Misha Solomon : INTRODUCTION: Stephanie Bolster's BIODÔME: Twentieth Anniversary Edition

 

 

 

          When it was confirmed that Stephanie Bolster was to be my thesis supervisor for my poetry MA, I wrote to rob mclennan to ask that he send me copies of all of her available chapbooks. I always like to read as much as possible of what my poetry mentors and colleagues have written—I call this my “oppo research,” which is ridiculous since I view hardly any of these poets as my opposition. And certainly not Stephanie, whom I asked to work with in my application and about whom I had heard only glowing reviews from her former students.

          I knew that Stephanie was interested in zoos (it said so on her Concordia faculty profile and she had co-edited Penned: Zoo Poems, an essential anthology), but what I discovered in her Biodôme was a way of seeing, and thereby meeting, the animal world just as it should be met. In “The Arcades Project,” the chapbook’s opening poem, glass is “slanted, divided / by iron, shat at by pigeons.” The description is beautiful, but it’s not beautified. The pigeons have a subtle, surprising agency: they’re shitting at and not just on. Even here, in a poem mostly interested in Walter Benjamin’s mythic unfinished project and its Parisian subject, the life of non-human animals is impeccably rendered.

          The collection gradually and methodically grows into its animal focus, moving from arcades to ruins to gardens, from pigeon to poodle to unnamed beasts, until we get to “Where the Bear Was,” the first incontrovertible “zoo poem.” This short poem set at a Parisian zoo takes us, in only sixteen lines and a drop title, from the 21^st century to World War II and back, with a gut punch of a final line that elegantly encompasses all of history: “Once this was not even Paris.” And what is “Paris” to a bear? And what are “London, Chicago, Barcelona” to the paddocked giraffes of “Ubiquitous in This Domain”? As Stephanie handles both human and non-human concerns in her poems, we’re permitted to access the lives of both her speaker(s) and that which they see.

          In the chapbook’s titular poem, we see tamarins plunging through light thickened by snow, and then we learn that the speaker is mourning someone who has died. “This is not the difference between life and imagination.” The poem’s penultimate line serves as a kind of summary of the project: the poems of Biodôme don’t mine the difference between life and imagination, they fuse life with imagination, allowing life and imagination to, if you’ll allow me, shit at one another. These are poems of beauty without beautification, poems of observation without beatification. Zoos (and humans) simply exist here, for better or often for worse, without the sanctification sometimes found in poems that deal with the so-called natural world.

          When I was tasked with writing about a place for a PhD course taught by M.J. Thompson, I thought of the Biodôme, a place of childhood wonder and adult consternation, and with it I thought of course of Biodôme, a chapbook that confirmed for me how much I wanted to work with Stephanie Bolster. And how gratifying, how life-changing and life-affirming, how transformational her supervision has been. There are dozens and dozens of poetry collections that thank Stephanie in their acknowledgements, and each does so without routine or superficiality. It’s always clear how seen the poet has felt by Stephanie, how much of a positive effect Stephanie has had on the poet’s work. And that’s because Stephanie can see, and therefore meet, poets and their poems just where they need to be met.

          I’m thrilled that rob is reprinting this phenomenal chapbook for its 20^th anniversary, and I’m honoured that Stephanie allowed me to take the final line of “Biodôme” (“Even the briefest distance is divisible.”) as the starting line of my Biodôme chapbook. I’m sure that readers will find themselves as “rapt” as the speaker looking through daffodils in “Children’s Zoo, Central Park,” as pleasantly destabilized as the speaker is when they realize they hadn’t in fact seen daffodils, “it was too early for that or too late.”

 

 

 

 

 

Misha Solomon is a homosexual poet in and of Tiohtià:ke/Montréal. His work has twice appeared in Best Canadian Poetry and in journals across Canada. He is a student in Concordia’s Interdisciplinary PhD program. His debut full-length collection, My Great-Grandfather Danced Ballet, appeared with Brick Books in March 2026. Misha Solomon’s Biodôme: A Bestiary after Stephanie Bolster (above/ground press, 2026) is his third chapbook.

