The stars aligned so that I read a number of short, potent non-fiction books at the start of the year: Between the World and Me (Coates) is an articulate and powerful letter on growing up black in America. It offers no easy answers, nor should it. Men of Action (Howard Akler) is an intensely thoughtful and personal meditation on consciousness, memory and family, triggeredeck2016d by the death of his father, and a quietly remarkable book. The Nearest Thing to Life (James Wood) is a set of four essays largely covering the joys of fiction. Aside from giving you a number of ideas for books to read, it has coherent thoughts on fiction like this: “At the service, I was struck by the thought that death gives us the awful privilege of seeing a life whole; that a funeral or even an obituary is a liturgical home for that uneasy privilege; and that fiction is the literary genre that most powerfully offers a secular version of that liturgical hospitality.”

Nonfiction: With an opening chapter about a new, “unstoppable” fungus making its way around the world and killing nearly every species of frog, The Sixth Extinction (Elizabeth Kolbert) is articulate, accessible, well-informed and important. I found much to admire in The Danger Tree (David MacFarlane) which blends family history and the overall history of Newfoundland, including some of the most poignant writing I’ve seen on the First World War, written in a way that gets beyond the statistics into the loss to families and communities.

More nonfiction: A. A. Gill is a smart, amusing travel guide in A.A. Gill is Away, describing Wildebeest as “God’s extras.” But he’s also interested to comment on the larger world through his specific observations. I Was Hitler’s Chauffeur (Kempka) has an awkward title but it’s a fascinating account from a man who was by his side from the beginning to the end. How does a man who remembers to bring treats for his chauffeur also become one of the most despised men in history? Letters to a Young Contrarian (Hitchens) is a worthy book, and Sixty (Ian Brown) is smart, honest and immensely readable, nor is it self-indulgent given that Brown relates his experiences to the wider world. The Hatred of Poetry (Lerner) is concise and insightful. I also read Mortality by Hitchens, and while excellent it is also quite sad for obvious reasons. I dearly wish we had his commentary on our current political climate, and events since his death.

More non-fiction: The Loss of the S. S. Titanic (Beesley) is not my favourite account but nonetheless it’s a very readable book by a survivor who reportedly tried to crash the set of the film A Night to Remember decades later, interested to go down with the ship this time. Boy: Tales of Childhood (Roald Dahl) is recommended as a charming memoir. It turns out Dahl and his childhood friends were used for product testing, which helped inspire Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Anyone with a passing interest in Oakville or for that matter anyone with aging  parents should read They Left Us Everything (Plum Johnson). Ambition and Survival: Becoming a Poet (Wiman) is a fine, engaging memoir.

Fiction: Dept of Speculation (Jenny Offill) is a short novel, wonderfully concise in how it skips through to all the relevant moments, or just switches to a brief quote from Einstein if it damn well feels like it. And Offill is funny: “It’s true that I am feebleminded at the grocery store. I write lists that I forget, buy things we don’t need or already have. Later, my husband will say, did you get toilet paper, did you get ketchup, did you get garlic, and I will say, no, no, I forgot, sorry, here is some butterscotch pudding and some toothpicks and some whiskey sour mix.”

Honourable mentions for fiction: The Man Who Was Thursday (Chesterton), Whale Music (Quarrington), The Warden (Trollope), Outline (Rachel Cusk), Cassandra at the Wedding (Dorothy Baker), The Train Was On Time (Heinrich Boll), Sweetland (Michael Crummey).

Oh, and Shirley Jackson, Shirley Jackson, Shirley Jackson. I read both the short story The Lottery and the short novel The Haunting of Hill House and loved them both. A great writer who led a fascinating life. It’s writing with the same hard-hitting potency as a new writer I picked up: Debris is a collection of short stories by Kevin Hardcastle (new from Biblioasis).

Genre: Six-Gun Snow White (Catherynne M. Valente) is a thoroughly enjoyable, charged retelling of the fairy tale with great language: “Her hair was braided up nice. It had a color like good whiskey.” Neverwhere (Nail Gaiman) has creativity to spare: creativity as embroidery at the edge of the main body of creativity. The Paper Menagerie (Ken Liu) smoothly blends SF ideas, a graceful imagination and literary meaning for terrific stories. Skin and Bones (Thorne Smith) is depression-era fiction, and a curious tale of a man periodically turning into a skeleton. While longer than necessary, some of the language is great: “slop-fed thugs” comes to mind. The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet (Becky Chambers) takes its time and creates real-feeling characters before involving them in an engaging plot.

