knew that my grandfather
was a sympathizer of Allende and that he had come to deliver a warning.
Just before I left Chile the last person I met from the Front
in Santiago was my commander
His real code name was Wolf.
I told him I was planning to leave the country because I could not avoid the surveilland anymore and my good friend,
the lawyer Inunza, had arranged for me to go to Sweden or France.
                                    (Exiles)

In a patch like this one, I wish that the author had fashioned an introduction or searched more deeply for lyricism in her subject matter.   In most places, though, her straightforward style has its own strength and sensibility.

The title of the collection raises expectations that it will concern mental illness, or perhaps relate a series of psychiatric consultations.   The brief title poem, however, is the only one where a psychiatrist is featured; there he figures as a voice of authority in the narrator’s head that the poet summarily shoots down to get on with her life. 


Mariela Griffor’s “The Psychiatrist” is well worth buying and reading.  I look forward to seeing more of her work.

Monday, March 31, 2014

RIP Bill Knott

SONNET
Bill Knott

The way the world is not
Astonished at you
It doesn't blink a leaf
When we step from the house
Leads me to think
That beauty is natural, unremarkable
And not to be spoken of
Except in the course of things
The course of singing and worksharing
The course of squeezes and neighbours
The course of you tying back your raving hair to go out
And the course of course of me
Astonished at you
The way the world is not


I enjoyed this poem a lot when I encountered it on today's AAP Poem-a-day. I love its ease and casual (seemingly casual) brilliance, hallmarks of Knott's verse. Then I discovered by scrolling down that its author had died only a couple of weeks ago. Quite a shock.

I first encountered Knott online about ten years ago, ordered his renowned early collection, "The Naomi Poems" at considerable cost through Abe Books, and then his self-published selected, "Goodbye to Prisoner", from the blog of the author himself. We had some correspondence, but he struck me as cagy and bitter, with a harsh penchant for self-deprecation that seemed both a kind of exaggerated put-on, but also genuine, borne of profound self-hatred.  Then I got very busy, and our dialogue fell off.  This article in the New Yorker confirms those impressions, and tells us more about his life and work. Like one of the writers quoted there, I learned to admire him from a distance.

Is the "not" at the end of the first and last lines a play on the author's name? It certainly becomes so, inevitably, in that final, fatal light. (A light all good poetry is written in, of course.)  Anyway, RIP at last, Bill.  Your work will endure.

Friday, March 28, 2014

This is a Generic Brand Video

Check out this generic brand video based on Kendra Eash's brilliant poem, This is a Generic Brand Video.  It spoofs every buzzword-laden corporate feel-good video ever made.  Be sure to click through to the poem, originally published on McSweeney's.  I daresay in its deadpan way it works just as well on its own.


Sunday, March 02, 2014

JOSHUA TROTTER: HEARING

HEARING


Mornings after we gave up words, we still loved
to lie and graze the day awake
watching our old chit-chat thatch the street like rain.

Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon
now the dead grow sound limbs to stand upon
nourished by discourse we once loved.

In their sodden crypts they sigh awake
solitary, listening to the rain
heartened by our lost and rousing homilies—the rain

engaging vacant brains it falls upon
until everyone we love or once loved
is dying tonight or lying still awake

listening, for our sake, as rain rains the dead awake.
There’s something diplomatic about rain
strewing cool phrase upon cool phrase upon . . .

But here I pray that none whom once I loved
has held words they loved from rain; I’m held awake
by heavy sentences the rain might lay upon them.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

Back again...Hello!!

In October last year, I said goodbye to this blog, saying I would transfer its functions to my website. But, because of formatting defaults on that website that I didn't like and couldn't easily change, I've decided to reopen this blog.  On my website's blog I'll announce news -- upcoming shows and the like -- but here I'll quote poems, write opinion pieces, etc.  I've moved some postings here from that blog... anything dating from last Oct., in fact.

So here I am, again! Adieu becomes au devoir.  Tangled in the woodwork, coming out of it, as always!


Sunday, December 15, 2013

SUNDAY POEM


MY SKELETON
by Jane Hirshfield



My skeleton,

you who once ached

with your own growing larger



are now,

each year

imperceptibly smaller,

lighter,

absorbed by your own

concentration.



When I danced,

you danced.

When you broke,

I.



And so it was lying down,

walking,

climbing the tiring stairs.

Your jaws. My bread.



Someday you,

what is left of you,

will be flensed of this marriage.



Angular wristbone,

cracked harp of ribcage,

blunt of heel,

opened bowl of the skull,

twin platters of pelvis–

each of you will leave me behind,

at last serene.



What did I know of your days,

your nights,

I who held you all my life

inside my hands

and thought they were empty?



You who held me all my life

inside your hands

as a new mother holds

her own unblanketed child,

not thinking at all.

Sunday, December 08, 2013

Fun evening...


Tonight I went to a book launch by Mansfield Press, at a beautiful venue, the Cardinal Teahouse, 5326 St-Laurent, upstairs from The Sparrow. Bought new offerings by Jason Camlot, Stephen Brockwell, and Glen Downie — much of it very clever work, and some it, to their credit, deeply felt.  Have been reading it all evening.

The Cardinal Teahouse... another great Montreal retreat for bookish, kindlish laptop nomads.

Sunday, November 10, 2013

W.B. Yeats: An Irish Airman Foresees His Death




I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

SUNDAY POEM

W.S. MERWIN
___________________________________________________

THANKS


Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
smiling by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is