DREAD & GREED IN VANCOUVER & VIGOROUS ANTHOLOGY, “THE REVOLVING CITY”

September 16, 2015blogHeather Haley

Great timing! Finding an affordable, pet friendly apartment in Vancouver is proving to be impossible. We may be forced to place our beloved canine companion Brinda in a foster home, and or look in the burbs. Though I conduct a lot of business in the city, it’s been a while since I’ve resided in the city. We’ve gone from 5 acres, to 2.5 acres to a bungalow on a lot and now to an apartment. If we can find one! Vancouver is outrageously expensive, rents high, vacancy rate low, with less than 10% pet friendly. The majority of suites are uninhabitable, dark, depressing, low-ceilinged basements divided into as many cell-like rooms as space allows. “Dorm style,” which translates into a warren of bedrooms with one shared kitchen and bath. I’ve wasted a lot of time and ferry fare driving over for viewings only to be disappointed, frustrated and appalled at the greed.

Though Brinda is not an official service dog, she has been instrumental in our autistic son’s development, providing emotional support and a focus, a way to filter out sensory overload. Nobody cares, far as I can tell, the bottom line always profit. Of course, if we had money, it would be no problem. We’d just buy a condo. At least it wouldn’t sit empty like so many condos in Vancouver. Meanwhile people sleep on the streets.

Is it ironic that I am one of 51 poets featured in a new anthology called The Revolving City? Looks like it’s going to revolve right past me. And I can’t help but think of Devo and devolve.

The launch party is Sept. 23, Room 1400, SFU Harbour Centre, 515 W Hastings St. Hosted by SFU Public Square as part of Word Vancouver and the 50th anniversary of Simon Fraser University, in collaboration with Lunch Poems at SFU, The Writer’s Studio and Anvil Press. This is from the press release: “The Revolving City: 51 Poems and the Stories Behind Them features a who’s who of the west coast poetry scene. The poems range from the lyric to the experimental and address the theme of disconnection in an urban environment. The collection also includes short reflections, written by the poets themselves, providing readers with an intimate insight into the inspiration and meaning behind the poems. Together, this collection seeks to build community, extend poetry to new audiences, and reflect the rich diversity of the poetry scene both local and distant, featuring poets from the Lunch Poems at SFU reading series, edited by much-lauded writer and director of the Writer’s Studio, Wayde Compton, and award-winning poet Renée Sarojini Saklikar. Available in fine book stores everywhere or at Anvil Press.com.”

I’m more comfortable write poetry than poetics, but here is my contribution.

FLESH POT

Born, muscle bound,

Backboned, map, matrix-

Mother intact

Into families, slums

Manors, private

Security firms, institutions.

Pirates or the pious

We flourish. Raw teeth, germs,

Clubfeet do not impede us,

Rank and garbled speech fleeting

As tin Jeeps. Our struggle

Barbie Doll drama, tumult banal,

Pain prosaic, strife fueling ripeness,

Gauntlets passed through swiftly

Until the day we drop. Nominated,

Cornered, required to wither

Under the gun,

Succumb, for we remain

That tender, precious human

Flesh terminators aim for.

The news. As dismaying as the news may be, it infiltrates. I am no longer surprised that nothing changes, progresses, the word progress quaint. With all the information we digest daily, we know we are not moving forward, that we are merely swept up. To preserve a stance of one’s own is heroic, a valiant albeit futile effort, for the individual cannot withstand an avalanche of humanity. The life force. Our flesh, our pitiful armor, is as ephemeral as our lives. We are equally invincible and weak, eternal and temporal, resilient and susceptible, susceptible to the machinations of machines, technology. Human nature is a constant, though we are as tough and logical as salmon swimming upstream, as evolved as a grizzly bear. We are driven, brilliant, vainglorious and misguided as Frankenstein. I might have titled it Natural Order. That’s all the poem speaks to. Portrays. The flesh came first, flesh responsible for the monster.

F R E E D O M !

August 28, 2015blogAshley Madison, freedom, marriageHeather Haley

For everyone involved. Freedom just might be our greatest desire. A friend asked what I think about the Ashley Madison debacle. It’s complicated. There are morals, and there are ethics, but these self-appointed, self-entitled hacktivivists are self-righteous assholes. Hypocritical purveyors. What makes them the arbiters of morality? Seems to me there are far greater social problems to address than extramarital sex. And, who put them in charge anyway? It’s certainly puritanical, Orwellian. Their actions are as despicable as any sinner’s and entirely self-serving. Look what we can do, aren’t we clever?

Ultimately, I could give a flying f**k. Human sexuality and the institution of marriage are incompatible. Divorce rates prove it. I understand mating and pairing up. Nobody wants to raise children alone. No one should have to. I understand love, family, community, and relationships are vital, but can find no advantage to being hitched. Not a one. But, that’s just me.