Essays: Shame and Wonder (David Searcy) begins with a remarkable essay about a coyote so experienced it is only eventually fooled (and shot) by a farmer employing a recording of his infant daughter’s cry. Some of the other essays, while extremely worthy, enter such a meditative state loaded with digressions it may require a little patience from the reader. Eating the Dinosaur (Chuck Klosterman) is a quirky, intelligent collection of essays. On his distaste for laugh tracks “The voices recorded on modern laugh tracks were often the same original voices recorded by Douglas during pre-ancient radio shows like Burns and Allen, which would mean that the sound we hear on laugh tracks is the sound of dead people laughing.”

TV: The Crimson Field is a somewhat melodramatic by worthy BBC series about nurses behind the front lines of the First World War, cancelled too early, though more troubling is the BBC cancellation of The Hour, among the best TV dramas I’ve ever seen. It’s the year I finished Mad Men, Downton Abbey (both excellent historicals) and, well, Stargate SG1, which is entertaining and enjoys good camaraderie between the characters.

Film: I was impressed with many films in 2016 (really too many to mention here) but as I watch them I do tend to comment on them on Twitter, if you’d care to get in touch: @alexboydwriter

Graphic Novels: Dark Night: A True Batman Story (Paul Dini) tells a personal story by the talented writer behind some excellent Batman stories over the years. Agatha: The Real Life of Agatha Christie (Martinetti) feels a bit brief but is nonetheless worthwhile. We Stand On Guard (Brian Vaughan) imagines a U.S. invasion of Canada in the future and while a bit nasty and heavy-handed it’s also engaging. Cruising Through the Louvre (David Prudhomme) is so inventive and charming it really should not be missed.

You can stop reading now if you don’t give a rat’s ass about Star Trek, but as it was the year the original show turned 50 I picked up a few books about it, including the BFI Classics book on the original series, Star Trek (Ina Rae Hark) which comes across as appreciative but unafraid to be critical: “One thinks of the typical cliques that form in high schools, their members rarely interacting. Kirk is the sports hero who is also president of the student council, Spock the brainy geek who runs the chess club and McCoy the regular guy with lots of friends who hangs out at the corner soda shop (or, now, the shopping centre). Probably more utopian that any of its social theory was Star Trek’s insistence that there was a community where all three types mattered and respected what each other could contribute.”

More Trekking: In his memoir The View from the Bridge, Nicholas Meyer is good company: “I am still absorbed by stories, which I thought would never go out of fashion, dating as they do back to Homer. But lately narrative has been replaced by rides. Endless action sequences, unrelated to character or plot, are just a different kind of pornography, one in which standalone episodes of violence are substituted for standalone episodes of sex. The stories that nominally link these episodes are of little interest because – at least to me – they are unconnected or unrelated to life, which is what appeals to me. I am interested in heroes, not superheroes. Caped crusaders and movies that end with the word “Man” strike me as rather pathetic attempts to dial out an encroaching reality that most Americans appear unwilling to confront. The movies I am interesting making – and watching – are all attempts to confront reality, however quirky, peculiar, hilarious, or unpleasant.”


I’ve read exactly one P.G. Wodehouse novel and found it amusing, but haven’t felt compelled (at least, not yet) to read others. But I’m glad I recently saw Wodehouse in Exile, a new BBC drama. The film has stayed with me for assorted reasons. First, it’s interesting to see the record set straight after all these years. Caught behind enemy lines during the Second World War, Wodehouse did a series of radio broadcasts meant to show the English spirit still survived, but it conveniently helped the Nazis try and portray themselves as gentlemen rulers. Questions, and accusations of traitorous behaviour followed Wodehouse for the rest of his life because British government reports that concluded he was innocent were not released for decades.

Also, it isn’t a flashy film, but it’s a good script, and solid performances portraying people caught up in the war (for a change, rather than the decision-makers behind the war). After the German army captures France, a soldier knocks on the front door of the Wodehouse home. “What does he want?” his wife asks, and Wodehouse lightly jokes, “World domination, I expect.” Even the German soldier knocking on his door seems flustered and slightly arrogant rather than hateful, and while we all know horrific things happened throughout the war, it’s a smart script that manages to give you people rather than caricatures. The war arrives like a sudden storm, complete with German soldiers on motorcycles driving through the garden, and some of the Germans seem as helplessly caught up in it as Wodehouse. Without giving away too much, the film portrays people on both sides only too happy to participate in the war, even as others on both sides are portrayed as people who’d be happier to go home and read a good book.

