Skookum Haley: a review of Heather Haley's "Skookum Raven"

 Skookum (adj.): A Chinook Jargon word that has historical use in the Pacific Northwest. It has a range of meanings, commonly associated with an English translation of "strong" or "monstrous". The word can mean "strong", "greatest", "powerful", "ultimate", or "brave".

When a writer chooses a title for their manuscript, they know it has to be one that encapsulates its theme or at least captures the mood or atmosphere that the piece conveys.  In “Skookum Raven”, Heather Haley has given a name to the muscular, assertive, confident personality that pervades her third full printed book of poetry. When you get to know her, you realize it’s her personality there- strong, intelligent, unapologetic, sexy, genuine.   You also realize that it is the backbone of the coastline off the Pacific surf as well, the staggered archipelago, the jagged spine of mountains off in the fog, the skyscraping palisades of buildings in the urban fallback and the resilient denizens of the derelict old city...

Haley has had the title of “The Siren of Howe Sound” given to her for her stalwart presence on Bowen Island as a prolific sonic and visual artist through the first decade of this millennium, as well as having been a punk princess through the Eighties and early Nineties with such bands as The Zellots and the .45s.  Recent years have been much more domestic in comparison to her formative years, but her poetry testifies that she will never be milquetoast, and she remains as vibrant and vocal as she has ever been. With ‘Skookum Raven’, Haley reasserts her tenure as a powerful and eloquent poet, still tied in to the pulse of the human condition, still cognizant of the vibrations and reverberations of modern life.

With each piece, she displays an actor’s eloquence, slinging together rhythmic verses that contain an elastic energy, as she does in ‘A Larcenous Groom’s Cool-Off Period’:

“He boosts

street signs. That’ll stop their goddamned

touch the sky routine,

bestows his buddy Guy

with a JACKSON ST,

a little vainglory for the double wide.”

Throughout the book, each poem is imbued with the light of the salty coastal sun, rich with the recognizable language and topography of the B.C. coast, as illustrated in ‘Pacific Time’:

“Cedar jungle.

Left coast.

Mellifluous bees and

Hummingbirds swarm

The morning, a teeming creek

Bows to the sea.”

Or as in ‘I Saw You’:

“Teacher in Surrey, living in Van.

You had a giant bottle for making mead.

Whistler Gondola Saturday morning,

Still embarrassed by my runny nose.”

With smouldering heat she enforces her feminism with several bold vignettes of dalliances with capricious, idiotic men, taking snippets of conversations she’s had or overheard, and elaborates the unintended self-incriminations and the metaphors that come from them, as again with ‘A Larcenous Groom’s Cool-Off Period’:

“He pinches

his sister-in-law Emily

in the pocketbook.

Emily, who mourns the loss

of her younger sibling.

“I’d like to hearse her away

for Chrissakes.”

She latches on to her connections with the existing punk ethos with ‘Riots of Pussy’, referring to the Russian feminist punk activist movement, evoking the knitted balaclava, the political witch burnings and consequent police crackdowns, finishing the piece with the single, final assertion: “nyet.”

It’s a pattern in her style, where she makes her metaphorical observations, then  encapsulates them all neatly in the last verse.  In such style, she also closes the book with a comment that is close to the bone with the province of British Columbia and its history of man camps, toxic masculinity and murdered and missing indigenous women.  ‘The Last Ping’ is heartbreaking in its depiction of the soulless industry surrounding the investigations of missing women in Northwest B.C., and the interjections of male toxicity throughout is haunting in its richness.  Lost is the girl at the center of it all, buried, mired in all the societal dissonance that obscures her humanity, forsaken in all of the distractions that cancel her existence and thus any hopes for her salvation.

In all, the power of Heather Haley, siren, poet and punk princess, burns hot and bright in these pages.  Her fire is as constant as the sun that blazes in her hair, through her words which convey a sharp and powerful thrust that stitches truth and education in us.  It pulls us in and holds us captive, slave to her truth, helpless to argue.  With “Skookum Raven”, Haley assures us that she always has something to say, has more stories to tell, because the world around us still revolves, and still offers things for us to observe, judge and beg for commentary.  As long as there are things to be said, she will have the strength, bravery and intelligence to say them.

Your Beleaguered Vocalist

 I take the mic and lean in while Paddy starts to thrum the monkeybar bassline to ‘Vapid Apathy’ and Vince kicks in with the accompanying drum beat.

“Folks, just to remind you, we are The Conifers. On guitar is Mr. Zack Anaphylaxis, our bassist is Hat Trick Patrick and on drums is Jacob the One-Legged Trapper…”

The crowd, lost in a haze of cigarette smoke and verbal fog, doesn’t react at all while I give them space in which to react, so I shrug inside and continue with the final address.