Stephanie Bolster : AFTERWORD : BIODÔME: Twentieth Anniversary Edition

 

 

 

At one point in the early 2000s, I realized that I could no longer remember when I’d last thought about animals in a meaningful way. A childhood in which I’d spent hours leafing through my parents’ massive natural history books and watching nature documentaries, and filmed Maxine the gibbon breaking my heart with her howls in the mists of the San Francisco Zoo (and repeatedly watched said film) had given way to a life in which I spent my time with poetry and visual art and thought dogs I passed on the street were cute. Where was the wonder I once felt in looking at a rhinoceros?

I applied for and was fortunate enough to receive a grant that permitted me to roam first-wave zoos in Western Europe, filling my first digital camera with hundreds, then thousands, of images. Farewell to rationing the number of shots; for the first time, I could take photographs as a stand-in for memory. Given five hours between trains to visit the Antwerp Zoo, where the narrator of W.G. Sebald’s Austerlitz navigates the Nocturama, when my time-rationing failed and I had an hour left to visit a third of the zoo, I photographed in lieu of seeing. This means of documenting my research – coupled with the fact that my husband, who found zoos depressing, opted to visit the cities themselves rather than the zoos, meant I was alone – led to a drifting, voyeuristic perspective in which I transformed into eye, an eye represented by my camera’s lens.

Having seen dozens of the world’s several hundred existing Przewalski’s horses in the space of a few weeks, I found the animals receded to specimens. The comparative perspective this repeated seeing induced meant I looked less at animals than at the spaces that housed them, thought less about the marvel that is a giraffe than about how the pattern of its hide resembled a certain cookie from my childhood. That I’d previously spent months in that nostalgic state of book-looking – though this time at photographs taken in zoos – meant that each enclosure I saw recalled not only the others I’d seen myself but those others I’d seen.

Twenty years after Biodôme was published, I recognize the golden period in which I wrote these poems – between finding stability in my adult professional life when I was hired to teach creative writing at Concordia in 2000 and becoming a parent in 2006 – as defined by my relationship not only to looking but to time. My “to do” list was largely empty, and yet the day’s minutes passed too quickly. The spaciousness of those days, as well as the paradoxical sense of urgency, manifests itself in the fragmentation of the poems, with their frequently stark and abrupt endings; the solitude, in the silences. To paraphrase, “Children’s Zoo, Central Park,” I felt at once too early and too late; everything was possible and everything had already happened. This haunted, haunting state continues to be my home in poetry.

A few years after Biodôme’s publication, I turned my attention to the devastation of New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and the levee breaches. I could say it was harder to look at these images than at the pygmy hippo gleaming in its tiled enclosure, but I always knew the line was fine; in “Ville de Nancy,” the “bawling spider monkeys” are a stanza away from “small photographs of bodies piled in Dresden.” The problem of the gaze – of who’s doing the looking and who’s being looked at – was always there, and since looking itself was the problem, it couldn’t be turned away from.

During the fifteen years I spent writing what would become Long Exposure, the book that arose from looking at Robert Polidori’s photographs of New Orleans and Chernobyl, and since, the only zoo I’ve visited has been in Granby, Québec, where my daughters prefer the Amazoo water park to the animal displays. It’s even harder now to really see the rhino, when everyone else wants to move on and I can’t get out of my own way enough to be where I am – and where am I anyway? What is wild, what is home? Shaboola, the female white rhinoceros, a fan favourite, who died at the zoo in the early hours of February 5, 2025, had entered the world 45 years earlier at the Toronto Zoo, the first white rhino born in Canada.

