Sunday, March 31, 2013

Intern Gnational Pwoermd Writhing Mince

This year, as I have the last few, I am participating in Geof Huth's International Pwoermd Writing Month. A pwoermd is a one word poem -- no title -- the poem is its own title and text, as we are ourselves. I will be posted a pwoermd here each day in April.

The above pwoermd is one of my favourite neopwoermds that I created from last year. Aitch-two-oh found inside ghoti, George Bernard Shaw's famous phonoglyph for 'fish.' We are both medium and message. Flow and floating.  Both water and fish. We are what carries us, what rivers and rivens us. Water we? Fishous circle eddyfying. Stream of consciousness.

"Not seeing rivers is also another way of dying.”
- Etel Adnan

We hear what is inside words. We here. We word that in which we wade. Write makes rite. Or right. Alright.

Words are not what they seme. Or polyseme. Sometimes words are all seam. We are such words as stuff is made of. Not Bernie Madoff. We are stuffed with words as words are stuffed with us. We seme the seam. We make it sew. Between a won thing and I is another. Astreamic, I stream.

This month, two words don't make a write. Wonder word poems wonder where words wander. A journal of a thousand stars a first pwoermd.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Chapbook/micropress survey

Do you make ephemera? Have you ever made chapbooks in Canada? Ever wonder what the bigger picture is? Be a puzzle piece that speaks and answer a few questions for a PhD survey on Canadian small & micropress. It needs your info asap. You might get a lollypop but you’ll have to negotiate such higher rewards with him.

Thursday, March 14, 2013



you hover
over the earth
never touching

your father
a helicopter
above clouds

on earth
we have seasons
winter for example

our legs reach the ground
as if we were just
the perfect height

get ready to bail out of my head
with your tiny parachute
and little breath

we are buried in snow
our microwave is against the wall
when you land, look for us

then you can warm your burrito
sing the songs we used to sing
before we were sad

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Recapturing the Gopherwood Shmeckle: Excerpt from novel in progress.


excerpt from my novel-in-progress Yiddish for Pirates

This is the passage which I have been working on for the last two days. The MS is currently at 96,000 words and moving towards an ending. Like all of us.


We paddled up close to the hull, an infant elephant nuzzled against the flank of its vast and sighing mother. Shh. Sleep mama, sleep.
The ship's hull was scarred with patches where cannonball or shallows had broken its skin. Until the ship was properly careened and the broad planks replaced, its sides were a Harlequinade of repairs. We searched for such a pockmark, small as two fingers, then Moishe worked at it with the blade of a Spanish dirk until he had re-opened the wound.
He had brought rum-bottle stuffed with a damp shmatta ripped from his ragged and swamp-ripe clothes. Now he would make fire.
In the middle of the sea, it is as simple to procure fire as it is fresh water. Both are possible if you have them already.
The women had given Moishe a firestick, a stone, and some dry grass for kindling. Moishe pressed the end of the stick into the stone with his palms and rubbed back and forth like a frantically aroused cicada while delicately blowing on the grasses. A move from a survivalist's Kama Sutra. We could only hope for a happy and propitious ending, nu? Some minutes passed. Then a splash over the rim of the barrel and the grasses were soaked. Moishe—always expecting fate to be duplicitous—removed some still dry grass from a small sack which he had kept in safety in his shirt, and began again.
Eventually, a weak smoke, and then the red spurt of fire. Quickly, Moishe dropped the burning grasses in the bottle and pushed its narrow neck into wounded hull. The green world of the bottle teemed with smoke. Viperous tendrils would soon be fuming below-deck.
“Let's hope—kaynanahoreh—we haven't lit the orlop and its store of gunpowder,” Moishe said. “But we will soon know.”
The ship came alive. The meshuggenah mariners aboard the Gopherwood Shmeckle scuttled fore and aft as a bees' nest disturbed.
In their gadkas.
Which reminds me:
Two Yiddish bees are shmoozing on a flower.
“Oy, am I hungry,” the first bee says to his friend. “Know where a bee could get a little nosh?”
“There's the Goldwing Bar Mitzvah. You should see the sweet table.”
And so the first bee flies off to get a little something.
When he returns, he's smiling and wearing a little yarmulke.
“What's with the lid?” his friend asks. “You don't practice. You don't go to shule. You're a secular bee.”
“But nu,” says the first bee. “Did you want them to think I was a WASP?”