Can we be adults now? Not everyone needs to be married. Life is short, and forever-as in ’til death do us part-a long time, monogamy often unsustainable. I’m tired of the futility of guilt, of people having to suppress their needs, or being persecuted for said needs. The entire enterprise is irrational, but longing, yearning, I understand, passion and drive fundamental aspects of human nature. We are only human after all. That’s what I think.

“Heather Haley-Poet.” How did that happen?

August 18, 2015blog, poemsHeather Haley, poetry, Sideways, Three Blocks West of WonderlandHeather Haley

Certainly I didn’t plan to become a poet. I didn’t grow up thinking, when I grow up I’m going to be a poet. But in essence, it is who I am. I wasn’t exposed to literature. My father read Popular Mechanics and my mother, True Confessions. Though, being an Irish queen of blarney, Corona could spin a mean yarn.

I didn’t get a degree. I dropped out of university and ran away to join the punk rock circus; sang, wrote songs and poetry which I performed in coffee houses and nightclubs. When I returned to Canada, in a fluky way, published my first collection, Sideways, with Anvil Press. Three Blocks West of Wonderland came out with Ekstasis Editions in 2009 so I’m not exactly prolific, though never cease writing. In a haphazard way, I’m becoming “widely anthologized;” Verse Map of Vancouver (Anvil), Rocksalt: An Anthology of Contemporary BC Poetry (Mother Tongue Publishing), Alive at the Center (Ooligan Press), FORCE Field: 77 Women Poets of British Columbia (Mother Tongue Publishing), The Wild Weathers; a gathering of love poems (Caitlin Press), The SpokenWord WorkBook (Banff Centre Press), Where the Nights are Twice as Long: Love Letters of Canadian Poets (Goose Lane Editions), The Other 23 1/2 Hours, What Your MFA Didn’t Teach You (Wolsak & Wynn), and the forthcoming Simon Fraser University’s Lunch Poems Anthology. Is my approach irresponsible or irreverent? Due to a bad attitude perhaps and Sideways might be entirely appropriate.

I’ve worked in many genres; journalism/reviewer, non-fiction/blog, prose/novel and written several screenplays. I always go back to poetry. Or, come back to poetry.

Recently I completed a rough draft of my latest manuscript, Detective Work. Why? It’s in me, verse. And I have no idea how it got there.

MY WEEK

Fed a germ.
Old dog.
Spooned flies out of yogurt.
Dislodged ants from the toaster.
Entered words.
Fought for blackberries.
Free stuff.

Doctored bites.
Signed language.
Collected greens,
Heritage tomatoes.
Meme parlanced.
Registered my feelings.

Last house on Husband Rd.
Prolific bamboo décor.
You can sit in a resin chair
Forever, white ones
Especially war strong.
Too late in the week now
To do anything nice.

Or, nicely.
Too late in our life spans
For anything,
Though he’s still trying
To Xerox his ass,
Moon earth.

Literary Happenings & Lost in an Eerie Orange Haze

July 16, 2015blogLiterary Review of Canada, Mother Tongue Press, Nathaniel Poole, Sean Cranbury, Storm Crow Tavern Reading Series, The Literary Storefront, The Town Slut's Daughter, Western Front, Where the Nights are Twice as Long, Word VancouverHeather Haley

Or distracted, at the very least. The worst of the heat wave is over, smoke from forest fires clearing. Naturally it rained the day of my summer soiree but we still need more to dampen drought conditions. Considered wearing a mask with air quality comparable to Beijing’s, but as friend Nathaniel Poole pointed out in his blog, Loose Moorings, the dread the eerie orange smoke instilled in people is more likely due to their own fears. He contends that fires are a normal part of the ecosystem. For me it’s been a nuisance, the fallout annoying, though on our island, a major conflagration would be devastating. We are woefully unprepared and have a small, volunteer fire department.

I have no time to write, between working, house hunting and dealing with government bureaucracies, clawing through red tape. Ditto book promotion, though I recently appeared at the Storm Crow Tavern Reading Series, hosted by Sean Cranbury, and sold a few copies of The Town Slut’s Daughter. I’m trying to complete Detective Work, a new collection of verse. About three quarters of the way there, this last bit constitutes a formidable hurtle. Can’t seem to compose but I accomplished a little editing today.

The Goose Lane anthology that I’m featured in, Where the Nights are Twice as Long, got a good write-up and made the the cover of Literary Review of Canada. The author Méira Cook gets it, what editors Dave Eso and Jeannette Lyons are trying to do. By arranging the correspondence according to the poet’s age at the time of writing, the experience reveals much about love’s vexing nature, poets and Canada. Fascinating, and I am savoring this read.