For years now, in a way that wasn’t the case then beyond livecams at various zoos, looking at animals online has been a common strategy for coping with the world. Cute cat videos have persisted as Moo Deng went viral and subsided. I’ve bonded with several of the writing students I’m fortunate enough to know over our shared love of weird creatures; one emailed me gleefully after he had seen Pacific spiny lumpsuckers, small fish that my brother and I thought as children resembled Chick-fil-a nuggets, for the first time. Now Rachael, an MA student whose creative writing thesis I supervised, is writing about teaching their cat to communicate through buttons. A rough day lightens when Misha – whose MA thesis I also supervised, whose PhD thesis I’m co-supervising, and whose own Biodôme brought me back to this one – sends me a photograph of his Shorkie, Mugcake, who resembles the disconsolate Hoboken-born penguin in my favourite Bugs Bunny cartoon.

When Misha and I first met on Zoom, he recognized the Smithsonian book Animal on the shelf behind me. I’d forgotten it was there. We’d both spent hours leafing through its pages, at markedly different points in our lives. We soon discovered we shared a fascination with the Biodôme, the Montréal ecological attraction that is at once conservatory, zoo, aquarium, and Museum of Natural History. A few years later, in the fall of 2025, he proposed a Biodôme project of his own, which might, if things came together (as they have, thanks to the marvellous creature who is rob mclennan), appear as a chapbook alongside (if I were were interested; if rob were willing) a 20^th anniversary reissue of my Biodôme. Thanks to this generous invitation, I’ve re-entered these spaces, re-met these creatures, through Misha’s poems and my own, the latter of which I haven’t outgrown as much as I thought I had.

Misha’s poems are quicker and more complete than mine, his speakers – human or animal – funnier and more performative. His capybara speaks of being “the star / of the gift shop,” in an era in which strange mammals that have always fascinated me are readily available as toys in spots from the Jellycat website to Dollarama. My capybara – who never made it into Biodôme but haunts my imagination – is a near-mythic figure from my childhood, devoured by piranhas in the Amazon in a National Geographic documentary; afterwards, the bones floated to the surface. I didn’t see a capybara until adulthood; no one in my life outside my family knew what a capybara was. Misha and I both recognize how easily the animal, once seen (and how much easier to see it when it’s captive), becomes a commodity, a surrogate for itself.

Or a surrogate for us. Rereading my Biodôme through the lens of Misha’s Biodôme is humbling not only because his poems, written in an era when “research-creation” is an established artistic and academic practice and not just an obsessive thing some writers do, are smarter and even more self-aware than mine, but because, as much as we try to understand the other, we’re ultimately both exemplifying the speaker of Seamus Heaney’s “Personal Helicon,” the final lines of which captivated me at sixteen when I first began to see myself as a poet: “I rhyme to see myself, to set the darkness echoing.” Misha’s capybara rhymes that way – even signing off its poem with a wonkily clever slant rhyme – because Misha does. As for the actual capybara, who knows. The dome encloses the viewer as well as the viewed. We choose to visit.

Misha and I are both intrigued by the repurposed nature of the Biodôme, originally the Velodrome, the site of cycling and judo competitions in the ’76 Olympics. We both like the first zone, the Tropical Rainforest, best, for its distance from our lives and daily setting. I’ve been looking for the sloth in the scenery since Queen Elizabeth II opened the Amazon Gallery at the Vancouver Aquarium, to which we maintained a family membership throughout my childhood and early teens, in 1983. The weirder and/or scarcer the creature, the greater the appeal.

As the governments of certain nations withdraw from climate accords, the list of marvellous creatures that comprises the poem “A Page from The Wonders of Life on Earth” transforms into “Litany,” a list of extinct species assembled into a poem by my late friend Elise Partridge, who, when I wrote the poem, was alive and well. Another poet friend lost to cancer, Diana Brebner, whose death quietly haunts my poem “Biodôme,” has now been gone for 25 years. Like distance, time is infinitely divisible.

I haven’t been to the Biodôme in close to a decade. Although my elder daughter could once recognize okapis and many other thrillingly specific mammals and their names due to the hours I’d spent reading Jan Brett’s On Noah’s Ark with her, neither she nor her younger sister particularly enjoyed visiting this indoor “attraction” they found bleak and blah, overcast and colourless, lacking the pace, theming, and merch of Disney World.

