Three new poetry collection debuts bring creative communities together

The Art Gallery of Ontario (AGO) hosted poets Britta Badour, Aaron Boothby and Eva H.D. to read from their new anthologies

By: Harrison Clarke

McClelland & Stewart authors Britta Badour, Aaron Boothby and Eva H.D. (Courtesy: M&S, CBC)

Poetry lovers gathered with three talented writers for an evening of creative inspiration, laughter and genuine connection through a shared appreciation for poetic artistry.

In an event held by publisher McClelland & Stewart, a large crowd gathered in the Art Gallery of Ontario’s (AGO) Walker Court to hear readings from Britta Badour’s Wires That Sputter, Aaron Boothby’s Continent and Eva H.D.’s The Natural Hustle.

With introductions from award-winning Canadian poet and author Anne Michaels, the night started with readings from the Brooklyn based poet H.D.

H.D. read poems Belugas, Bonedog and Magic Hour, Manhattan, August from her new book The Natural Hustle. (Harrison Clarke/CanCulture)

Many of her poems explore the deeper complexities of day-to-day life and the beauty in familiar moments that people often overlook. H.D.'s poem, Bonedog, featured in the film I’m Thinking of Ending Things, describes the pain of living a repetitive lifestyle, particularly the ritual of coming home.

“When poetry happens, we encounter our intricate selves,” said guest speaker and award-winning poet Canisia Lubrin while touching on H.D.’s work. “[We take] nothing for granted, not even the terrible things from which poetry challenges, comforts and sustains us.”

Boothby is a Californian poet based out of Montreal who has been published in carte blanche and PRISM. His poetry makes the effort to confront the consequences of colonialism and the violence communities of colour still face.

His poem, Bleach Mythology, describes images of natural landscapes torn by industrial development and languages protected by elders.

Boothby traces his journey as a poet starting out in Riverside, California to Montreal, Canada. (Harrison Clarke/CanCulture)

With Continent, Boothby continues the experimental structure he demonstrated in his chapbooks Reperspirations, Exhalations, Wrapt Inflections (2016) and Wave Fields (2020). The poems often have wide spaces between words.

“The poems of Continent seek answers in the silence of history,” said Michaels. “The broken lines in the poems search and search again, the spaces within them ask us to save room in our hearts.”

Badour concluded the night by rallying the audience to snap their fingers for her fellow poets and themselves. Her poetry, which works with themes of empowerment and community for people of colour, earned her the Toronto Arts Foundation’s Emerging Artist of the Year award in 2021.

One of Badour’s poems, Bit, eloquently reflects these themes by describing the challenge of keeping passion alive through adversity and the self-love needed to fulfil our ambition.

The triumphant tone of Bit saw Badour describing the act of personal growth as giving her “voice the wingspan of a year” to grow stronger and "making language [her] blood," a metaphor for committing to her writing talents.

‘Yeahs’ and ‘that’s rights’ poured out of the crowd as Badour took the stage, demonstrating her popularity and influence in the Toronto poetry scene.

“I met [Badour] back in 2017. I was a fan of her work and approached her to say ‘you are that girl,’” said Keosha Love, poet and founder of community organizing not-for-profit Our Women’s Voices. “I was more of a youngin’ in the poetry and writing scene and she kind of took me under her wing; I support her work always.”

Another listener and poet, Blossom Paige, saw Badour at a poetry event hosted by Love at Toronto’s Soho House.

“Being a Black woman and hearing her experience, I really connected with that,” said Paige. “Hearing it put down in poetry and to have everyone hum and snap to what the poets are saying connects us in the room. It’s a special gift.”

Badour passionately reads her poems ‘This Tongue’ and ‘Bit’. (Harrison Clarke/CanCulture)

McClelland and Stewart’s future projects will see the reissue of Souvankham Thammavongsa’s first three books, a new poetic memoir from Lorna Crozier and an anthology from Joy Kogawa coming November 2023.

Balancing autonomy and dependency – Where’s the line?

A Parent’s Greek Tragedy

By: Kyana Alvarez

If you’ve heard the saying, “don’t fly too close to the sun,” but don’t fully understand the context, this short story and poem will teach you where it came from. They’re both based on the Greek myth of Icarus.