And as if they were in a smoked-out hive, we heard the sailors, buzzing, running to safety up on deck, some into the rigging.
“The shlmiels don't wonder what's fuming?” Moishe said.
Moishe tipped the bottle and emptied the burning wad into the ship. 
 “I've heard it said, where there's smoke, there's fire.”
He maneuvered the barrel around toward the bow and held fast to some backstay deadeyes.
Soon, as expected:
“Gevalt!” the crew shouted.
“For zentzing God-ratline-for-klugging-do something!”
“Goteinyu, get the piss buckets.”
  “Lower the hogshead o'er the larboard gunwhale.”
“Flames behind the salt pork store.”
“Shh! Zugs nisht oys—don't say it!”
And indeed the lovely boucan barbecue fumes of burning meat billowed invitingly from the ship along with an admixture of tar and mouldy lumber, the combined tang an alte kocker's shvitz, his shoes, and a variety of ailing muskrat. In the fire-fighting fury and smoke-filled hoo-hah, Moishe clambered up the hull clasping chains, deadeye, and shroud, then scaled the mainmast. He was a grievous and avenging angel in a fog of rum and pork-fire and from high up the cross-tree, he proclaimed:
“Nu. Look up. Way up. For I am the voice of this cloud of sulphurous and tormenting flame. I who have turned this ship into a burning bush around which you now scurry farmisht. But don't thank me. I have returned from the dead. That's thanks enough. I whose eyes burn like twin stars. Whose hair is an untamed and piratical porcupinity. Whose grepses are the fartz of one who has dined on naught but forty years of rats. Whose putz is a great mast which requires no stays. I who is not so easy to get rid of. But who were you expecting? Yoshkeh? The messiah? A klug, but it is a fercockt and scurvy world, but which other world would have us? I have returned as your captain and together we shall not perish but shall seek eternal youth and life whether in sea, or fire, in earth, or air or from the quintessence itself. Or in the shaineh zaftig arms of another and their sweet knish. Remember the days that have been, the seasons we have lived, where we might sing, swear, drink, drab, and kill in vengeance as freely as cake-makers do flies, as parrots speak, or as the waves climb and fall as they seek the distant shores of the world. The white smoke—with your consent and articles--elects me again captain. And if we are able to put the fire out.”

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

The Human Body: Recent Lettraset Work.

Oxymandias Spam

Shelley's draft of my poem

I want to hold and take care of
recent spam from an antique land

says: you are good person
I need help

imagine lover’s legs
alone in trackless place

her face sunk half
by sand, weeping jaw

needing forehead
broke lips speak name

passions easy as magazine
in doctor’s office help

her with help
and money she still survive

though nearly only

the hand that mocks

the heart that fed
needs and then the next spam appears

my name is Nata$ha
I am here 24/7

I have pics to share 

look at me

me nothing
remains round decay

I am boundless and bare 

you lone you never goes away

Monday, March 04, 2013

Some kind of gnostrilcism


we snort from the cathedral of the nose
noisemakers, lemon joyous

hands up-raised hallelujah
on the steps of the lips we are closer

take all our ribs and make from them forests
not women: we have worn seven layers

we have worn six
wearing five is flying skin like cloud

the twin mosques of the nostril
the synagogue of shnozz

outside we are ourselves on the chin
spring hot jubilant

iridescent wonder skin
a radiotelescope dish

for rays and exultant shredding
all books on our bodies written elsetimes

superceded by sun and the bright out
nosedness of day

Friday, March 01, 2013

Interview about my serif of nottingham editions micropress

rob mclennan wrote a profile and interviewed me about my serif of nottingham editions micro-press (which has been going for almost 30 years!) for

Is the press bigger than a breadbox? Can a breadbox be fit through a laser printer and stapled? Does it have a witty colophon?

But I do wax colophonic about how such a nano-scaled publishing project can have larger implications and how something so simple can be more complex.

And I do discuss prostitution and the selling of poetry chapbooks in Toronto.

When and why did the press originally begin? Where did the name come from?

Darkness. Fonts. The sheen of glossy grey Xerox paper. I clad in white samite and sports socks. The arcane allure of a long armed stapler, the numinous and tactile attraction of cover stock. Be fruitful and multiple. Edit well. 

And: In 1985, when I was a student at York University in second year, I took a creative writing class at York University with the brilliantly laconic and insightful Frank Davey. He told us about this event downtown called "Meet the Presses," a gathering of small presses devised by Stuart Ross and Nicholas Power. He encouraged us to create books and get a table. I did and ended up attending both Meet the Presses and the Toronto Small Press Book Fair/Indie Literary Market for the next nearly thirty years. Stuart, Nick, plus some others of us, re-formed Meet the Presses a few years ago and have put on Literary markets so wildly fun, successful, and attended by almost thousands, it hurt my saddlestitching. 