“And I’m Pseudo Proscuitto, your beleaguered vocalist for the evening. I want to thank you on behalf of the band for your tepid indulgence tonight.  We’ll play just one more song and leave you to your vapid apathetic sense of status quo...”

Navigating the Geography of Grief: a review

     It’s an unseasonably warm and hazy November day as I finish reading the personal essay anthology Locations of Grief, an emotional geography, edited by the poet Catherine Owen. As construction workers sling wood and puncture nails into a new structure of residency across the street and in front of me, I soak up a mid-autumn sun and consider the messages the book delivers. Locations of Grief is an exploration of the role geography plays in the act of mourning and grieving. In her own travails through the spheres of loss, Owen had noticed the theme of geography as a recurring feature in writings about grief.  With that in mind, she assembled 24 writers from diverse backgrounds, to study how death can alter perspective on a place, how trauma and emotional upheaval can taint or flavor one's view of the world. Whether we intend to or not, we all inhabit many things.  Our clothes, our homes, our communities.  In these inanimate or abstract structures, we leave legacies and affect changes in our insular or secular worlds.  These things house memories of our lives and by effect represent us when we are gone either temporarily or permanently.

I started reading this while the world was figuring out how to celebrate Hallowe’en in a Covid-19 stricken world.  All Hallowed’s Eve; the night before the Feast of Saints; the overmorrow of which would be All Soul’s Day, the day in the Catholic calendar on which we commemorate the faithfully departed- all of it was a backdrop to reading this. So it seemed appropriate to read such a collection in these times of reminiscence and considerations of mortality. Additionally, as I type through this, my orbit is passing through another anniversary of my father's passing. November 7th 2003. Because of this, anyone that knows me knows that I hate November. So many bad things have happened in that month, but losing my dad to leukemia was the worst. My mother lasted only 10 more months after that, succumbing to COPD. Reading about grieving has been difficult because I had been feeling that miasma rising, cold, damp and dark, but today the air is warm, soft and kind, so I continue, stooped over, typing, re-reading, and then occasionally straightening up, taking off my reading glasses and considering the senescent autumnal views around me.

This collection of personal essays and memoirs teaches us how we can retain the lives of our dearly departed, keep their memories alive. With the concept of Locations of Grief, we realize that we can dedicate a space to a deceased loved one, and can inhabit the expansiveness of their influences in that locale. The abstractness of their absence is then fitting when we experience them in an either expansive landscape or a focal locality. 

For example, in her essay ‘Changing Our Address’, poet Lynn Tait spread her son's ashes all over the world, and in doing so made him omnipresent in body and spirit, his spirit participating in their daily lives with humour, affection and shared grief that was still to come. Jenna Butler, in her essay ‘worry stones’, created a memorial with which to create an interface with grief and assume the act of healing after the loss of daughters unborn or taken too soon.  Waubgeshig Rice, in  ‘Ancestral Waters’, joins his two grandmothers who come from seemingly diaposed backgrounds, intermingling in the storied waters of Georgian Bay which connects them as family and people, even though in life they had settled on the opposing shores of Parry Sound. In the book’s last essay ‘Never Released: Hamilton, ON and Scotch Village, NS’ by Ben Gallagher, his partner suddenly becomes the victim of an impaired driver in Hamilton. As she had been originally part of the Nova Scotian Mi'kmaq community, Gallagher honours her and maneuvers his grief to right the wrongs of colonization upon the indigenous peoples from whence his loved one hails.  Committing himself to the cause, and straddling the secular and the spiritual world, tackling the dichotomies of grief, he seeks to assuage the vexed yin and yang of existence in the temporal world.  As with other concepts in the book, peace comes from a reconciliation of all the polarities; alive/dead, present/absent, here/there, and more. All the dearly departed- Nikki Reimer’s brother, Onjana Yawnghwe’s father, Alice Major’s dog, Marilyn Dumont’s departed ex-flame, and even Christine Lowthers’ family members who have left her legacies of either trauma or providence, all of them have been assigned a space where their survivors can connect with and commemorate them.

Of all the stories however, it is the editor’s contribution that touches me deepest.  In Catherine Owen’s piece ‘Thrall: A Year of Grieving’, it’s the first time we can read about her husband’s decline in candid language; how, in his last days, he’d divested himself of his possessions as if they were parts of his own self, allowing his addiction to fill the vacancies.  In ‘Thrall’, Edmonton exists as the venue of this sad succession of events, coexisting with not the least bit of awkwardness the beauty of their loving one another in spite of it all.  Their shared living spaces, the hotel rooms, and then the hospital and funeral home all occupy the area and perimeter of that Alberta city. Owen’s returns through the years are always marked with uninvited recollections and unavoidable reminders, but the most poignant takeaway for it is what is not included in the narrative.  