I was happy to hear from the folks at Rebus Creative who invited me to read at Word Vancouver, AKA Word on the Street, in September. An esteemed festival, I’m looking forward to it. The gathering also provides a good opportunity to catch up with friends and associates, as it seems everyone and their dog comes out for it.

Also heard from indefatigable Mona Fertig of Mother Tongue Press who has published my work in several anthologies, regarding their forthcoming, THE LITERARY STOREFRONT: THE GLORY YEARS, Vancouver’s Literary Centre 1978-1984 by Trevor Carolan. Mona ran the place in Gastown. I believe the first time I was ever published was in their newsletter and I was thrilled. Swept up by punk rock along with poetry, this was right around the time I started my first band, the Zellots and played the Smilin’ Buddha. Heady times, for all of us. As BC Bookworld’s Alan Twigg states: “Just as Alan Crawley and Dorothy Livesay organized Vancouver writers in the Thirties and Forties, Mona Fertig took the job seriously in the late ’70s and early ’80s, long before city culture bureaucrats were upbraided in 2012 for allocating less than 2% of their arts budget to literary arts. A Literary Arts Centre will finally come to pass, but Fertig led the way.” The launch is at the Western Front Oct 10.

Beyond Biology-Happy Fathers Day

June 22, 2015blogHappy Fathers DayHeather Haley

I honour good fathers because my father was not. Danny tried but his parents damaged him so badly he couldn’t express love or approval, probably more vital than food and shelter. Years later I discovered that due to paternity fraud, he actually wasn’t my biological dad. Maybe he sensed it too, maybe that’s why he withheld. C’est la vie. I loved him fiercely anyway, despite everything. To attach, bond, is innate. Unless it’s beaten out of us.

Got a dialogue going on Facebook. Al Razutis pointed out that “There’s more to fatherhood than biology.” Of course there is. I’d just like to know who the bastard was that spawned me. Don’t we all? I suppose it’s difficult for ambivalent feelings not to surface on Fathers Day. Turns out my friend Shelly da Cuhna had a similar experience, and Thesa Pakarnyk said, “Whomever spawned you missed out big time on knowing such an amazing woman!” Thank you but I’ll never know what I missed out on either. I harbour no illusions, fantasies though. The guy might be a complete jerk, or even a rapist, but I want to know my genetic makeup. Not just for my sake but also for my son’s. There can be long term health issues. If I was rich I’d hire a private investigator or at the very least, sign up with one of those DNA tracking sites. Elee Kraljii Garniner remarked, “Heather, beautiful sentiment. Here’s to a new model of fatherliness.” And I agree. That’s what needs to happen. I see it happening. Most men today are far more loving and hands-on as parents.

I wanted to post a picture of my Dad but have none digitized, so here is a shot of me and my beloved nephew Kyle Thiessen, my (half) sister’s son and his full-blooded grandson.

Free To Imagine

June 11, 2015blogfiction, Heather Haley, The Town Slut's DaughterHeather Haley

Writing is vexing, on so many levels. I don’t understand all this post modern fuss over genre and grow weary of explaining that I did indeed imagine the story in The Town Slut’s Daughter. Naturally it’s inspired by life experience. Write what you know. Right? Which is all I wrote, which is why it’s authentic. If what I wrote was published as memoir, or creative non-fiction-whatever the hell that is- I would have been crucified, because I made stuff up, yet people refuse to believe my novel isn’t memoir. I can say unequivocally that I am not Fiona and Fiona is not I.

Our hunger for realism, hence the reality show phenomenon, and rise of the documentary fuel such expectations. Pressure. I say this because poet and writer Catherine Owen, whom I admire greatly, reviewed my book bemoaning in the main that I’d chosen to write fiction. Despite confusion over genre I never doubted my instincts, knew I was framing narrative within a novel. Works for me. I understand her yearning for just the facts but my life is not all that interesting, in reality. As Karl Ove Knausgård recently emphasized about his autobiographical novel, My Struggle, “It’s fictional even if it’s nonfictional. It’s not as if I’m trying to document anything. I’m looking for something within that material.” Autobiographical novel also seems a contradiction in terms and I know truth is relative. Let the critics and pundits postulate ad nauseum, I need to focus on process. If you want reality, read my blog. I’m getting good at making my life sound exciting.

Perhaps I am a coward, for I can wear it like a veil, but it is also liberating and I maintain there is more truth in fiction.

