Bänoo Zan : The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

 

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the season of Light. It was the season of Darkness. It was the spring of hope. It was the winter of despair. In short, the period was so far like the present period that it can only be received in the superlative degree of comparison only.
Adapted from Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

 

I don’t pick up phone calls from unknown numbers. I listen to the voice mail if the caller leaves a message. On December 9, 2021, when I heard my phone ring, I saw that I was receiving a call from another Canadian province. And when I then listened to the voice mail, I was incredulous. I had been selected as the Writer-in-Residence at the University of Alberta, September 2022-May 2023.

with Calgary Poet Laureate Wakefield Brewster

It was the best of times. This was a great honour. Immigrants are seldom considered for these competitive positions in Canada. Despite the lip service paid to minorities, it is only when immigrants suffer cultural and political amnesia and assimilate to Canadian norms that we are validated. The shrinking of the concept of justice to the geographical borders of Canada means that immigrants and refugees are not even considered in the discussions around diversity. Literary spaces are monopolized by those born in or assimilated into North America. This strategy has resulted in polarization, mimicking the political scene. The literary scene is ravaged by blood-feuds among competing tribes fighting over resources, recognition, and celebrity status, glaringly ignorant of and indifferent to global threats against writing: the curtailment of freedom of speech and the increasing hold of regressive ideologies over public discourse. The literary scene combats lack of diversity by letting go of the diversity—of ideas and perspectives, by appeasing dictators and marginalizing self-critical voices. Literary artists no longer aspire to tell the truth but wish to appease their peers. In the context of all that is going on, the Writer-in-Residence position acquired a symbolic significance for this immigrant. For her, it was the best of times.  

with University of Calgary writer-in-residence Leah Horlick: photo by Cy Strom

It was the worst of times. We landed in Edmonton on September 1, 2022. And on September 16, Mahsa Amini was murdered in custody of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s so-called morality police for allegedly wearing her hijab improperly. And thus started one of the most prolonged waves of protest that changed the face of Iranian cities. So far, more than 500 people have been confirmed dead.  Over 600 people have lost one or both eyes as a result of  being shot in the face by security forces at protests. Many have had life-altering injuries. Thousands of schoolgirls have been targeted in serial poisonings.  Tens of thousands have been arrested (20,000-30,000). Again, the Islamic regime has descended to new depths. Many protestors released from jail are dying in suspicious circumstances. The Iranian officials are teaching Shaytan how to be satanic.[1] As a migrant whose being is bound up in Iran, it was—No!—it IS—the worst of times.

It was the season of light. It was the season of darkness. Being the Writer-in-Residence, I was able to shed light on the darkness. I call myself a “war-correspondent-in-verse.”  This means that for me poetry is not an exercise in wit, but a weapon in the struggle against silence and complicity. To write from a place of presence demands presence: it demands that you critique, undo and challenge the forces of erasure and fear. Unless you combat the injustice your own people commit against your own people, your fight for justice is at best deluded and at worst a betrayal of justice. Culture, religion, history, and politics of your community or nation are the foundations of your “self.” Self-critique is the most authentic critique.

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[1] Iranian proverb: به شیطان درس می دهند

Woman, Life, Freedom Protest in Edmonton with Cy Strom

It was the spring of hope. Poetry thrives in the community and inspires the community. Poetry is the urge to speak and to listen, to testify and to witness, to sing and to protest. From the very first month, I found poetry gatherings in Edmonton and attended them. And, when I started my own public events, the community embraced the invitation. The events I ran were open to the U of A, the people of Edmonton, and the international community. I ran 27 weekly writing circles and 6 monthly Shab-e She’r Open Mics on the university campus. As in previous years, I curated the poetry nights of the HAPPENING Multicultural Festival. In all these activities, I included the University of Alberta and the local Edmonton poetry communities to facilitate closer collaborations between different circles.  These events showed the poetry community in Edmonton that the doors of campus can be open to them, and they showed the campus community that they can engage writers outside academia.

It was the winter of despair. When I arrived, the university had suffered serious budget cuts and many positions were lost. For the first month or so, there was no assistant in place for me. But as an immigrant and an organizer I did not wait for help. I invited myself to the challenge, and connected with poets and organizers. Together, the Department, the community, and I worked to overcome the odds: isolation, differences of opinion and approach, budget cuts, lack of resources, and minus God weather. 