After creating the formidable and intricate labyrinth to contain the mighty Minotaur, King Minos, the monster’s stepfather, imprisoned the genius maker Daedalus and his son Icarus in Crete. To escape their prison, Daedalus fashioned wings out of wax to carry them across the sea to freedom. Life inside a prison is stifling and Icarus becomes drunk with his newfound freedom. His ambition, joy and arrogance drown out his father’s warnings of flying at the perfect height. Icarus soars higher and higher into the air as if trying to touch the sun. But the sun's heat melts his wings and leaves Icarus to fall to his death.

---

Skyfalling — A short story by Kyana Alvarez

There's a difference between peering down a ledge and peering over it. Looking over a ledge is filled with wonder, beauty, hope and most importantly, safety. Icarus spent his life looking over the ledge of his balcony into the city of Crete, hoping to one day explore the beauty of the wonderous city. Now, he stares down at his tower, measuring the distance below, while standing on the very edge of it. There is no railing to grip onto and no more dreams of exploring the city. He knows he should tear his sight away from the fall below and look out at the skyline for the last time from an impossible perspective. 'Don't focus on falling; look forward to flying,' he thinks. Not daring to close his eyes, he breathes in the sweet and salty air of the Aegean and hears the music of the city life below. 

He shifts his body slowly and carefully, getting a better grip on his waxen "wings." His father, Daedalus, spent years engineering the wings, using mathematics, aerodynamics and artistry to make man fly – theoretically, as they had no way of trying them before their maiden flights. The wings barely resemble wings of feathers, as they are sharply and precisely cut in geometric forms for the smoothest ride through the sea air. Knowing his father, Icarus knows the wings were initially supposed to be of a sturdier material: Daedalus' signature steel. But, the steel weighed more than the pilots and would have caused them to plummet to the streets below. 

Daedalus and Icarus spent years hoarding and collecting candles from their capturer, having endless nights without light. Even then, it was barely enough. The wings are thin as their bedsheets and Daedalus' wings are smaller than he calculated they should be. Icarus isn’t worried though; his father is a genius, “The Protector of Solutions,” “The Father of the Labyrinth” and “The Keeper of the Minotaur."  He thinks the wings resemble the maze in some ways, harsh, geometric and inanimate, with no life infused into its design. But instead of locking up a prisoner, the wings would set two free.

Daedalus stares around his and his son's prison. This room, this single room, has raised and cradled his son. He runs his hands along the walls, feeling the life that had seeped into them for the last 20 years. 'What stories do these walls hold?' he thinks. His boy's laughter, anger and tears are safely hidden between the pockets of stone. Years of labyrinth designs, ladder designs and wing designs are stuffed between cracks in the floorboards. The room is bursting with life, and who will be the one to collect it? They certainly cannot; the lifetimes stored within these walls are too heavy to carry with them. A new beginning is what they settled for. Perhaps the beast himself will ravage the place of its life. The beast that confines the poor boy to a maze and calls himself “King.” The beast imprisoned Daedalus and his son for his "genius." King Minos: the fickle man who stole from the gods and was severely punished.

Icarus looks back at his father. His eyes are closed and he is smiling with nostalgia back in their jail cell. 'Only he would miss this place,' Icarus thinks bitterly. Of course, his father would cling to the shackles that bound them. Like his sentimentality, his parenting chained Icarus to his side, 'Icarus, don't lean too far over the rail! Icarus, don't get too close to the door; the guards may take you! Icarus, stay close to me; all we have is each other!' Icarus is excited to fly free from his father. The boy loved his father, but Icarus is ready to be his own genius and earn his own titles.

         "Are you ready, Father? Let us soar towards our new beginnings!" Icarus says restlessly.

         "Yes, my boy. Let me try and soak up the last of your childhood."

         "Bah! Father, it's too heavy for us to carry. Release those chains so we can fly to our new tomorrow!"

Daedalus chuckles at his son's vigour and climbs onto the ledge. He spreads his arms into flight position and signals for Icarus to do the same. Icarus puffs his chest and stretches his arms wide as if trying to hug Crete. 'He looks like such an adult now,' Daedalus sighs.