My kids aren’t me, the capybara isn’t me or Misha, Misha’s Biodôme and mine, his Biodôme and mine, differ. We’re each unique and alone. While I always intended the ironies with which “Housing the Greak Auk,” the last poem in my Biodôme, ends – “We were a marvel” – the legacy of imperialism has become that much more visible, widely recognized, and understood as ongoing, during the past decades. My looking is, I realize increasingly, part of this legacy. What can I do with that challenge but look at it, and look again?

 

 

 

 

 

Stephanie Bolster’s latest book of poetry, Long Exposure, appeared with Palimpsest Press in fall 2025. Excerpts from the book were finalists for the CBC Poetry Prize in 2012 and 2019. Bolster’s first book, White Stone: The Alice Poems, won the Governor General’s Award and the Gerald Lampert Award and was translated into French as Pierre Blanche. Her poems have also been translated into Spanish, German, and Serbo-Croatian. Editor of The Best Canadian Poetry in English 2008 and The Ishtar Gate: Last and Selected Poems by the late Ottawa poet Diana Brebner, and co-editor of Penned: Zoo Poems, she was born in Vancouver and grew up in Burnaby, BC. She has been a professor of creative writing at Concordia University since 2000 and lives in Pointe-Claire, Québec, on the Mohawk (Kanien’kehá:ka) territory of Skaniatara:ti.

Conyer Clayton : 2026 VERSeFest interviews: Gwen Aube

Gwen Aube is the author of Missed Connections with Tall Girls (LittlePuss Press, 2026). She is a 2026 Al Purdy A-Frame Artist-In-Residence & 2025 AiR with the Ontario Heritage Council. She was a finalist for the 2025 PEN Canada New Voices Award, as well as a Kevin Killian Scholarship recipient for the Jack Kerouac School. Her chapbook pulp necrosis was published by above/ground press.

Gwen Aube reads in Ottawa alongside Claudia Coutu Radmore and D.A. Lockhart on Wednesday, March 25, 2026 as part of VERSeFest2026.

Conyer Clayton: Right from the start of the collection, with the epigraph from Richard Rohr (“God loves things by becoming them. We love God by continuing the same pattern.” p.11), we see a gesturing towards the divine through both revolutionary practices and literal religious spaces. I was struck by the following lines:

“THE SACRED AND THE LIBERATORY
BLUR BECAUSE THEY ARE BOTH MYSTERY—
BOTH STRUGGLE —BOTH LOVE—” (p.52)

and

“for this fate, i prayed at the unitarian church
& the week after at the anglican church
& the week after at the gnostic church
in the yoga studio, progressively finding myself 

in stupider & stupider places, cooking down
pomp & circumstance to its base components:
mother, child, moon, blood, sex, time,” (p.86)

Can you speak about your handling of this theme?

Gwen Aube:

So for background, I’ve had a twin set of religious experiences over the last few years. First, I started attending the aforementioned Anglican church, as well as reading theology & post-secular philosophy & such. Second, I (finally!) attended several Radical Faerie gatherings, basically mystical pagan dionysian festivals of queer holiness, which shook me to my core. Both of these spaces are primarily spiritual sites for me, but they’re also inseparably political in nature, with people advocating “works”, a radical theosis, or liberation as a spiritual cause.

The book plays with transgenderISM as virus & civilizational death-cult a lot, and for me this is really in conversation with the bits about motherhood—I don’t want this queerphobia keeping us from the human project, which one could “cook down” to that shit in the quote, mother child moon blood sex time. This, to me, is a deeply spiritual hope, situating love not just among those known to us, but among our ancestors and those who will come after us. Richard Gilman-Opalsky says that love is fundamentally outside exchange-value. Time (in this regard) acts as an illusory function of capital, and to situate storge (greekin out bitch) within deep time, beyond the functional unit, is a holy & revolutionary practice, whatever that’s worth. Like, Cuba’s Family Code is a lovely move. God willing they survive the horrific siege against them. It all just makes you want to pray, yknow?

