Skip to main content

Poem by Lisa Pasold

Eyewear is very glad to welcome Lisa Pasold (pictured here in a brasserie in Nantes) to its pages this Friday. She has become one of the core poets in the new 21st century Paris expat literary scene, along with Jennifer K Dick and Michelle Noteboom.

It was good to meet her when I lived in that city for several years, in 2001-2003. Indeed, I was so taken with her poetry, I included it in my survey of 20 younger Canadian poets published in the 2005 issue of New American Writing. One of the things I like about her writing is how she gets so much of the world in to it, without ever easing up on innovative practice - while retaining humour and perspective - making fast-paced avant-garde work with a voice behind it, mixing narrative and more opaque strategies in a new blend.

Pasold is nothing if not active and travelled - she's been thrown off a train in Belarus, been fed the world’s best pigeon pie in Marrakech, mushed huskies in the Yukon, and been cheated in the Venetian gambling halls of Ca’ Vendramin Calergi.

She grew up in Montreal (as did I - we debated against each other in high school then promptly forgot each other for nearly 20 years) which gave her the necessary jaywalking skills to survive as a journalist and guidebook writer.

Her first book of poetry, Weave, appeared in 2004 and was nominated for an Alberta Book Award. She currently lives in Paris and teaches creative writing at the American University in Paris. Her new book of poetry, A Bad Year for Journalists, came out this April.


what’s possible

“Hidden agendas: How journalists influence the news”
she reads. that’s just fan-tas-tic, I knew they’d get
to blaming us one of these days.

it’s a simple job, “radicalizing the pain of others.” Or selling it.

because she's there to make money off their situation. at least,
they think she is.

can you sell this?

so they throw shit at the car. their own shit. towards her.
splatter the windshield.

(if she worked, say, for FOX, she could skip
this, make it up as she went along. like whistling a tune.)

where’s her handy pith helmet and guidebook? in the Strand once
she came across Directions for Englishmen
Going to India.
19th century binding opened in her hand
to page 41. Bodoni Book font, smudged advice:

"Stand still and wave a white handkerchief. This should
confuse the elephant."

there was no illustration.

but the handkerchief remains, the elephant pauses
to decipher meaning

—truce? surrender? you're
about to blow your nose?—the elephant’s hesitation
an opportunity:

Run. Run away.

Keep driving, she says now from the passenger seat.
Just keep driving.


poem by Lisa Pasold
from A Bad Year for Journalists, www.frontenachouse.com

Comments

Jennifer K Dick said…
A brilliant, exciting, intimate and political new book--Lisa Pasold deftly weaves (not to remind you of her last book's title--WEAVE--) the stories of her character's lives and loves in between the nitty-gritty places and at times very tin-foil glittery spaces of their journalistic worlds. An excellent book for Todd to recommend, and kind of him, too, to mention us poets over here in Paris now absent of the SWIFT influence! He, alas, is missed, and appreciated--say hello to him at his new Oxfam gig coming to London very soon!!!

Popular posts from this blog

IQ AND THE POETS - ARE YOU SMART?

When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart?  A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional.  Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were.  For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ?  Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets.  But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ?  How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular.  John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se.  What do I mean by smart?

"I have crossed oceans of time to find you..."

In terms of great films about, and of, love, we have Vertigo, In The Mood for Love , and Casablanca , Doctor Zhivago , An Officer and a Gentleman , at the apex; as well as odder, more troubling versions, such as Sophie's Choice and  Silence of the Lambs .  I think my favourite remains Bram Stoker's Dracula , with the great immortal line "I have crossed oceans of time to find you...".

THE SWIFT REPORT 2023

I am writing this post without much enthusiasm, but with a sense of duty. This blog will be 20 years old soon, and though I rarely post here anymore, I owe it some attention. Of course in 2023, "Swift" now means one thing only, Taylor Swift, the billionaire musician. Gone are the days when I was asked if I was related to Jonathan Swift. The pre-eminent cultural Swift is now alive and TIME PERSON OF THE YEAR. There is no point in belabouring the obvious with delay: 2023 was a low-point in the low annals of human history - war, invasion, murder, in too many nations. Hate, division, the collapse of what truth is, exacerbated by advances in AI that may or may not prove apocalyptic, while global warming still seems to threaten the near-future safety of humanity. It's been deeply depressing. The world lost some wonderful poets, actors, musicians, and writers this year, as it often does. Two people I knew and admired greatly, Ian Ferrier and Kevin Higgins, poets and organise