         "Stay close to me. I don't know ho-"

         "Where else would I be?" Icarus scoffs. 'Typical Father,' he thinks.

Daedalus strains a smile and looks up towards the heavens. He offers a silent prayer that his fruitless wings be strong enough to hold him. He hopes he fasted enough for the wings to carry him to freedom. Everything he's done has led up to this moment. He's risked everything to give his boy a life. If he fails, who will look after Icarus? Who will guide him on the path of life? He counts down from three and they dive into the city below.

Icarus is alive! Truly alive! The sharp wind drowns out the music and the mosaics of life blur below. He barely hears his father bark instructions to steer, ‘tilt left, tilt right...' But Icarus already knows what to do and he is already doing it alone! He doesn't need his father anymore, and his commands couldn't hold them together anymore. They fly past the shore and over the great Aegean Sea. Icarus is free! He feels powerful and weightless. He feels like a god. He flies past Daedalus; he flies above and below and around him, whooping and screaming for joy.

Daedalus can only watch as Icarus soars around him. The pure ecstasy on his face makes Daedalus delighted and proud of his work. If he dies on this trip, seeing Icarus' face glow with life was worth it. He would give anything to keep it on his face. Though, the more Icarus soared, the louder he cheered and the more worried Daedalus became. Although happy, Daedalus warned Icarus to stay near him in the middle ground. They would fall into the ocean if they flew too low and flying too high would melt the thin wax wings.

         "Icarus! Don't go too far! Stay close to me!" he calls.

Icarus hears whispers of his father's voice in the wind. 'No doubt to tell me to stay with him,' Icarus thinks. He pushes his father's voice away from him and flies higher and higher. Icarus is drunk with freedom and high on liberty. Euphoria pulses through his veins, and his body finally has some life in it. He would not let his father's words keep them chained together, especially not in their new lives. He flies faster and faster, trying to drown out his father's orders and basking in the hot sunlight. He climbs higher and higher, striving to touch the sun. His eyes are blissfully closed until he feels hot pricks like needles on his legs. He opens his eyes and tries to look behind him – when the wings catch his attention. The paper-thin wings, the fruits of his father’s genius, the robust promise of freedom and a new life, are melting. The sun, the height of freedom, is taking his liberty away. He calls for his father and Daedalus for him. He begs him to help him, to catch him and to never let him go. He plummets fast towards the great Aegean, now wishing his words could fasten them together.

Touch the Sun — A poem by Kyana Alvarez

Standing on the slim edge,

About to jump off the steep ledge.

Looking down at the open sea,

Finally ready to just be.

Years on years in close quarters

Pretending to be some of his supporters.

A labyrinth's genius and his son

Locked up high, unable to run.

A king made a fool by his wife

He'll regret taunting the gods for life.

He kept a beauty for his greed

And declined to make it spill and bleed.

The sea god without a sacrifice,

Wanted Minos to pay the price

Of insulting the Lord of Tides

And placed a curse on his withering bride.

She's birthed a mighty half-beast,

And hid him below the dirt, to say the least.

Demanded my father make a maze

To keep the child forever fazed.

Daedalus, the protector of solutions

Hidden away to serve the institution.

Fits of anger shake the ground,

So they sacrifice prisoners by the pound.

Lost and scared between the walls,

We hear their desperate, terrified calls.

Confused about where to go,

The Minotaur takes them with a single blow.

Guilt-ridden with what he's created,

My father becomes more irritated.

A childhood inside a single room,

My new freedom was my doom.

Wings of wax my father made

And a hearty goodbye to Crete we bade.

We stand on the edge, ready to fly

"Hello liberty," I deeply sigh.

We jump off and broadly soar

Terribly excited to reach the shore.

I break free of my father's grip

Gliding high and low, taking a big dip.

I seek to fly ever higher

Better than my father, I greedily desire.

I hear his voice echoed and faint

But I'm finally free from his constraints.

I soar up high to touch the sun

My wings start melting and I am done.

I plummet fast to the mighty sea,

Now my father is the one who can just be.