As for the name: in the manner of hair salons, I thought I needed a moniker for the press with an apposite bad pun in it. And I love the idea of ‘serifs,’ –- unnecessary little training wheels or antlers for letters. Sudden turns in the path of the lettershape.

What I find interesting about your serif of nottingham editions is that it remains an extension of your own writing, much in the ways Stuart Ross has approached his Proper Tales Press, or even myself, with above/ground press. How do you see the evolution of the press since it began? 

The press began simply as a way for me to distribute my work. Writing graffiti on the side of mammoths or tubers for the wide-lapelled hunter-gatherers of 1980s Toronto. But very quickly I realized that that simple act had more complex potential. 

I also realized, as I once said in an interview with Alessandro Porco (and note how self-publishing here involves quoting myself…) that:

 “publishing is not a neutral act. It is implicitly political and aesthetic. The publishing is part of the aesthetic of the work, in terms of its look, its distribution, and how the audience interacts with the work, both in terms of reading it, engaging with its writers and publishers, and in how it finds its audience.”

My publishing made me part of creating and engaging a community of writers, readers, and publishers. Those simpatico. It was old school social media.

Publishing meant that my work entered the discourse, the literary conversation. It put a frame around it. Work could come hot off my typewriter, Atari computer, pen, or the photocopier at my wife’s office and out into the world. And it was distributed in a number of ways. Direct contact at readings, for example, when meeting writers and readers. Through mail networks. I sold copies to libraries, collectors, archives, and at book fairs. 

Sometimes I played with the ‘commodity’ aspect of publishing, the idea that I was creating a product that had ‘value.’ Once at a small press fair, I sold my books by weight. I also sold books for a penny which had a penny stuck to them. One CBC reporter who happened to be covering the fair got in a bit of a fulminating colophon about that idea.

And aesthetically, I was able to ‘set’ the work in a form that best suited it. A small booklet containing just one text. A single page. Handcoloured broadsides. The design could be determined by the work. Could enter into and contribute to the aesthetic of the text. Looking back, I love how I can see the evolution of DIY publishing: from photocopied typewriting, to pixelated dot matrix printing, to Photoshop and InDesign laser printing. 

Over the serif of nottingyears, I have published a range of things. Mostly chapbooks, but also broadsides and various ‘ephemera’ (collages on envelopes, prints, leaflets, etc.) In this, I was initially influenced by bpNichol and jwcurry and their diverse publishing projects. How does writing find its physical form in the world? How does it navigate through the world and into readers’ brains? How can a poem be a handshake, a glance, a punch in the face with proper kerning?

Most of what you have published through the press is your own work. How do you decide what other authors/chapbooks to produce?

For the last while, my work has increasingly had the opportunity to appear in other places (books, journals, recordings) and especially in online forms which didn’t exist when I began (blogs, literary journals, archives, and other small presses, Facebook, Twitter, etc.). So now I have other places to publish my work. If I write something and, advisedly or not, want it to be available to the readers of the world before the last pixel has settled, I can stick it on my blog or post it to any number of places. So, I’ve increasing wanted to use my press to publish people that I want to have published. I’ve also increasingly been thinking about my mentors, about people that I admire in the literary world. 

They engage. They give back. They help support other people. They seek out voices that are underrepresented or could enter the discourse in a different ways. And I’m able to help shape and edit small manuscripts.

Some current publishers are Stuart Ross’s Proper Tales Press, derek beaulieu’s housepress and No Press, and your [rob mclennan’s] above/ground press.
So, like the Grinch, whose chapbook empire was two sizes too small, I’ve begun in a modest way to expand the goals of the press.

In the last few years, I’ve published Michael Sikkema, NF Huth, Ally Fleming and have a book by Kevin Spenst lined up. I also began a publishing project with Paper Kite books in Pennsylvannia called Tadpole Supernova where I published Hugh Thomas and Gabriel Gudding. 

I have also used serif of nottingham to publish some collections of work by the street-involved youth of the Urban Arts Initiative writing program (“We Are Who We Are”) that I run in downtown Hamilton. So their voices can be ‘framed,’ valued, and enter the discussion. 

Part of choosing what to publish is to provide opportunity. For the writer, but also to introduce work to different audiences. So the Americans Huth, Sikkema and Gudding aren’t known well in Canada. And Canada – nay! the world – needs more Hugh Thomas. 

