The Creative Writing Research Group at the University of Calgary has sponsored some great readings in the past couple of months: Suzanne Zelazo, Jeff Derksen, (maybe others? I couldn't find an archive of past events) and last night's reading by Christine Stewart and Lisa Robertson at Pages on Kensington.

I haven't read anything by Christine Stewart, but I've been hearing her name more and more since she moved to Edmonton to teach at the University of Alberta. She read from Pessoa's July: or the month of astonishments, published by Nomados Press, and from a chapbook I believe is called The Trees of Periphery. She gave a careful, engaged reading that required a more attentive listener than me. When she introduced each poem by explaining sources and processes in great detail, I totally spaced out. But she grabbed my attention again when she started reading the poems; her writing is complex, nuanced, politicized, definitely something I'll have to start reading.

I've seen Lisa Robertson read once before, a little over three years ago in Vancouver. It was one of the first readings I had attended since moving there, and it was held in a small art gallery right in the middle of the Downtown Eastside. The gallery was packed, with people sitting on the floor all along and in front of the rows of chairs. The audience faced the front window and door, while the readers stood with their backs to the glass door a few feet to their right. About a third of the way through Lisa's reading, a very old and very confused-looking man, who I assume was a junkie, came in through the door and stood parallel to Lisa, just sort of swaying and looking at her. She finished the sentence she was reading, and then turned to him to say hello. One of the event organizers invited him to sit down and enjoy the readings. He didn't respond but kept standing there, looking around the room, and then walked out.

It was a strange and yet perfectly natural interruption that has stuck with me, because to me it problematized the arts scene in Vancouver. On the one hand, there's the complex association between cultural production and poverty activism. There's a generosity and inclusiveness.

On the other hand, there's the sheer pointlessness of activities like poetry in the face of overwhelming social issues. It's almost an affront that a room full of overeducated people would gather to celebrate their obscure interests in the overprivileged space of an art gallery right in the middle of the only place in the city the marginalized addicts, homeless, and etc. are allowed to occupy. It becomes absurd.

On another hand, maybe poets, artists, poetry readers, etc. are thinking more profoundly and sensitively about complex social issues than most people. And why shouldn't they occupy the same space? Besides, the rent is probably cheaper there than anywhere else in the city. Maybe I make too much of these things. Maybe I'm stretching for something to feel cynical about.

Anyway, back to last night's event. Lisa Robertson read from The Men, published by BookThug and from Rousseau's Boat, Nomados Press. Her reading of The Men made the text come alive for me. I love it when that happens, I find certain poetry resonates much more for me when I can hear the writer's rhythm and intonation. I'll have to read The Men again. She also mentioned how good it is to read a text like that in Canada, because Canadian audiences will actually laugh at funny or shocking lines, while international audiences tend to be too somber. So yay, Canadian poetry audiences!