I should say also, like many, I’ve been struck by Simone Weil. I heard about her thru Chris Kraus’s Aliens and Anorexia (in hindsight, I don’t love its read of Weil, but it’s a nice book). I really, really fell in love with her. The way Weil talks about love, God, and “the good” as basically synonyms really shaped these poems. At one point I was at Webster Library daily reading her (& Diogenes Allen’s readings of her), walking around all day replaying David Cayley’s wonderful CBC radio series on her. I cried alongside the trans-canada highway at Cayley’s daughter’s reading of Weil’s quotes, which she does with such humanity.

Sorry if I’m just like name-dropping here, others are infinitely smarter than this at me & I’m still a novice reader of it, but I’m deeply grateful to be taking in the liturgy and the communal-cooking forest-orgy and writing towards the thing. I have always loved, above all, this beatific feeling.

CC: There is an incredible and effective blend of humour, desire, and violence (“if beauty is violence, let us be beautiful. / if god suffers with us, let us suffer.” p.91), and in particular, as the speaker thinks about their yearning for connection/love with/for trans women (“she shall be loved the way i have been loved—like an attack / on the stupid immutable flesh of the world. // brutally, relentlessly, without condition or mercy or pause, / she shall be loved by me.” p. 92).

How did you approach balancing love and violence around this topic?

GA: That quoted poem is about my trans-mother, Ottawa-born novelist and painter Sybil Lamb. We lived together for like 8 years, and one time, years ago now, she was goading me on cuz she was in a bad mood. She wouldn’t fuck off, so I slapped her hard in the face. Six seconds of mutual flailing later she had me in a chokehold up against the unfinished drywall. Winner, Gagnon! I won’t ever do it again, I should plead here, don’t hit people—it was parental, yknow? We’ve carried our friend with multiple-sclerosis home together, we’ve kept the cops out when runaway girls got into fist-fights over cig money, we’ve dug pits and hopped trains together. Our love has been lived in the body, and that poem reflects our context.

More broadly, the majority of the world, much of which works in slave conditions to procure our pulp & ink, is a fundamentally violent one. Primarily cuz colonial domination, but also cuz the frictionless society of the western professional-managerial arts worker is a fiction provided thru that subjugation. I grew up in a relatively violent environment & also one which was overflowing with love. Bataille has the thing about Eros and Death, which isn’t really what I’m working with (I think the love in this book is rarely eros), but there’s something of that type of fundamental tension here, too.

As for the mentioned violence of beauty, I still don’t know how to talk about this well. I think in general I’m quite intimidated by beauty as a topic. Suffice it to say the esthetician’s office is a clinical site of pure violence, going there for laser hair removal is like touching Hell, yet I too desire to get my shit peeled back for the 8-trillion-dollar Helen-of-Troy-face surgery.

CC: The importance of maintaining class consciousness is apparent within your narrative choices. The book is dedicated to homeless people, one of the sections is titled “Wearing a Fur Coat to the Welfare Office,” and various character’s positions within capitalism are continually addressed. Given the largely queer and trans speakers and characters, can you expand on the elevated importance of class consciousness to you within this book’s context?

GA: There was a study some years back in the UK (it was the British Sociological Foundation one, I think) which showed that among professional artists, those with working-class backgrounds had dropped from 16% to 8% in a decade or something. This means 92% of artists working professionally in the UK had went to Wiggly Cockswallow’s Finishing School, or whatever. When I open a litmag, it is often a bunch of elegies about getting micro-agressed by your thesis advisor. I’m empathetic of course, but as art it’s just awful. I’ve known plenty crackheads, and they have great stories to tell, and language which tastes like something. We need more crackheads in the fine arts. For that to happen, Ontario Works needs to give more than $733 per month.