Publishing increasingly for me has been like performing chamber music. Working with others to create a satisfying aesthetic thing-in-the-world, sensitive to the moment and also to the inherent voice of the work.

You've been involved with Meet the Presses since it began. What do you see as its primary goals, and how well have they been achieved? 

Meet the Presses’ is an all literary-publisher showcase focused on sales of literary books, chapbooks, magazines, and recordings. We imagine it as our one day ‘dream bookstore’. The ‘Indie Literary Market’ is a curated event – that is, the participating publishers are chosen by the Meet the Presses collective. The Indie Literary Market gives the public an opportunity to meet literary presses and directly purchase publications that may not be readily available (or available at all!) in bookstores and other commercial outlets.

Although we have termed it a ‘market’, the Indie Literary Market is not market driven. ‘Indie” means non-commercial. There is a reason, a conscious decision, that the presses publish the works in this way. Not because they have to, but because they want to. For us, success is an authentic interaction between engaged writing, publishers, and readers.

We also see our events as responding to, and facilitating community around literature and publishing. The technology of the book is not one merely of information technology, but interactive technology. Readers, writers, and publishers come together to share their ‘joie de livre’ in a context that is outside of the strictures of predominantly market-driven publishing. We can turn on a dime, because we don’t need thousands of dollars to continue. Our ‘share-holders’ are people who share in our work by holding our publications in their hands, and share our mutual appreciation of independent literature and publishing.

Have we succeeded in our goals? 

I feel that Meet the Presses provides a great context, a fellowship, a coalition of the willing, an axis of indie, a biodiverse vector for alt reading and publishing. 

And I’m really pleased that there continues to be new generations of publishers and readers as witnessed by our last Indie Literary Market this fall. And more are emerging all the time. Some relatively new small presses that I like are Leigh Nash & Andrew Faulkner’s Emergency Response Unit, Cameron Anstee’s Apt 9 Press, Ferno House, and the Toronto Poetry Vendors. 

Whenever I teach writing, I encourage my students to make their own books. To get their work out into the world. To develop a community of writers and readers. Having writing jump out of the typing fingers and begin a dialogue. 

And to end, my favourite story about the press: In the late 80s, I used to busk on the streets of Toronto. One evening, my wife and I went down to the corner of Bloor and Brunswick in the Annex. I played saxophone while further down the street, my wife stood selling poetry chapbooks. Several men stopped their cars, thinking that this whole poetry selling thing was a front for prostitution. “How much?” they asked. Did she say, “I believe in DIY, now go…”? But amazing to think that anyone could mistake poetry for “Communicating for the Purpose.” It’s so much more high risk.

A very incomplete list of some of the less ephemeral serif of nottingham publications. I think it was Cocteau who said, ‘the greatest archive is no more than a memory out of order.” Where the author is not noted, it is Gary Barwin.


We Are Who We Are (workshop group): Warning Contains Superheroes.

Sikkema, Michael, The Sky The.

We Are Who We Are (workshop group): Warning Contains Stories.


Huth, N.F., 3 Words.

Fleming, Ally, what happened was: he flew.

The Saxophonists’ Book of the Dead.


The Punctuation of Thieves.

Inverting the Deer. 
Punctuation Funnies.
a periodic table of the alphabet.
The 10th Sigmund Freud.
The Great Themes
Mike Harris Made Me Eat My Dog & Other Strange Fish
Like Bozo’s Nose or Time Itself
Big Red Baby. 
A Flapping Red Flag
The Lovely Carlotta, Queen of Mexico.
Family Relations Are So Complicated
The Iridescent Phlegm of Bagpipers Glorious with Flu.
Surplus Ballyhoo,  with Stuart Ross. Co-publication with Proper Tales Press.
Mollusks of Jealousy
“one night i was playing with my tongue.../ I have something to tell you” (with Stuart Ross) Co-publication with Proper Tales Press.
Martin’s Idea
The Stars Are A Pale Pox On The Sky’s Dark Chicken
Studies In Micro-Scansion.
Oracle of Dog.
a short history of breath.
Toward Windward with jwcurry. 
St. Catharines, Ontario
Rover. (as one cent #223) 
The Sun Disappears.
Shepherds in the Parking Lot. 
A Sound like Fire
King Arthur was A Mountie
A Million Dollars
Blameless Angels
How I watched until the moon
Phases of the Harpsichord Moon (broadside).
Phases of the Harpsichord Moon.