Finally, it has stayed in my thoughts because it’s a portrayal of a man doing his best to ignore the war, and when finally forced to acknowledge it, he greets it with humour, civility and even gentleness. Of course, it’s like lighting a candle in the wind, but there’s something noble in the attempt, and the viewer — something else intelligent about the script — is left to decide if Wodehouse was hopelessly  naive or a principled, remarkably rare individual. Link to a review here. Found at the Toronto library on DVD. When are you getting it, Netflix?

My son’s arrival would obviously count as my favourite moment of the year, and I’ve tried to mentally photograph his endearing, nearly ongoing, fairly baffled expression. But I’m sure you’re here to read about something a little more applicable to your life, so let’s get to the books, film and TV.

Assorted bears, decades apart: Bear (Marian Engel) is something I finally picked up based on various recent recommendations, and it’s a brilliant short novel packed with meaning. It felt like it sits quite perfectly balanced between reality and fable. The Bear by Claire Cameron (this time the publishers could afford a definite article) has some very impressive writing considering the challenge of creating first-person narration by a five year-old girl telling the horrific story of her family attacked by a bear while camping. It’s certainly riveting stuff.

Assorted islands, decades apart: Mysterious Island (Jules Verne) serves as something of a follow-up to 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, though this isn’t clear from glancing at the book. It hits the ground running (almost literally) then becomes a trifle dull when a band of survivors spends long chapters surveying the island before it picks up again by the end. Island (Aldous Huxley) is apparently meant to balance Brave New World, with a Western character washing up on the shores of a far more ideal civilization. But the events and characters serve as basic scaffolding for a series of lectures: worthy stuff, but also fairly dull a lot of the time. The best moment details “Peter Pan syndrome,” and the way some men never grow up emotionally (with the ultimate example being Hitler).

A unique voice: Swiss-born Robert Walser appears to have dedicated most of his life to wandering Europe and cultivating his unique and thoughtful way of looking at the world. I really enjoyed A Schoolboy’s Diary and Other Stories (some of them shorter than a page) and I’m now reading his short novel Jakob von Gunten just because I enjoy his voice so much. I’m not sure I’ve ever found a writer so content with his own small role in the world, as we all must learn to be: “The railway trains thunder over the quivering bridges. Evenings, the fabulous rich and elegant shopwindows shine, and streams, serpents, and billows of people roll past the allures of industrial riches on display. Yes, that all seems grand and good to me. One profits from being in the midst of the whirling and bubbling. One has a good feeling in the legs, the arms, and the chest while making the effort to wriggle cleverly and without much fuss through all the living stuff. In the morning everything comes to life anew, and in the evening everything sinks into the wildly embracing arms of a new and unknown dream.”

More Fiction: Goodbye to Berlin (Isherwood) is probably my favourite novel of the year for its poignancy and detailed characters. Isherwood appears to have been right there on the street to see Nazi thugs in the early years, and a city in transition. I finally caught up with Crime and Punishment, which certainly lives up to its reputation as a classic, and I enjoyed Three Day Road (Joseph Boyden) for being so carefully crafted, though it didn’t seem to grab me, emotionally. Henderson the Rain King (Saul Bellow) is funny and an enjoyably exaggerated parody of a personal crisis even as the pacing is a little too leisurely for my taste. My Face for the World to See (Alfred Hayes) is the story of an affair set in Hollywood, and it’s among those concise and poignant novels I’m always very pleased to have read. Hayes apparently contributed to The Bicycle Thief (1948), which has long been a favourite film of mine. I admired the quirky and unique stories in Circus (Claire Battershill).

A Death in the Family (James Agee) is an 11 out of 10 for sadness, but more importantly it’s a remarkable accomplishment in terms of the reader really feeling the events of the book. After the death of his father, the young boy looks at his father’s body in the funeral home and feels it’s like “a very successfully disguised stranger.” A Meaningful Life (L.J. Davis) was vividly written but remorselessly bleak. Comfort cannot be found here, even in a book: “It smelled powerfully of mouse shit, and its pages were the color and consistency of stale Finnish flat bread. Mechanically it was not an easy book to read. In some cases, whole pages disintegrated as Lowell scanned them, as though the weight of his gaze was too much for them to bear.”