The infinite methods of the writing process

What is their writing routine? What do they do when they’re in a funk? These are the questions writers know best

By: Apurva Bhat

The writer’s process in a nutshell – if only it were that easy. (Suzy Hazelwood/Pexels)

Each writer has their own working pattern. Some write in chaos, while others prefer silence. Some have a disciplined routine and some can’t get themselves to produce content unless they have a deadline staring them in the face.

Starting is the hardest part for me. My journey began in 2018 with informal, personal pieces. I’d experience an emotion, type it out in my Notes app and put it up on Instagram.

In 2020, I decided to major in journalism for my undergraduate degree. As someone who is now in the program, I feel that I’ve somehow lost the practice of writing daily (how ironic). I’m not entirely sure what the reasons behind this are; perhaps it was the pandemic or that I don’t know what my niche is or that I still haven’t figured out what routine works best for me.

There are writers, such as Haley Sengsavanh, a third-year journalism student at Toronto Metropolitan University (TMU), who are methodical. She thrives in a decluttered environment with outlines she can refer to and all of her content available in one, single document. “I need to be alone when I write,” she said.

Similarly, TMU third-year journalism student Isabella Monaco also needs space away from people and noise in order to accelerate her writing process. While countless students find sitting in a coffee shop with a laptop, lo-fi music and a matcha latte will always do the trick, Monaco would rather stay away from the hustle and bustle.

I, however, am the exact opposite of Sengsavanh and Monaco. I work in what could be described as using unstructured and flexible methodologies. My work is usually not in one single document or even saved in the same folder. Similar to how you solve a jigsaw puzzle, I write bits and pieces sporadically, not knowing exactly how it’s going to look in the end, but eventually, they find their way together.

Based in the U.K., Sanika Shah is a travel blogger who founded Saunter with Sanika during the pandemic. She describes herself as a “chaotic writer.”

“I know the structure I’d like to follow: introduction, body, attractions to visit, things I liked or disliked,” said Shah. “At the same time, I don’t have everything in one spot. I’ll feel an emotion about something and write it down. I’ll get ideas of a topic and note it somewhere.” 

For Shah, creating a personal connection with her work is essential. She said there isn’t a formula to the process. “It’s not like math where one plus one equals two.”

And rightfully so. We can’t categorize writers into certain types — our styles change with time and our practices can be a combination of various routines, whether it’s finding a quiet spot to place your thoughts onto paper or immersing yourself in the busiest environment in order to get yourself in a productive mood. 

“Sometimes you’re procrastinating and going for a walk but sometimes that walk is a part of the writing process,” she said.

Damian Rogers, a poet who teaches creative writing at TMU, says that several writers put immense pressure on themselves to produce the perfect piece.

“Most people that are creative face some resistance to create,” said Rogers.

This subconscious urge to create phenomenal work can sometimes lead to writer’s block. Most writers have, at some point in their journey, faced the urge to simply not write. Sharing the stories you create is an extremely vulnerable process, one that can be extremely draining.

Somewhere and somehow, the reader can sense exactly who you are through your words, which is a vulnerable process. It becomes even harder when the work you so passionately put out there doesn’t receive the recognition or appreciation it deserves— or rather recognition that feels proportionate to the time and resources invested into it.

Rogers, who has published three books, including her poignant memoir An Alphabet for Joanna: A Portrait of My Mother in 26 Fragments, said that before attending grad school, she believed established writers wouldn't struggle with insecurities surrounding their process.

“When I met and spoke with [the writers], I realized it’s far from true,” she said. “A part of me was distressed but also, it's a very normal, human thing to feel unsure of yourself.”

She elaborated, saying it’s truly about embracing the fact that the process is slightly messy and that, sometimes, we need extra time for ourselves to create. 

“Sometimes you’re procrastinating and going for a walk but sometimes that walk is a part of the writing process,” she said.

Monaco finds that reading other people’s work and talking with friends helps her get out of a block. While Shah tries working from the middle instead of starting with the introduction to get the process started. Rogers recommends taking breaks and, as simple as it may sound, sometimes even tricking herself to not feel self-conscious.

