What do you find most difficult about writing poetry?
Finding time and mental space to let my mind play is my current challenge. Also, wrangling the form can be daunting, knowing whether the path I’ve taken is the right fit for the ideas I’m trying to convey.
How important is music to your poetry?
It’s a critical part of my process. I’m a passionate lover of music, all kinds. Rhythm features prominently in my poems; I love to make words bounce. To me, poetry and music come from the same place, a primal source; they’re connected. Listening to music while I write fuels me, and it can jump-start stalled creativity, which is cool (and very helpful).
What do you feel poetry can accomplish that other forms can’t?
It’s visceral, and efficient. A poem can ignite the body like a livewire.
How do you know when a poem is finished?
When it haunts my every waking thought – and even my sleep, actually. It plays in my head on a loop. That’s when I know I’m finished or very close.
How does your work first enter the world? Do you have a social group or writers group that you work ideas and poems with?
I’m a lone wolf, probably to my detriment. Likely I could benefit from the support, energy and accountability of a group of other writers, but so far, I’m a solo project. I’ve always been a keen observer so when something strikes me as interesting to explore – images, objects, sayings or memories – things that fascinate me or that enter my head and won’t leave, that’s how a poem starts for me. Often these are rich visually, rhythmically and/or in their meaning, so are good fodder for obsessive examination. And I dip my toes into exploring my own medical traumas, of which there seem to be no shortage (cancer, endometriosis, infertility, pregnancy loss, a disfiguring autoimmune skin disease called morphea). On that front, I alternate between avoiding dredging up unpleasant feelings and the eventual need to release them out of me.
Photo credit: Anil Mungal
How did you first engage with poetry?
In post-secondary creative writing class in the early 90s, our instructor was the incredible poet, Patrick Friesen. He opened my eyes to brilliant contemporary Canadian poets, many women, writing about whatever the hell they wanted. Just as my mind was opening to this dazzling, rich new world, I was diagnosed with melanoma and the terrifying prospect of death and disfigurement. I viewed this timing as a gift from the universe and began writing poetry to help process the trauma I was experiencing. Worlds colliding, but in a super-productive way.