Nonfiction: The World of Yesterday (Stefan Zweig) is an endlessly fascinating memoir. Zweig grew up in Vienna before either of the world wars and travelled overseas without a passport before our heightened sense of nationalism. He knew Freud, watched Rodin sculpt, and finally even saw Germany transform under Hitler. Every Wolf’s Howl (Barry Grills) is an immensely human and readable account of owning a dog that turned out to be, well, basically a wolf. The Unwinding: An Inner History of the New America (George Packer) should be required reading for our strange times. Titanic (Filson Young) is an excellent, sometimes almost poetic account of the disaster published a matter of weeks later by a journalist.

Essay collections: Cultural Amnesia (Clive James) is simply a great collection of essays. Intended as something of a time capsule and covering a range of subjects, they’re both accessible and highly perceptive. Farther Away (Jonathan Franzen) is a lucid collection. Here’s Franzen on why he likes short stories: “They leave the writer no place to hide. There’s no yakking your way out of trouble; I’m going to be reaching the last page in a matter of minutes, and if you’ve got nothing to say I’m going to know it.” I blogged about how much I enjoyed Loitering (Charles D’Ambrosio) below. Men Explain Things To Me (Rebecca Solnit) was also terrific, and felt like something that should be required reading. The Crow Who Tampered With Time (Lloyd Ratzlaff) is a meditative essay collection, well worth picking up.

Genre: Casino Royale (Fleming) is inexcusably sexist, but it can at least be said to be staggeringly obvious about it. Leaving aside the chapter Bond details the rules of the game at length, it is also pretty much a riveting spy novel with the occasional memorable moment of dialogue: “Surround yourself with human beings, my dear James. They are easier to fight for than principles.” Among Others (Jo Walton) is a leisurely but engaging story of magic and struggle in daily life, and it’s infused with a love of books thanks to a slightly obsessive narrator. It was nice to have a love of books validated in this way. Dying Inside (Robert Silverberg) is a poignant novel about a man losing his ability to read minds. Well written, captivating and unique, but it suffers from some severe stereotypes, which is a trifle ironic for a novel about our ability to connect.

More Genre: The Dreaming Jewels (Theodore Sturgeon) is inventive and compelling. For years, I’ve known Sturgeon only as the writer of one of the better original Star Trek episodes. We’ve had so many dinosaur shenanigans in various forms over the years that The Lost World (Arthur Conan Doyle) is a book you can read for the first time with a certain familiarity, but it’s nonetheless thoroughly enjoyable.

Graphic novels: The Sculptor (Scott McCloud) is a lengthy graphic novel at 488 pages, but it also manages to be an engrossing read about a young artist gaining the ability to manipulate stone or any other material with his hands. The plot may belong to The Twilight Zone, but McCloud manages an impressive meditation on the challenges of trying to make art, particularly in an age of instant gratification. Starling (Sage Stossel) is a fun, charming female-superhero graphic novel. Here (Richard McGuire) which takes one location throughout time as its focus, is really not to be missed.

Poetry: Among others, I enjoyed The Lease (Matthew Henderson), Inheritance (Kerry-Lee Powell), For Your Safety Please Hold On (Kayla Czaga) The Cold Panes of Surfaces (Chris Banks), Leaving the Island (Talya Rubin) and Kingdom (Elizabeth Ross). All very fine poetry books.

Film and TV: The Music Room (1958) is an Indian drama I just happened to pick up at the Toronto library, but as a poignant tale of a rich man’s life declining, it was among my favourite films of the year. I took some time to explore Chaplin this year, also to be found at the library or even on YouTube: Modern Times, The Gold Rush and City Lights are all absolute masterpieces and a joy to watch. At a time film was cranked out and wasn’t considered an art form, Chaplin insisted on perfection. I watched the new Daredevil series on Netflix and enjoyed it, though I think it confuses darkness with maturity in going unnecessarily bleak at times. Longmire is a police drama that’s essentially a modern Western, worth it for some of the relationships. And I’d go on about enjoying the elegance porn of Downton Abbey, the drama of Mad Men and the escapism of Game of Thrones, but are there people who don’t know anything about these shows?



There’s an impressive new arts IMG_0831and culture site called Partisan I’ve been enjoying, and they’ve recently accepted a couple of things from me: Toppled Buildings is a poem that begins with Godzilla as a starting point, and I went to a few friends and colleagues for their thoughts on juggling poetry and parenthood in order to write an article called Planned Poethood. Julie Cameron Gray, Zachariah Wells and Alexandra Oliver provided thoughtful comments.