  After years away, she returned to Edmonton, the venue of so many things in her life, her thoughts mostly centered around her life with her husband.  Buildings, streets, roads, neighbourhoods present reminders that perpetuate her sense of grieving.  Still, she buys a house in the middle of it all and creates a new life there, one in which she engages completely in the present, living new joys regardless of the past, as life post-loss should ultimately be lived.  In Edmonton now, she has a new life, new loves, new occupations and projects.  She lives a full life, with all its highs and lows.  She immerses herself in it all, past, present and future; happiness, sadness and even beautiful anger.

Through her piece in the anthology, you can see how she frames the rest of the stories and essays therein, illuminating in each one the fact that grieving is not something we can grow out of or heal from, slotting the pain of loss into the past and moving on as if the trauma had never happened.  Grief is something we can inhabit.  By projecting grief upon a location, there is room to move and a space to be shared with both the living and the lost. This way, our material world can be heaven, hell, purgatory and all divine states to which we assign our souls.

This anthology teaches us that we can’t be fixated on the throes of grief.  We have to find a way to move on.  A life can’t be full without the experience of loss and grief.  Geography itself is marked with highs and lows, different topographies, different habitats and densities.  Such is life.  The aim of this anthology was to illustrate the pervasiveness of memory and legacy through geography.  24 times, it succeeded. So it can be for us, as readers and as fellow citizens of heaven, hell and all points in between.

So as I type these last words, and as the warm sun sets behind the building to the west of me, I receive news that Joe Biden has succeeded in becoming the 46th President of the United States.  Finally 6 or so years of farce and incredulity can come to an end and we can finally see some rationality from south of the border.  The air is cooling and I’m considering going inside to put a sweater on after spending this entire glorious day outside on my deck typing this review up.  I haven’t been able to do this in quite a while.  Tomorrow promises to be another warm sunny day, as do the next two after that, then it will begin to rain once again and we will return to our regularly scheduled cold grey and brown November.  Thank goodness I had this day.  I’m ready for the future.

Locations of Grief: an emotional geography is available through Wolsak and Wynn Publishers;

https://www.wolsakandwynn.ca/

Cygnus to Cygnals to Signals...

 

Was listening to Moving Pictures this afternoon and remembered a conversation I was having with a friend back in what was probably the spring of 1982, when we had just gotten news that Rush's next album was going to be called "Signals".  We were sitting at the back of the school bus being driven to our high school, speculating on what the new album might be like.  At that point, we hadn't even heard the first single yet, so it was anyone's guess, since Moving Pictures had been such an anomaly compared to anything the band had done before, though still a progression from what they'd started with Permanent Waves.  My friend insisted that they were going to go back to writing prog rock and the album would actually be spelled "Cygnals", referring to the Cygnus X-1 saga and there was going to a whole sidelong continuation of it.  I highly doubted that because I couldn't see them returning to that mode after releasing PW and MP.  I thought that it would be something with more keyboards and technology, referring to the last track on MP; Vital Signs. I said that the last track on each album always seemed to be an indication of where they were going, so I was sure this was going to be way more technical and 'modern' (in terms of Eighties modernity). 

 

Then in August, I heard "New World Man" for the first time on my radio in my bedroom down in the basement.  It wasn't anything like Vital Signs and it certainly wasn't like anything from Hemispheres.  It was nothing that would have ever have fit in with anything they'd ever done before. Geddy's voice was softer, with no amount of falsetto in it.  He was actually just singing.  The song was in a jaunty reggae beat that didn't have the raw distorted power of the metal of that day, though the guitar work was dynamic and ever-changing, as could be expected from Alex.  It was so different, I couldn't decide what I really felt about it.

 

When the full album came out in September, I skipped class to go to the mall the very day it was released, which was a tradition I tried to keep for every album afterwards. I went home and listened to it and at first I had no idea what to think.  I knew the powerful musicianship was there and so were the intelligent and worldly lyrics.  It was still everything I loved about Rush, but it was so weird and new.  They had definitely turned a corner with this album and it would take me a while to catch up.

 

Meanwhile, the friend I'd had that conversation with back before the summer break had ripped his pictures of Rush off the inside of his locker and replaced them with pictures of Eddie Van Halen.  He declared that Rush had sold out and he was going with a band that he knew would never let him down...

 

Such was the divisiveness of that new album back in 1982. 

innervu with ottawa small press fair

This was an innervu conducted via email by the curator of above/ground press, one Mr. rob mclennan, Ottawa's patron saint of poetry.  It alludes to my participation in the Ottawa Small Press Fair which happens twice a year, yet due to viral pandemics was shelved twice already.

Q: Tell me about your writing. How long have you been publishing, and what got you started? 