Of interest to the book, queer and trans people are of course more likely to face employment discrimination and live in abject poverty. Queers are also, like the unwashed masses more broadly, cockroach-esque in our resilience, which I find beautiful. Equally interesting, however, is how trans women have that (seemingly-real??) internal petit-bourgeoisie of tech-job girlies—which is fascinating when you view us economically & culturally as a “diaspora”, and even juicier when you get into the ways in which surveillance tech fucks over poor trannies. But those are the girls mutual-aids’ing our tits fatter, too! Those girls have paid my rent, and my proximity to them is due to my transsexuality! There’s a Marxist analysis of the puppygirl polycule to be made, and I don’t think my book does it, but (like the puppygirl herself) it’s fun to poke around in.

In the closing long poem, For Herma, I cast the pregnant woman and the sea-monster in Gustav Klimt’s painting Hope 1 as lesbian lovers. They are unable to birth their unborn child because they’re literally in a painting, and thus figures of “the Imaginary”, cut-off by capital-H History, a sort of blockage of possibility within a world which irritatingly necessitates the materialist appraisal. The importance of the class analysis, which has been downgraded by an arts culture steeped in liberal institutions, is not exactly elevated within the queer context, but rather the queer subject is beautifully both within and therefore kinda the whole of the proletarian (ultimately, human!!!) subject. Yet, like the figures in the painting, one dreams of a time when the working class is not needed to be the driving force of history, when the fae may take the reigns. 

CC: I was delighted by the way you use sound play to amplify moments of hedonism. For example, in “SIN”:

“under the moon i confuse you for a fruit
your tinny iridescence & little pure 

caloric value. in the muck we suck
at the memory of colour, of the gay 

guy who snuck his fuck into the pool
next door.” (p.51)

I’d love to hear more about these craft decisions, as well as other form choices like your use of all caps (like in the quotations in earlier questions, a style used throughout the book).

GA: In the section you quoted earlier, the ALL-CAPS SCREEDS work well to delineate text into separate, cycling clauses. They also allow for a shift of voice within a poem—for example, to introduce a sense of authority, a sense of nuts-ass hollering, or an intermediate position within those. My family’s facebook posts aura farm similarly: “CARVED PUMPKINS TODAY HAHA JAMES DID YOUNG SHELDON! HAPPY HALLOWEEN LOVE YA BIG!!!” One presumes the semiotic residue of art naif within the tool’s function is self-evident, darling.

As far as sound-play in poetry, this year I’ve been falling in love with Joshua Beckman, who can make any phrase sound delightful. I also listen constantly to a big variety of rap, so rhyme & assonance is really wedged in my head. I guess it’s a game of when can I get away with it? I like to laugh in bed. Sex and drugs are funny and loopy and it’s worth honouring them thusly.

In the section Shemalaise, there’s some notations in the poems, right-aligned on the page. Those I stole from parapolitical CIA researcher & Montreal poet, Peter Dale Scott. He uses them primarily for actual citation, as many of his poems require it, but they’re lovely little intrusions,  so I adopted them for the book. His work is one of the most exciting things I’ve read recently.

This is your last question so I have to come up with other formal total geniusisms I have so I can keep talking—Dramatic dialogue has been a delightful addition to play with, I wanna do that more. I probably say internet words too much but I’m scared, were I not to, that I would be ignoring the world-as-it-is. Uhm…what else? I spent probably longer than is cool writing this, I’m really navel-gazing hard here. Thanks for caring. Reader, please let me sleep on your couch. Please google “cute baby cow”. Please find and read Lilith Latini’s poems.

Thank you for this, Conyer, your questions have been so, so thoughtful and kind.

 

 

 

Conyer Clayton [photo credit: Joanna Eldridge Morrisey] is a queer writer and editor from Louisville, Kentucky living in Ottawa. A MacDowell Fellow, Tin House Novel Summer Scholar, and author of two award-winning poetry collections and ten chapbooks, their third full-length collection of poetry, the lake-shaped excuse, is forthcoming in fall 2026 with Wolsak and Wynn.