Jaclyn Desforges : part five

How do you know when a poem is finished?

There’s the first kind of finished, the moment in which I can’t bear to look at it anymore. On a small scale, this is when I think, “Good enough, whatever” and shove the poem in a drawer. On a larger scale: At this time last year I was on Toronto island for a self-directed retreat with a writer friend, the brilliant Sara Mang. I was finishing my collection, and after a few days of focusing on nothing but that, I knew that not only could I no longer look at these particular poems, but also that I had lost whatever spark it was that had made me think I could possibly be a poet to begin with. I thought I was done, that maybe it would be published and maybe it wouldn’t, but that my poet days were truly over. I sent the manuscript off to my editor, Jim Johnstone. Then I submitted a package of poems to The New Yorker as a last hurrah, then moved on to writing short stories.  

This week, I read my book of poetry for the first time since the island. And it really is a book. It feels like a book — something a real writer wrote — even though the last time I looked at it, it felt like twelve million wriggling, disparate parts that made no kind of sense, rational or fantastical or otherwise. I was too deep into it to be able to see it. It spent many months unseen in the drawer. Looking at it now, I feel like the book needed that time to cure and become itself. 

Now Jim and I are doing edits and the book is coming out in fall of this year. It’s like my poet self is waking up after a long hibernation. And funnily enough, as I’m coming to the end of writing my collection of short fiction, I’m feeling like I can’t possibly be a fiction writer, that it’s too hard, that this short story collection is going right into the drawer the second it’s done. And suddenly poetry seems like fun again.

Jaclyn Desforges : part four

Why is poetry important? 

I’m going to answer a slightly different question: why is poetry important right now? Because it really is. We are seeing all around us the direct impact that lies have on society. Words are killing people, whether through covid disinformation or conspiracy theories that lead to violence or whatever else. People are using words willy-nilly out there, and it’s causing harm and destruction and confusion. So maybe poetry isn’t the answer, exactly, but it’s a potentially powerful response to these circumstances. It’s an art form that’s based on saying true things, symbolically and rhythmically, so we can to some extent bypass the intellectual mind, the mental blocks that stop us from being able to understand each other, and communicate directly through the heart. 

Poetry has been very much intellectualized. There’s a lot of gatekeeping around it, for both readers and writers. Every time I send a new poem to my mom, for example, she makes sure to preface her response with some variation of “I don’t understand poetry, but…” There’s a fear there that her interpretation or experience of the work is going to be wrong.

But the things is, even I don’t always fully understand the poems I write. They’re not intellectual exercises for me. Maybe they are for some other poets. But when I read a poem to someone, I don’t need or want them to solve it or figure it out or understand it. I just want them to listen and then feel something. Maybe it has something to do with the way poetry is taught in high school? I remember so much deconstruction. What is the author trying to say, what is the function of this metaphor, etc. Makes you think that a poem works like a machine. But it’s not a machine. It’s a magic spell, or some kind of organism. 

What I didn’t understand early on is that in poetry, meaning stacks. If a word in a poem triggers a feeling in you, or makes you remember something, that meaning goes into the poem. And in my head canon at least, that meaning becomes part of the poem, even if it’s a meaning that only you understand. So the more poems are read and shared and experienced, the more meaningful they become. It’s like that game Katamari, where the ball of objects grows bigger and bigger and bigger, picking up everything in its path. All that gatekeeping does is restrict the enjoyment and proliferation of poetry to a group of people who are supposedly in the know. But nobody really knows. I think poetry tries to put words to the great mysteries of life. And nobody has those answers. 

Jaclyn Desforges : part three

What did you find most difficult about writing poetry?

The writing of poetry doesn’t align well with capitalist sensibilities. I’m not just talking about how poetry is less of a money maker than other forms, though that’s definitely a thing. But there’s a certain level of internalized capitalism that I’ve been struggling with for a long time. I’m terrified of my own repressed laziness, and for many years I had the sense that if I let go of the rope, if I stopped constantly pushing myself forward and forward and forward, writing a poem every couple of days, I’d just — poof! — disappear. I stressed about being in control of the process. I wanted to be able to pick some topic and then write a very logical book that made sense, based on that topic. I wanted to get up every day and drink my coffee and write a brilliant poem, edit it in the afternoon and have it sent out for publication the next day. A nice steady stream of dopamine, right? And validation of my existence. 

Unfortunately the poems that I pressured myself into writing — maybe before they were fully cooked — were never fantastic, and it turns out poetry isn’t something I can force or even want to force anymore. Once I drop down into as much peace as I can muster, this all feels obvious, and not stressful at all. I write poems when poems come, and when they don’t come, I don’t write them. Eventually I’ll have enough for another collection. My mentor Elisabeth de Mariaffi always says, “Writing isn’t typing.” I think the hardest part about writing poetry is accepting that there will be moments of nothing. There will be moments of staring out the window. There will be moments of no words and no brilliance and no insight. No clapping. You can’t have the rush and miracle of creation without also accepting — loving, maybe — the corresponding void. 

Jaclyn Desforges : part two

What do you feel poetry can accomplish that other forms can’t?

The thing about fiction — traditionally, anyway — is it’s full immersion. You want so bad to know what happens next that you forget your problems. You forget your life. But it’s hard these days for me to get immersed in anything. Since the pandemic began I haven’t been able bear the thought of reading fiction, or even watching anything deeper than Rick And Morty. I can’t handle that kind of full-throttle empathy in this moment — I don’t want to step into anybody else’s hero’s journey. I’m wading waist-deep in my own. Maybe I’m afraid of losing control. Maybe I’m afraid if I stop looking directly at the world right now I won’t be able to recognize it when I finally lift my nose up again.

So I guess what I’m saying is that it’s not necessarily my desire right now to escape. And maybe I’m not the only one feeling this way. There are too many things to keep track of.

I think it’s for this reason that poetry is offering me immense comfort in this moment. It doesn’t ask anything of me but to read the words and hear them. It doesn’t swallow me down like fiction does. It is written to resonance. It’s something I can hear and feel even if it’s not something I fully understand. And it’s written in the language of the unconscious mind, the language of the soul. You can spend five minutes in the morning reading a poem and then it rattles around in your head all day, the way a dream does. You might not understand it, you might not even remember it. The truest truths don’t always make a domino kind of sense.

As a writer, the thing I love most about poetry is that there are no rules — writing a poem is a process of deciding what a poem is. There’s immense freedom there. Of course, that can be nerve-wracking. 

Jaclyn Desforges : part one

Jaclyn Desforges is an award-winning poet and the author of a picture book, Why Are You So Quiet? (Annick Press, 2020), as well as a forthcoming poetry collection with Palimpsest Press. She is an MFA candidate at the University of British Columbia, and her writing has been featured in literary magazines across Canada. 

What are you working on?

Right now I’m working on edits for my full-length poetry collection, which is coming out this fall with Palimpsest Press. I’m also doing promo for my picture book, Why Are You So Quiet?, which was published by Annick Press last year. That book is all about the inner feeling of being a quiet, dreamy, introverted kid. And how other kids and teachers and parents sometimes react to those qualities. And how it’s okay to be different.

I’m also working on a collection of short fiction with the generous support of the Canada Council for the Arts. As well, I’m almost at the end of my MFA program at the University of British Columbia, though I didn’t take any classes this year because I’m homeschooling my six year old. I also just took a gig as Poetry Reviews Editor at the Hamilton Review of Books, which I’m really excited about. 

Also: Survival. Missing people I love. Trying my best to stay calm and in control for my partner and daughter. Reading too much Reddit and obsessing about American politics.