Poetry, Fiction and Essay Reviews
Teardrops on the Weser
by Amatoritsero Ede
Winnipeg, MN: Griots Lounge, 2021
64 pp. $20.99
The slimness of a volume of poetry often belies the wealth to be found within, and Amatoritsero Ede’s latest collection, Teardrops on the Weser, is no exception. The main section of the book is a series of 26 poems using the letters of the alphabet as titles. The Weser River is described from the perspective of someone observing it from an apartment window. Now a professor at Mount Allison University, Canada, Ede was a 2016 writer-in-residence at the University of Bremen, and as the poems develop, his personal challenges morph into a cry against prejudice and injustice, focused in particular on his birthplace, Nigeria.
Rivers are powerful symbols. Time, life, death, nature—a river captures them all. The Weser runs through Bremen on its way to the North Sea, and as Ede watches the river and the city through the window of his apartment, his life in the city and apart from it is made clear: “my picture window is camera lens / bi-cameral / to my pupil.” The lines of the poems are arranged into stanzas of one to three lines, in a meandering formation that mirrors that of a river in its natural state, seeking the lowest ground: “a solid brown vein / snaking / through lower saxony.” Ede’s concrete language becomes reflective as it draws pictures of the riverscape and city, drawing attention to nature and colour, both of which will gain in importance.
The apartment is on the Teerhof, a peninsula on the Weser, and Ede can see over the water to various landmarks. One is St. Martin’s Church, on the Bremen side of the embankment, where Ede can see the promenade with its cafes and crowds, “sun-laved lovers and loiterers / on first of April” who are “throwing away the woolen weight of winter.” But Ede is never part of the gathering, even though the day is still “big with poem / impregnated with / joy.” And eventually St Martin’s and the train and other human-made structures are used to show the destruction that is happening.
Ede moves from the Weser in “v” to the Niger and says the river he sees is “sluggish with memories / of dead water / on the niger river delta.” He moves into a denunciation of the pollution wrought by Shell and its collaborators like Sani Abacha, the Nigerian general responsible for the shocking 1995 execution of Ken Saro-Wiwa, an environmental activist. And then Ede moves to slavery: “that trafficking of black souls / in rotten ship holds / across the cursed atlantic.” It’s not a surprise that poems “x” and “y” mention Nazis and Trump respectively, but in the case of “trump” the word is used in Ede’s typical wordplay fashion: “one million strong / is the many-splendored love / that Trump hate.”
Ede mentions great writers such as Rilke and Joyce, but again he takes the alphabet poems to Nigeria near the end of the sequence when he quotes from Chiedu Ezeanah’s “Song of the Musician of the Waters” from The Twilight Trilogy: “‘go water / go rivering / where the eyes that look / becomes a brook . . . . ’” Ede uses “go watering go rivering” as a kind of refrain in the final poem of the sequence, as a tribute to the necessity of water and all the aspects of life that rivers represent. It’s a beautiful series of poems, somber and reflective and, at times, heart-breaking–hence, the teardrops, for both writer and reader.
After the sequence, Ede includes a handful of poems in sections titled “dedication,” “requiem,” and “heartstrings.” And water plays a role. In “Mother and Child,” “a foetus nestles in its watery hammock,” and after being born the child “kicks at the dry iodine air.” In “Harry Fell,” death is envisioned as a fall “to the bottom / of the dry / dark well.” In “One Hundred Red Roses,” blood replaces water in a love poem: may you / clot / in my veins / and dam / this /bleeding.” In the last poem, “Waterfall” Ede shifts again geographically with a brief reference to “niagara falls,” and perhaps that means there will be poems about Canada, where Ede has lived for several years.
Poetry can take work, but it’s a pleasurable activity. The best poems offer room to think and feel. Amatoritsero Ede’s Teardrops on the Weser combines the personal and the political to demonstrate their inevitable connection in life—and death. And they do so with subtle and harmonious imagery while displaying breakdowns in connections.
The Best Canadian Poetry 2019
edited by Rob Taylor,
Windsor, ON: Biblioasis, 2019
160 pp, $22.95
Once again, the best fifty poems of the year have been published in one volume, complete with author biographies and commentaries, plus a list of original place of publication. Rob Taylor, guest editor for the series, wisely notes in his introduction that “best” is variable, and in this case (as with any selection) it means that these fifty poems are those “one dewy-browed editor happened to like a great deal and which you will hopefully enjoy as well, be it seventeen months or seventeen years from now.” And while my brain skipped a beat at “hopefully,” I think Taylor nails it—any “best” selection is essentially subjective. How can it not be?
Taylor’s introduction is preceded by one from series editor Anita Lahey and another from advisory editor Amanda Jernigan. Lahey notes that this collection is the first in the series to be published by Biblioasis, after several years of fine work done by Tightrope Books. Jernigan, in a occasionally incoherent piece, comments on Taylor’s work. The fifty poems are sandwiched between these three editors’ comments and several pages of biography and commentary at the end of the book. The structure has remained the same throughout the series although Taylor has abandoned the alphabetical arrangement of the poems. If anything can change, I’d suggest more poetry and less apparatus, as in this case, it’s almost half and half, but I suppose some readers may enjoy reading about the poems and poets along with the poems.