Shab-e She'r March 2023 University of Alberta: photo by Farah Ayaad

The period was like the present period. I worked on writing projects, finalizing a poetry manuscript, Identity, for which I am seeking a brave and visionary publisher. And, with Cy Strom I proposed an anthology titled Woman, Life, Freedom: Poems for the Iranian Revolution. We are now accepting poetry submissions and financial contributions for the project.  Please see the links below, contribute, and spread the word to individuals and organizations that may be interested. We are open to interviews about the project.

I published poems, poetry translations, essays, and reprints of my poems or poetry translations. I gave several interviews. “Dawn,” one of my poems about the ongoing Iranian revolution, was translated into Chinese. It was also used in a musical composition.

w Shima Robinson (centre) and Charlee QueenXO (right) at Edmonton Poetry Festival : photo credit : Cy Strom

I performed at different events, visited classes, conducted workshops, and delivered speeches in-person and online. Students and community members booked consultations and mentorship sessions with me. In total, I had at least 34 one-on-one sessions or consultations with small groups and 39 public readings and appearances. And, in the last month of my tenure, I received an invitation from the Edmonton Arts Council to join the Edmonton Poet Laureate Selection Committee. The committee announced Shima Robinson, a brilliant poet and a phenomenal organizer, as the tenth poet laureate for the city.

Writing Retreat Black Cat Guest Ranch Alberta: photo by Cy Strom

I thank the community members and organizers, poets, professors, students, editors, and interviewers who invited me to their spaces, pages, and stages, spread the word about activities and events, and participated in them. They made poetry a true exchange and a challenge to self and the world—a place for honest critique and growth. The truth is that none of us have a monopoly over the truth. We need the wisdom of all of us to expose lies masquerading as truth.

In short, the period can only be received in the superlative degree of comparison only. Those nine months were the best months I have experienced in Canada as an immigrant. Listening, sharing, collaborations, and support were more mutually reciprocated. Those months were more of a conversation than a monologue; more of a call and response; more poetry. And I owe it all to the Department of English and Film Studies at the University of Alberta.

Much love,

Bänoo Zan

With Farah Ayaad Shab-e She'r Volunteer in Edmonton

Social media links
LinkedIn https://www.linkedin.com/in/banoozan/
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/banoo.zan/
Twitter https://twitter.com/BanooZan
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/banoo.zan/

Links:

1.   Call for Anthology Submissions to Woman, Life, Freedom: Poems for the Iranian Revolution:  https://guernicaeditions.com/pages/submissions

2.   Link to the Anthology Fundraiser: https://www.gofundme.com/f/woman-life-freedom-anthology

3.   CBC Ideas Interview with Nahlah Ayed: https://www.cbc.ca/radio/ideas/iran-poet-war-correspondent-verse-1.6647347

4.    WiR exchange recitation organized by Calgary Distinguished Writers Program: https://vimeo.com/826316356

 

 

 

Bänoo Zan is a poet, librettist, translator, teacher, editor and poetry curator, with more than 280 published poems and poetry-related pieces as well as three books including Songs of Exile and Letters to My Father. She is the founder of Shab-e She’r (Poetry Night), Canada’s most diverse poetry reading and open mic series (inception: 2012), a brave space that bridges the gap between communities of poets from different ethnicities, nationalities, religions (or lack thereof), ages, genders, sexual orientations, disabilities, poetic styles, voices, and visions. Bänoo was the Writer-in-Residence at the University of Alberta, Canada, Sept 2022-May 2023. Bänoo, along with Cy Strom, is the co-editor of the poetry anthology: “Woman, Life, Freedom: Poems for the Iranian Revolution.” Deadline for sending poems is March 2024. Please read the full submission guidelines and submit work here: https://guernicaeditions.submittable.com/submit. They are also looking for sponsors for this project:   https://www.gofundme.com/f/woman-life-freedom-anthology

Social media links
LinkedIn, Facebook, Twitter,  Instagram

Books:
Songs of Exile (Guernica Editions Website)
Songs of Exile (Amazon)
Letters to My Father

author photo credit: Cy Strom

Helen Hajnoczky : Pauline Le Bel : My First Real Poet

 

 

 

I don’t remember meeting the first poet I met. Instead, Pauline Le Bel forms a part of the vignettes of my early childhood memories - those types of early memories that are lit with a soft warm light and shuffled around like photos in a shoebox. Memories that are saved and sorted by emotions and impressions, rather than by a sense of external chronology or a date stamp.

In one memory my family is visiting Pauline in Edmonton. Her home comes in and out of focus - I remember it feeling like the home of a writer and artist - an inviting kitchen, expressive furniture and décor. In sharp detail I remember a claw foot tub, the floor underneath decorated with seashells, as if Pauline had somehow conjured a stretch of ocean into this windswept, landlocked winter.