“Try to create a practice where you go back to those incomplete works you’ve created – return to your pile or files of paper and work,” said Rogers. “You’d be surprised by how much a little time away from something gives you perspective on what to do next.”

Epitaphs Of The Heart: A Lover’s Anthology

This poetry collection is not only a celebration of love, but an embrace of what has once been and what will come again

SHAMROCK SUN

By: Miranda Kanter

@miranda.kanter

I think of you as the colour yellow.

Those specs and spatters of dust suspended in light; hushed yellow as it breaks through your window. Your window, which keeps its back to the sun, so sunrise for us only happens at noon. A midday sunrise – you are a morning delayed; seeping through the Irish flag that covers your window, washing that yellow light green.

I think of you as the colour red.

As your rouge-streaked cheeks toning mine, untempered. By September, you’ll be well back in Belfast; I turn my head to the side and stick out my tongue to scrape it clean of the words I and love and you. Without time to wonder whether I really yet mean the words stuck to the tips of my nails, I tuck them into the hair that I brush back behind your ear, for you to take back home.

Back home, I eat as you fall asleep; fall asleep just when you wake. When I wake, it’s with the sun at noon, your time.

I think of you still as a midday sunrise.

---

POCKET MEMORIES: HOLDING ON

By: Ella Morale

@pocket.elfie

it feels so special to hold your

book with your pencil marks

scratched through it

i want you to mark my skin

i want you to fold my corners in

at the parts that feel most

important to you

---

TANGIBLE LOVE

By: Eri Dixon

@eri.ecdc

Hold the fire until it burns your hands then keep holding.

---

UNTITLED MUSING ON DAY #103

By: Florence Syed

@sleepyy.pixie

I had to learn the hard way that love should not be unconditional. 

An honourable notion

But one that is dishonest

The way that I love is through devotion

I will spend day after day running my fingers through the knots of your hair and awakening early to place honey and bread at your feet and I will clutch your hand and kiss at your flesh in attempts to soothe when your eyes are wet

I will devote my flesh, time, blood, bones and anything you’d wish from me all that I pray is that you ask me to 

All that I pray is that you desire me to 

recognize my yearning to love you, to need you, to want you, to take you 

But love without conditions is one that neglects the self

It is one that leaves the giver with empty hands and tired knuckles

One that gives and gives and gives but the reciprocation can never be of equal footing

Not when I deify you into a god and lie on my knees before you

Worshipping and praying in a manner that many would argue is unbecoming 

But devotion has made me reckless and simultaneously weak 

Weak knees, weak ankles and weakened restraints 

and by placing you so high it leaves you in no other position but to look down at me 

And that is not the way that I desire to be looked at by any lover. 

---

EVERYONE

By: Annie Chantraine

@goo_g1rl

I want to be in love with everyone in the world.

My physical body is only capable of such a limited expression of love compared to the sheer scope of love I feel shoot through me like sun arrows.

I want to feel every heartbreak, every tender cheek graze, every tear hitting every casket, every kiss planted on the lips for the first time.

I want to feel it all and I want to make everyone feel it too. 

I want to follow the thread that weaves us together. 

I want to start at beginnings and cross boundaries of space and time and body and world

I want to return to you and start again, forever, differently each time.

---

Flame To A Wick

By: Harsh Patankar 

@vantablackcult

Candied words like wisps of smoke

Float between our lips

Filling the room with the sweet hum

Of gods flame to a wick

When I eat the sun

Casting all in my shade 

I’ll leave you the moon

The only jewel in my blade

Slick in my own depths

You refract hands of light

Many colours light a lamp

As I fall from great height

---

SWEAT IT OFF AND THE REST IS JUST A DAY WITH YOU

By: Emmanuelle Toohey-Carignan 

@ithinkthatuh

Moonlight on the open shore

The streetlights glowing door to door 

Your frame reclining on the floor

I don’t think I’ll speak anymore

What if I hurt you? 

Wipe the plasma off your sore

Outside we chase green shining from lighthouses in distant dark

We ran through eyesore streets and dog parks 

Let off our leash

What if I lose you to my longing?