There’s much to admire in Loitering, essays by Charles D’Ambrosio. I think one of the best uses of the personal essay is to provide a unique voice and perspective. These essays can feel a little overwritten from time to time — in a preface, loiteringD’Ambrosio worries about “sounding parsonic,” which I stumbled over for a moment until I decided he meant, simply enough, sounding like a parson — but more importantly, his voice is empathetic, thoughtful and articulate. His eye for observation allows for comments like this: “It wasn’t a conversation; he was just beating the air like a rug, hoping to knock all the doubt and ambiguity out of it.”

The preface expresses the value of doubt in an age assertiveness is everything, and simply thinking appears to be inactive (even though it isn’t) and is therefore unacceptable, making the title quite perfect. While reading this collection I happened to also read an article about the uses and downfalls of being a jerk and what’s fascinating is that simple assertiveness and an “inflated sense” of your own abilities was enough to impress many people, regardless of accuracy. I believe I instinctively understood this, but D’Ambrosio is certainly the kind of thinker who can see through it. Watching a reporter detail her severe opinion of another woman, he observes her “only real qualification for commenting on Letourneau is that she holds a job that requires her to say something re: something most every day of the week.”

Given his obvious thoughtfulness I was a little taken aback by his apparent disdain for environmentalist Paul Watson, who is, after all, working to save the world at a time the death of a character on Game of Thrones seems to get more reaction than climate change. But his point that being overbearing can lose you followers is also well taken. If celebrities can do a great deal for the environmental movement its because they have legions of people following them around for a variety of other reasons. An essay like “Hell House,” is extremely perceptive, even as “Orphans,” is closer to poignant and moving. Regardless, a collection like this should be celebrated. Earlier in the year I enjoyed The Crow Who Tampered with Time (Lloyd Ratzlaff), reverent essays (as well as a completely overlooked book, by comparison), and I’ve already blogged about Cultural Amnesia (Clive James), which is a long but immensely valuable collection.

Born in Montreal, Kerry-Lee Powell has lived in Australia, Antigua, and The United Kingdom, where she studied Medieval and Renaissance literature at Cardiff University and directed a literature promotion agency. Her work has appeared in journals and anthologies throughout the UK and North America. In 2013, she won The Boston Review fiction contest, The Malahat Review’s Far Horizons Award for short fiction, and the Alfred G. Bailey manuscript prize. A chapbook entitled “The Wreckage” has recently been published in England by Grey Suit Editions. A novel and short fiction collection are forthcoming from HarperCollins. Inheritance is her first book.
You have some very poignant poems in Inheritance about your father. I’ve attempted to capture my own father in poems and I haven’t even lost him. Of course it’s to honour him and try and build something against that idea we’ll all be a memory someday, but in a quieter way mine are also a bit of an apology for not understanding him as a child, or at least it’s a way to examine the relationship. But a poem about a father can also fit a larger framework, like a somewhat indirect way to address the patriarchy. What is it about poets and their fathers?

Inheritance was inspired by a shipwreck my father endured during Inheritancethe Second World War, as well as by his struggles with post-traumatic stress disorder and eventual suicide. He served in the merchant navy and was sunk twice. On one occasion he was on a lifeboat in the north Atlantic for eleven days, one of only a handful of survivors to chance upon the Scottish coast in rough weather. I imagined the terror he must have experienced at being so utterly at the mercy of a cruel mid-winter sea. His miraculous survival is the stuff of legend. In my mind’s eye I often see him as an Odysseus whose journeys tragically found emptiness and rage instead of demigods and marvels.

Many of the poems in Inheritance are addressed to a muse-like figure who bears only a slight resemblance to the man I knew as a child. I wanted to retrieve a father from the chaos of his mental illness, to honor him and meditate upon the causes of his suffering. I very much had ‘Father’ with a capital F in mind when writing this collection, not least because his private experiences resonate strikingly with the dominant myths surrounding masculinity in western culture: those of war and heroism, hubris and self-sacrifice. After the war ended he prided himself on being a man’s man, became a womanizer and hard drinker who shipped his enormous white convertible on a visit home to Wales so that the poor villagers and younger members of his family could idolize him. He also considered himself somewhat of a Renaissance man. He came from the kind of educated working class family that D.H. Lawrence describes so vividly in his early novels, and was well-versed in Shakespeare and Homer and all the lionized ‘greats’ of literature.