In another memory, an evening storm - or was it a gentle sunset? - envelops North Glenmore Park in Calgary. We walk along the bluff, the wind pulling at our hair or the low sun glinting off it, my mom and sister not far away. I recite the stories for my Old Tales for Tender Years book tape to Pauline, and remember her being engaged with the strange and winding story. A writer and performer, she seems to recognize this impulse I have to memorize and recount tales. The sort of early support that underpins my confidence to pick up a pen and write my own stories and poems.

I remember her being my pirate sister, though not quite why. Again, a park - I think. Again, Pauline’s ebullient creative spirit bringing a story into the world, allowing us to be enveloped by it. A tale and a bond I can’t quite remember, but that I can feel, like the salt wind blowing, filling the sails of our ship as we head off on an adventure. 

I remember her performing as Edith Piaf - I think I remember - or is this a blend of fact and memory - I seem to remember her singing. She is at a piano or no - someone else is playing the piano and she is singing. Her voice clear and evocative, like a songbird.

I remember the screening of The Song Spinner in Calgary. Floored at how Pauline not only wrote this incredible book about the power of art, but how it was also somehow made into a movie. The film is beautiful, moving, sinking deep into my soul, reinforcing my hunger to be a writer and artist, assuring me of the importance of self-expression and beauty. Her role in the film reflects how I see her in my life - someone who opens ideas, someone who lets the music in. 

Other memories are fogged not by the veil of childhood but by grief, while others are pristine and sharp for the same reason. 

My father is sick with his final illness - the kind of life experience that causes me to reflect on our shared memories and relationships, like that with Pauline. Of our shared values, like the importance of art and expression, a value that evokes thoughts of Pauline as well. I write to her and order all her books and CDs. My father is still at home, resting on the sofa. I sit across from him, reading aloud to him from Pauline’s poetry. This memory is crystal clear, bright sunshine scattering across the living room. Later we are in the hospice. This memory is in a haze. Pauline sings to my father over the phone from her home in Bowen Island. She sounds so present. He is happy. My heart bursts.

A few years later, the Bowen Island Rotary Club hosts a Zoom presentation where Pauline recounts the story of her life and work, from early childhood to her life in Edmonton, her Edith Piaf show and The Song Spinner, moving to Bowen Island and becoming intimately engaged with that place and it’s beauty. Her work with local people from Indigenous and settler communities, her ongoing exploration of the end phases of life through her work. Her presentation reframes my own memories of her work. I’m inspired not only to know her and her work better - more clearly - but by her lifelong and unwavering commitment to writing and art. To letting it flow into every channel of life, to let it dapple every day in it’s necessary and restorative light.

Pauline Le Bel’s work and spirit have been of deep, life shaping importance of me. I don’t remember meeting her, and I can’t imagine not having met her. My life and art have been moved by Pauline in ways I can’t express, but that I feel, like the waves crashing against the prow of our pirate ship, each time I sit down to write or make art. The Song Spinner explores a world without music - without expression. With Pauline in my life this is a world I have never had to know. 

Learn more about Pauline Le Bel’s work here: https://paulinelebel.com 

 

 

 

 

Helen Hajnoczky is the author of the books Frost & Pollen, Magyarázni, and Poetsand Killers: A Life in Advertising. She also has a handful of above/ground press chapbooks. She shares her writing and art on her website https://www.ateacozyisasometimes.com/

Kim Fahner : Knife on Snow, by Alice Major

Knife on Snow, Alice Major
Turnstone Press, 2023

 

 

 

 

 

Alice Major’s latest poetic offering begins with “End times 1: Record of pressure,” a poem that reflects on how her body has felt pressure as it has grown older, how there are “plate techtonics of aging.” She writes of her physical body as a parallel to the earth’s body, making reference to “my thinning crust,” and documenting her hips as “now misaligned plates/like cratons, sections/of ancient basement rock/stable over ages, while tendons/rift and rip around them.” The parallel is clear: there is a physical record of change—of pressure—and of “a slow,/continuous apocalypse.” This poem locates the poet (and reader) as being fallibly and undeniably human. What follows, to begin Knife on Snow, is the sadly prescient “A fate for fire,” which feels as if it is speaking specifically to the horror that is the summer of 2023, but which was written after the Fort McMurray fire of 2016.