Lahey writes of “poetry’s fraught place in the world today” and its importance, and this selection is yet another piece of evidence that wonderful poetry abounds. The range of poets is wide, from the well-known, such as Marilyn Bowering, A.F. Moritz, and Billy-Ray Belcourt, to those who likely will become better known. Poets of different backgrounds and interests jostle for attention. Taylor’s choices adhere to his belief that the “best writing in our current moment (the twenty percent) is alive with acoustic energy, precise in its language, and deeply affective in its use of the personal to explore fraught political realities.” Poetry is of a time and place, and certainly fraught political realities do dominate public discourse.
The first poem, “Above Picasso and his Musings” by Kevin Spenst, is an audacious opener. Spenst’s language dazzles while his ideas shimmer at the edge of comprehension: “Ineptitude’s tidings / ashore me, I’m sprawling stumble- / drunk in seawrack[.]” The speaker links his romance with those of Picasso, who was a challenge for all the women in this life. The last poem, “Witch hunt” by Rebecca Salazar, also touches on male-female relationships without any of the positive aspects of the personal in Spenst’s: “ . . . My warlock / gaslights me for breakfast. Poisons me, / then vomits on my lap and plays at victim.” Victims come in two forms ion Colleen Baran’s “DIIIIIIIIID IIIIITTTT HAPPEN,” a clever take on a TV game show in which family members reveal a secret and then vote whether or not it happened. And what has happened is never a good thing.
D.A. Lockhart’s “Letter to Atleo from the Old Shell Station near Buckhorn” captures one of the most topical (and important) issues now in a prose poem letter: “Sure, everything is astronomically more expensive off reserve, but who needs family, friends, or culture when a bit of currency and big city fame can float between you and those making those James Bay sized cheques.” Dallas Hunt’s “Cree Dictionary” ramps up the survival value of humour for First Nations: “the Cree word for white man is unpaid child support / the translation for conflicted in Cree / is your deep, steadfast love / for country superstar / Dwight Yoakam (or depending on / the regional dialect, / George Jones, Patsy Cline / or Blue Rodeo.” I love this poem.
And there are many poems that I will enjoy rereading. That’s the beauty of such a collection. There’s something for everyone, and there’s a gentle nudge to broaden interests. I’m already looking forward to Best Canadian Poetry 2020.
Best Canadian Essays 2020
edited by Sarmishta Subramanian|
Windsor, ON: Biblioasis, 2020
186 pp, $22.95
As editor Sarmishta Subramanian remarks in her introduction to Best Canadian Essays 2020, the works included were written in 2019, before the pandemic hit and the world changed dramatically. As she says, “In the world we now inhabit, any unpredictable element carries risk. So we have learned to weigh and debate acts that were once routine and spontaneous, courting daily what psychologists have dubbed decision fatigue.” And yet decision must still be made. The ones that led to this volume appear to be based on a desire for inclusivity and variety although many of the fifteen essays included have a basis in the personal, which is a common feature of essays these days.
While the more personal essays are engaging, the one I am most drawn to is Andy Lamey’s “In the US Campus Speech Wars, Palestinian Advocacy Is a Blind Spot” probably because I teach at a college and have spent my adult life in post-secondary education. Civil public discourse appears to have been hijacked by the outrage displayed on social media, and one outcome is to simply shut down opposition as in the case of support for Palestine. Lamey attempts to explain academic freedom and why it is critical to have: “[R]obust academic freedom is a mortal threat to the culture of conformity that takes purest form under authoritarianism, but which can also occur in democracies, as during the McCarthy period.” Lamey believes that of “all vocations, academics have the greatest obligation to pursue the truth.” And he notes that the truth should be the concern of everyone. Ultimately not being able to discuss ideas (as in the case of Palestine) even when (or maybe even especially when) they may cause pain is harmful and prevents a search for truth. And solutions.
James Brooke-Smith’s “Meritocracy and Its Discontents” is another strong look at what’s happening at post-secondary institutions, and how meritocracy may not be “the natural way to organize things.” As a college instructor, I see the value in rewarding in way before then. And as Brooke-Smith points out, “In the current climate, it’s hard to imagine governments spending taxpayers’ dollars on education for anything other than hard-nosed economic reasons. But this way of thinking can blind us to the social costs of elitism and the less easily quantifiable benefits of lifelong education.” It’s also a problem when the “hard-nosed economic reasons” don’t make much sense.
On the personal side of education is Jenny Ferguson’s “Off Balance,” a creative non-fiction account of life after racking up huge debt for university. She moves home to rural Nova Scotia and signs up for online dating. She sees herself as “overeducated,” a label that makes me twitchy as I don’t think it’s possible to be over-educated. Over-qualified for a job, yes. Ferguson struggles with the online world, the blatant racism of some of the men (one “requires the women he dates to be white”). Ferguson is Indigenous. She is trying to deal with a mother who is severely ill. And she contemplates her own identity as Métis, and Michif, “composed out of French nouns and Cree verbs.” This piece is difficult and oh so eloquent in its exposure of how person feels in the midst of so many challenges.