 

A: I write fiction of varying lengths. Until recently it’s been short stories and flash fiction but in the last year I’ve been committed to a full length novel.  I’ve been publishing since the early nineties, running along with the zine phenomenon that had tied itself to the indie scene back then. I would hijack the photocopier at work late at night and churn out a hundred or two copies of whatever cut and paste thing I’d contrived at that point. These were fiction chapbooks, poetry chapbooks and an arts and culture mag that I put out somewhat regularly.  It was pretty fun joining this community of other creative people across Canada.  I got to connect with people that I never would have even known about otherwise, being pre-internet and all.  I was invited to conferences, zine shows, benefit concerts and other cool things.  It was a great start.  In 2016, I set up Smidskade 9 Press as a vehicle to participate in shows like the ottawa small press fair, and to act as an umbrella under which to keep my published works.

 

Q: How many times have you exhibited at the ottawa small press fair? How do you find the experience? 

 

A: I’ve been part of the ottawa small press fair twice now and it was a great experience both times.  They were opportunities to network with different presses and individuals in the community and it was also a way to educate myself in what other people were doing with their presses.  It was also a way to get a feel for what the industry (can we call it that?) was up to.  People were so open to talk shop and have been just as curious as I was about the whole thing.  You, Rob, you embody that attitude and I’m so glad you present these opportunities because they’re crucial for this community.

 

 

Q: Would you have made something specific for this year’s fairs? Are you still doing that? How does the lack of spring or fall fair this year effect how or what you might be producing? 

 

A: I have a couple stories that I was going to slap together as chapbooks for the next show.  I want to do it in a more professional manner rather than just street-level cut, paste, xerox and staple.  That will take money, but I think it’s what I have to do to present a sellable product.  Gone are the days of the 5th-generation-image punk zines.  The lack of public displays like the press fair this year only makes me switch to other modes of creating.  It hasn’t really slowed me down.

 

 

Q: How are you, as literary writer, approaching the myriad shut-downs? Is everything on hold, or are you pushing against the silences, whether in similar or alternate ways than you might have prior to the pandemic? How are you getting your publications out into the world? 

 

A: Working in education, the shutdown gave me the precious opportunity to dive into forming my novel.  Every day I did a little bit of something and at this point I can say that I have about ¾ of the rough draft done.  As far as hard copy output, I’m just promoting my fiction chapbook.  Since it looks like we are about to slip into another mass shutdown, I’m not keen on putting anything more in stores, since they all look like they will sink into temporary obscurity, being deemed as non-essential services. Quarantine without books? Seriously?!  They sound pretty essential to me!!

 

 

Q: Have you done anything in terms of online or virtual launches since the pandemic began? Have you attended or participated in others? How are you attempting to connect to the larger literary community? 

 

A: I like to keep up with new releases and support my friends and colleagues.  I’m glad we have the online platforms to do readings because I was really missing them.  It’s so great to see people like Pearl Pirie, Phil Hall and Heather Haley putting works out and going public despite the restrictions.

 

 

Q: What is your most recent book or chapbook? How might folk be able to order copies? 

 

A:  My most recent professionally published work is a book of flash fiction called Temperance Ave., and it’s available from Grey Borders Books. http://greybordersbooks.jigsy.com/kees-kapteyn

 

 

Q: What are you working on now? 

 

A: Right now I am working on a novel I’m calling LefTturn.  It’s about a fella whose wife has been unfaithful and the ensuing separation puts him into a kind of existential tailspin.  The universe is trying to give him clues as to what he should do to get his life back on track, yet he either ignores them or simply does not see them.  As the book progresses, the signs become more and more apparent and outrageous, to the point where strange, supernatural things start to happen.  I’m having a lot of fun with it, and as I’ve said I’m about ¾ through the rough draft, so hopefully it will be ready for the streets in a year or so.  Maybe by then we’ll be done with this pandemic?  I sure hope so!

Flux (from LefTturn)

 It was a time of flux.  The autumn winds arrived through the Valley, some days bringing cold and rain, other days bringing warmth and humidity.  It would swing every few days to either seasonal extreme, indecisively it would seem, but each sweeping wind would strip the colour from the trees until finally there was naught but branches left. When this happened, the cold took over and remained, asserting itself for the reign of winter. It was as if the leaves were a fire and without them, the warmth died out.

Petitcodiac Sunset

The sun has set, and some clouds move in from the west, moving east, driven by wind.  As the void in the sky darkens to a dusky navy blue fading to black, the clouds take on an orange tinge.  Jobe thinks to himself that it must be taking in the sunset colours of Thunder Bay or someplace west of him, of them, someplace west of Moncton and New Brunswick, the Maritimes.

The curve of the Earth has the air take on the palette of whatever particulates can stain the atmosphere in the western cusp of its surge of nightfall, and then casts the colours into the Petitcodiac skies, bringing a peachy sheen to the approaching clouds, which may bring thunder or may bring rain, but they float eastward with the insistence of the wind while the spin of the globe swings ever westward; the prevailing fugue, the genuine turn.