The nine-part piece, “A fate for fire,” is a powerful opening poetic sequence. Dawn arrives as a dragon torn straight out of Beowulf, dragging “its grey tail/from sky’s flat surface  and citizens woke/to no blue summer.” Here is a poem with images that haunt the reader. There are people with “burning eyes” as well as “fume-drugged highways,” as “continents consume themselves.” Trees “are torches,  terrible angels,/crests of flame,” devouring trees, but also creatures whose “corpses lie/chase-victims,  charred in smoke.” Around the city, “gripped/in the fist of forest,” large projects have destroyed the Boreal “down to its bones,” and “where forest crowds   construction camps/and paycheques float  on pipelines’ fates.” This was the fire that is still referred to as “The Beast,” forcing ninety thousand residents to flee, “the long road   logjammed/with crawling trucks,   creeping cars.” One road out.

Major moves from Fort McMurray to the landscape and geography of Iceland, a “fire-formed land,   lava-layered,/where Earth’s plates pull  at the planet’s crust.” Tourists—ten million a year—move through Iceland’s Keflavik Airport, and the poet takes note of the fact that “the birds’ road     roars with metal,/soot and particulates,   unlocked sulfates,/high-sky contrails.” It seems we humans can only ever think of ourselves, too often not realizing that “our fates are bound/by actions of others    wanting only/to save their skins.” Where to go, the poet asks the reader? From Alberta to Iceland? Then where to? “Fire keeps coming  closer to home/in the warming world.” From here, where I sit and write on an early July morning in Northern Ontario, more than a few days through late June have been days where breathing outside, where walking outside, is almost impossible. That smoke comes from fires in Quebec and Northern Ontario, and it feels as if the world is on fire. Alice Major captures that overwhelming sense of sad inevitability in “A fate for fire.”

In “Knife on Snow,” again a sequence of poems, the poet wonders how a knife has been thrown into a yard full of snow. Has it been thrown down from the heavens? Major suggests the ways in which humans have historically always been at odds with one another, how countries have destroyed other countries to colonize them, and how humans “always seek for portents/in the changing patterns of heaven.” There are thousands of landscapes that have been “claimed, colonized,/borders blurred by blood and burnings, blasts/of man-made armament, tanks massed,/rifle barrels and barrel chests/and borrowed time. Weapons rain,/the sky grows deadly.” The result is that “All war is civil war,/internal to ourselves.” The question is how do we stop ourselves from ruining ourselves and, more importantly, from ruining the planet for future generations?

It would be strange not to address the ways in which the world has changed in the recent pandemic years, how people have become less and less tolerant in so many cases. Major writes a series of poems that focus on anger and on how anger grows and spills over into the world in an unchecked manner. In “Paths integral,” she writes “Where do we/locate the sullen burn of grudge?” and “Where is that/ narrow territory where unnecessary rage roars up when I’m/hurt by something as minor as a stubbed toe?” In “Anger’s arithmetic,” she ponders the ways in which one person “shouting on the corner is a man/haunted by some demon” can morph into “nineteen people might become a mob/primed to lynch.” In “Alarums and excursions,” Major writes of how “now voices rise   uncivil   shouts/disorderly noise   from a nearby street/urgent fragments   profanity/indistinguishable angers    breaking out/in emergency    break glass.” Then, in “Immune response,” she writes of random Zoom bombers who enter virtual rooms to spread racism: “Anger’s/inflammatory response takes down the whole organism.” In the face of the pandemic and the climate crisis, dovetailing tellingly as they did, poems like “Progressive” also speak of how taking a stand for the environment and community can now be a firestarter of its own sort.  

Alice Major’s Knife on Snow is a call to awareness and hope in so many ways. In “Tales of the apocalypse,” she states honestly: “we know we’ve launched this ship ourselves.” So many of us have become “accidental gods,” though, somehow believing that we are above the natural world when we are actually part of it. Forgetting that interwoven aspect of life on earth is egocentric and narrow-minded. Some kind of world will last, she tells us, but what will remain? As if to offer a possible notion, the last section of the collection is titled “Travels in the solar system.” A beautifully crafted series of haibun poems that end with reflections on our self-centredness: “Morning. Social media/the first light we turn to./Brain chemistry changes.” and “One more item ticked/off the bucket list. What to post next/on the photo feed?” Perhaps not much will remain after we disappear, as we’ve become so solipsistic as a society. Perhaps we ought to learn from the natural world before it’s too late.

 

 

 

 

Kim Fahner lives and writes in Sudbury, Ontario. Her latest book of poems is Emptying the Ocean (Frontenac House, 2022). She is the First Vice-Chair of The Writers' Union of Canada (2023-25), a member of the League of Canadian Poets, and a supporting member of the Playwrights Guild of Canada. Kim’s first novel, The Donoghue Girl, will be published by Latitude 46 Publishing in Spring 2024. She may be reached via her author website at www.kimfahner.com