Alexandra Kimball uses the personal in “The Loneliness of Infertility,” and Like Ferguson does a stellar job of revealing feelings. Both essays address larger issues, and that is not to say that the persona is unimportant. In Kimball’s case, it’s how the infertile woman is viewed: “Her emotional and existential experience erased, the infertile woman first enters the public imagination not as a woman, not even as a patient, but as a consumer of biotechnology.” Kimball wishes for improved reproductive health care for all, not just the wealthy. She imagines a world in which surrogates and egg donors are protected and aligned with those they are aiding, even “organizing as workers.” She ends her essay with the powerful statement that motherhood is “both worked at and worked for.”
All of the essays are worth reading. They provide a basis for further thought. Carl Wilson in “It’s Too Late to Cancel Michael Jackson,” addresses that age-old problem of the wonderful artist who is not a wonderful human being. He argues the current culture is geared to create stars more than valuable works, and in the case of children, that is tragic. Alexandra Molotkow in “Selfish Intimacy” details her desire to post photographs of the family home and her mother’s desire not to have her privacy violated. The issue is identity and how people present themselves.
And with all the Best Canadian series, biographies and acknowledgements are included. A collection of the Best Canadian Essays (or stories or poetry) helps with decision fatigue. Someone else has done all the work. All I had to decide was tea or coffee as I was reading.
Five Little Indians
by Michelle Good,
Toronto, ON: Harper Perennial, 2020
296 pp, $22.99
The five little Indians—Kenny, Lucy, Clara, Howie, and Maisie– of Michelle Good’s first novel suffer at the hands of brutal nuns and priests in a remote BC mission school in the 1960s. And then they continue to suffer when they leave, whether it’s by escaping or by being basically dumped out when they reach the age of sixteen. Good is a member of the Red Pheasant Cree Nation in Saskatchewan, and as she has worked with Indigenous groups for decades, she has doubtlessly seen the tragic effects of the residential school system.
The fourteen chapters are titled with the name of one of the five main characters, and each focusses on that character’s life, often with the use of flashbacks. It’s hard to believe that anyone thought children should be torn away from their parents and community, and yet that’s what happened. Factor in authority figures who abused children in numerous ways, including verbal, physical, and sexual assault, plus starvation, and no wonder there’s so much difficulty now. Good does an excellent job of showing how the system destroyed cultures and individuals. Or attempted to.
And that’s the beauty of this novel. Yes, it’s almost a catalogue of loss, but it also has glimmers of hope as some individuals survive, and the political and social environment slowly changes. In a way, the novel is a testament to the power of friendship and the ability of some people to cope with and perhaps overcome incredible challenges.
In the Prologue, Kendra, the first “Indian doctor in Canada” is introduced. Then the first chapter goes back decades to the ‘60s and the school. Kenny wakes up, grateful that the priest hasn’t visited him in the night, but then discovers the man has moved on to Howie and left him a unconscious bloody mess. Although punished already for trying to escape, Kenny knows he has to try again, even though it means leaving Lucy, whom he has a crush on. Kenny and Lucy have passed notes to each other, notes of admiration about each other’s bravery. Both children have been publicly humiliated by having their hair viciously shorn and being made to wear signs about their actions (Kenny’s escape attempt and Lucy’s “lie” about abuse).
Parents suffer along with their children. The families are often not reunited for years and sometimes not at all. Parents may turn to alcohol to dull their pain, as do the children when they grow up. And that doesn’t work, but it’s clear why people try that when all other hope has been stripped away from them.
Lucy is kicked out the day she turns sixteen. She is given no preparation, just a day’s notice to pack her things and to remake her bed. And then she is given a bus ticket to Vancouver, where she has no family. She’s never been to Vancouver or on a bus. But Maisie, who left the mission the previous year, has written to Lucy, saying she should stay with her. Maisie tries to go back to her family but not seeing each other for ten years creates impassable chasms. As Maisie said, “To be little again, living without fear and brutality—no one gets that back. All that’s left is a craving, insatiable empty place.”
Somewhat miraculously Lucy does find Maisie after a narrow escape from a pimp who pounces on young girls fresh to the city. The string of coincidences that unites the characters is forced, but this novel is about the reality of emotion and loss, not so much about consistent plotting. Good has a message to deliver about the destruction wrought by the residential school system and prejudice, and she nails that goal.
Stylistically, the novel is written in plain language with profanity scattered throughout. The pacing is varied, but tends to be quite fast, given the number of lives and years covered. And many topics are touched on, such as Indigenous beliefs (including healing), addictions, self-harm, suicide, lawsuit against federal government, police brutality, movement across the US-Canada border, AIM (American Indian Movement), and of course, love. Love between parent and child, between husband and wife, between human and dog, between humans—all of these good things in life also make an appearance in this novel, so even though much of it is distressing, Five Little Indians also celebrates what is worthwhile in life.