Ginger island Girl Gone soon

June 3, 2015blogHeather Haley

I have been so tired. Hence, unmotivated, uninspired. But the colds are finally over so I’m working to find some resolve, get some reading, editing, heck, maybe even some writing done this summer. Just used “charm offensive” in Botched Mission. I sent several revised poems to collaborators Victor Bonderoff and Mark Deutrom. Here’s something island themed, as we prepare to exit paradise. Oh, this image is from Take Shelter, a movie I’ve been wanting to see and I’ve been enjoying Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, recommended by my son. ‘Tis indeed “wickedly clever” and “razor sharp.” The novel’s premise could be, what if you gave into every bitchy impulse you’ve ever had? After all, nice is never enough.

THE HUMBLE MURALIST AND THE REPROACHFUL BUDDHIST

Island roads are only as long as the island,

invariably leading to the vortex every island hosts,

the village or burg hugging the cove or bay,

the place where sweaty, unsighted, unrepentant

cocaine and alcohol abusers

wind up in, gurgle down to rub

elbows with the vigorous Tilley-hatted,

swamping the gentry

with their nasty habit stench.

Island roads snake lowly

through a bucolic landscape;

swaying grasses, expansive elms,

lambs, cows, horses, llamas.

Do not be lulled.

Anxiety stalks the dales and hollows,

tamped down, concealed behind neat

rustic wooden fences,

skulking in the cottages

despite a glut of yoga, meditation,

acupuncture outlets and pottery classes.

Here there be much intestinal discomfort,

trembling, ceaseless aspiring,

straining, toward the light,

strong belief in our island selves.

Dolly for example is the biggest Buddhist,

the baddest, blackest sheep

herder on Vancouver Island,

happily bending over

for regular shearing

as long as the tax man

is tranquil about it

and she’s back at the ranch in time

to inject herself

into the tête-à-têtes.

Her resident good egg Greg studies

the recommended sutras,

working on his anger,

moving past it, out

of his townie flat to create

murals in the great outdoors.

Grandiose depictions,

towering trompe l’oeil.

Ostentatious? Yes,

but they have provided

our meek hamlet with an angle,

a tourist attraction.

Indeed, they have saved us!

The Other 23 & a Half Hours: Or Everything You Wanted to Know that Your MFA Didn’t Teach You

May 20, 2015blogHeather Haley

A plug for poet and poetics dynamo Catherine Owen’s latest endeavour, book, The Other 23 & a Half Hours: Or Everything You Wanted to Know that Your MFA Didnt’ Teach You wherein I contribute to a discussion regarding multimedia work. Love the title and agree with the assertion. I don’t regret skipping out on the academy, finding and honing my voice, practice, style. Here’s the publisher’s blurb: There’s so much more to being a poet than starving in a garret. It might be counter intuitive, but Catherine Owen believes being a writer involves much more than writing. In this provocative book she examines the moving parts of the literary community and explains what makes it tick. Starting with reading, which Owen believes is a fundamental part of being a writer, she considers activities such as reviewing, translating, hosting radio shows and even running small presses. With over sixty interviews as well as her own experiences to draw on, Owen sketches a compelling picture of what a literary life can be. Readers will come away with a new appreciation for the dynamism of the Canadian literary scene and the inspiration to contribute to it.

ART SONG LAB approaches!

May 19, 2015blogHeather Haley

Earlier this year I was thrilled to be selected to participate in Art Song Lab 2015, a unique cultural event which pairs poets with composers. I feel fortunate to be collaborating with the talented Brian Topp. Our piece called Our Thirst, will premiere downtown Vancouver in a culminating concert, performed by classically trained performers. I’m grateful to ASL directors Ray Hsu and Michael James Park who encouraged me to apply and hope to see you at the Art Song Lab 2015 SONGLAUNCH, Vancouver School of Music’s Pyatt Hall, home of the VSO, Fri, June 5 at 8 PM. Please find the program and ticket information here.

Hitting the Book Marketing Trail, Poetic Love Letters anthology review

May 5, 2015blogHeather Haley

Dear British, American friends, the e-book of my novel is on sale May 5-7 for .99! “Haley has the gift of writing to suit her subject in all its raddled variety, from wired and jarring to lyrical and tragic.”

One could spend 24/7 on the Internet, and heaps of cash, promoting one’s book. Fortunately I have a life, though it would be nice to get ‘er done. I try. I’ll say it again, I need some elves. And or a boyfriend like Ryan.

A review of Goose Lane Editions Love Where The Nights Are Twice as Long appeared in a Saskatchewan paper, the Star Phoenix, the other day, characterizing our correspondence as, “Heather Haley and John –in 2010 give us the graphic carnal fling, start to finish,” which is a lazy generalization but at least it’s getting some coverage. Editor Dave Eso said that ours might be the most graphic exchange in the book, next to Susan Musgrave’s, but how lame would an anthology of love letters be without sex?