---

(SUCKER PUNCH)

By: Anna-Giselle Funes-Eng

@annagiselle.fe

I think I might’ve loved you

In another life before

I wonder, is it selfish

To maybe ask you for one more?

Stand at the window waiting 

You frost the glass with bated breath 

Thinking as you breathe out the world

With lovely slow, uneven heft

Maybe I did love you once

I never can be sure

I think that if I loved you

I’d still want to. Just one more. 

Rupi Kaur: Authenticity through the lens of poetry

By Mariah Siddiqui

Rupi Kaur is a #1 New York Times bestselling author and illustrator. The Indian-born Canadian poet released two poetry collections: Milk and Honey and The Sun and Her Flowers that caught the eyes and hearts of people on a worldwide scale.

Two illustrated bees can be seen on the dark cover of Milk and Honey. (CanCulture/Mariah Siddiqui)

Milk and Honey is raw and unforgettable. It was released in 2014 and jumpstarted Kaur’s career as people resonated with the poetry and prose she poured her heart into. The book is separated into four parts: the hurting, the loving, the breaking, and the healing.

‘The hurting’ deals with the themes of sexual assault and trauma. The pages hit you in a way you don’t expect because they are so real and authentic. There is no filter when it comes to this section and the experiences are uncensored and heartbreaking.

‘The loving’ explores the feeling of being so wrapped up in love and the happiness that comes with being with someone. It not only explores romantic love but the kind of love you feel from a maternal perspective. People can relate to love as it is something so commonly felt and experienced. However, with love also comes heartbreak which people can heavily relate to as well.

‘The breaking’ is all about that heartbreak. Breakups suck but most people have gone through one and know how hard it is to get over sometimes. This section pours that all onto the paper through the dark illustrations and truthful emotions within the poems.

‘The healing’ is warm and inviting. It talks about dealing with that trauma and heartbreak and finding yourself again through all of that. It is a reclamation of loving who you are and where you come from. Reading the words is almost therapeutic as you witness Kaur overcoming battles in an inspirational way.

The stark white cover can be seen with illustrations of sunflowers. (CanCulture/Mariah Siddiqui)

The Sun and Her Flowers is full of metaphors and powerful messages. The poetry book was released in 2017 and is set up in a similar way to her first collection. This book is separated into five parts: wilting, falling, rooting, rising, and blooming.

‘Wilting’ is all about pain and the subject of heartbreak is revisited once again.

‘Falling’ is about being at your lowest. It visits the subject of depression and loneliness in an intense way.

‘Rooting’ talks about searching for your identity and beginning to manifest the idea of who you are again into your own mind.

‘Rising’ is putting those thoughts of who you are into the real world as you make changes that encourage your personal growth.

‘Blooming’ is succeeding in doing so and looking back at everything you have gone through, knowing you are stronger because of it. This section discusses femininity and empowerment through having important discussions and putting those thoughts into action.

When comparing the two poetry collections, there are many patterns and similarities between them. The first book cover is dark black and the second opposes that with its stark white cover. They both are organized in sections and each book tackles sensitive issues in a way a lot of people haven’t seen before. Both discuss the way love feels and the pain of a heartbreak, but they both do it in a way that can be easily related to.

While Milk and Honey is straightforward with the process of growth, The Sun and Her Flowers embodies the process in a beautiful way. The life of a flower is used as a metaphor to explain the way humans feel. First, we wilt due to pain and trauma, then we fall before we begin to root. Then we begin to grow and find ourselves and we rise and bloom. The image of a flower is a known image of beauty and strength. The comparison was done effectively and draws a powerful parallel.

Many share the opinion that Kaur writes mainstream poetry that isn’t that special, but it takes immense strength to write these poems down and share them with others. When people share their truth, it is never guaranteed that every single person is going to get it and relate to it. There are no rules to expression through art. It takes courage to tackle such significant and broadly misrepresented issues in the bold ways Kaur has.

If you want to check out one of these books, I suggest you start with Milk and Honey first for an insight on how Kaur progressed as a poet. Personally, that one resonated with me on a deeper level and I felt connected to many of the pieces in it. I hope it does the same for you.