His subsequent physical and mental breakdown caused a reversal of his prized masculine attributes. He was an invalid for many years and then, after my mother left him, a poverty-stricken single father who nearly poisoned us to death a few times with his half-frozen TV dinners and ill-fated attempts at cookery. He never embraced his role as homemaker, hardening instead into a misogynist and pro-Apartheid Reaganite who threw things at the television when a strident female appeared on the screen. At times he was acutely aware of his own mental disintegration, quoting King Lear at us while he paced up and down the living room floor. At other times he was inchoate. Often, he was terrifying. There were some very ugly moments in our house, and perhaps Inheritance was also a way of coming to terms with my own fraught childhood.

My use of formal devices and structures in the collection mirrors wider concerns I have as an artist, and especially as a female artist in a patriarchal culture. Whose voice speaks through me? During a period of lucidity my father set himself up as a writer. The image of him at his red typewriter in the kitchen during that brief interlude of hopefulness and industry no doubt influenced my own desire to become a writer. And of course I also sought, and in many way still seek, his approval. When I had my first literary acceptance, part of me wanted to wave the slip at the heavens. Another part of me wanted to cock my middle finger at him, for his misogyny, for the ways in which he degraded and belittled me for being a girl. Many of the poems in Inheritance fall somewhere between those two gestures: the wish to honor his courage and suffering, and a rebellion against the brutality that he so frighteningly embodied.

Lyric poetry has allowed me to see him as a vessel through which I might explore grief and trauma, the beauties and cruelties of the wider culture. As necessary as it was for me to consider the terrible circumstances surrounding my father’s suicide, it was vital for me to acknowledge the grace and humanity of the lyric tradition that has also been my inheritance, and that resonates within me as powerfully as my father’s trauma continues to do.

Chris Banks is a poet with a Master’s degree in Creative Writing from Concordia University. He is the author of three acclaimed collections of poetry: Bonfires, The Cold Panes of Surfaces, and Winter Cranes. His new chapbook of poems is called Invaders, and is from Anstruther press. He lives, writes and teaches in Waterloo, Ontario.

Invaders was a potent chapbook, because in only a dozen well-crafted poems I get a sense of victory balanced by loss and then falling into the rear-view mirror of life anyway. And that would sound depressing if it weren’t for your reverence for the process of life, self-evident in your thoughtfulness and your conviction you “start with yourself,” if looking for rescue (from “Christian Island”). The first poem covers the first act of a life (yours, really) and the second poem encapsulates an entire life (“thirty years / inside a factory, hand-polishing wooden cabinets…”). And throughout, a poignancy that even gives elegance to an angry teenager (“Amplifier”). It’s all framed by your title, and a Martin Amis quote about the “dormant areas” of our minds growing populated. I think a space invader (as we see on the cover) could be seen as cute or horrifyingly blank. But given that “time is theft,” (from “All-Night Arcade”) I wonder if your own personal landscape is a comfort to you or if objects become like barnacles over time. Is there a way to hold on to the right memories or remain armed with the right things from the past?

Thank you Alex for your sensitive reading of my chapbook. I think, as a poet, you really do need to arm yourself with the right things from the past as you suggest in order to withstand what Wallace Stevens calls “the pressure of reality.” I think there is real danger in having a heightened awareness of how one’s self is conceived, BanksInvadersor how the “omnipresent” moment exerts itself upon consciousness. So much appears lost. So much feels arbitrary. Larry Levis felt this deeply. Philip Levine too. So many of Hayden Carruth’s best poems are like urns, little memorials to a world that no longer exists.

Each day there is always the constant terrifying barrage of sensory information that forms our experience, and our consciousness attempts to counter this by conjuring its own litany of images and thoughts and memories, each one hopefully meant to help us better connect to the moment before us.

I think the trick with poetry is writing in such a way that your mind accesses the right images or memories, the deep archetypal ones, the interior stories which for me is the meditational mode. The American poet John Koethe when talking about Ashbery describes the essence of a meditation “as an urgent exploration (by whatever means available) of a recognizable, but until now unrecognized, problem; an exploration covering—or, rather, defining—a concrete stretch of human time.” I think this is what I was getting at when I entitled the chapbook Invaders and lead off with the Martin Amis quote.

The best poems come through us, speak in our voices, and yet come from somewhere else entirely. We have to be other than ourselves at the moment of writing.

Only then does the poet’s imagination, recognizing the meaningless of most daily life, come to our rescue by offering its solution: a poem. An approximation of our experience in language but one that is more orderly, more meaningful and more humane.

Poetry is the invader that takes over those dormant areas of our minds when we are courageous enough to abandon our hold on them.