Thursday, August 25, 2005

Blow-Out pics

Here are pics from the Blow-Out, direct from derek's camera through the conduit of Sandy's computer

Nikki Sheppy, Sandy Lam, and Jocelyn Grosse in awe of Julia Williams' jazz hands

The Thursday night readers & host: back - Sandy Lam, Chris Ewart, Jill Hartman, Andrew Pulvermacher, Mark Hopkins; front - Jocelyn Grosse, Garth Whelan, Frances Kruk, James Dangerous

Friday night readers and host: ryan fitzpatrick, Chris Blais, Natalie Walschots, Natalee Caple, Trevor Speller, derek beaulieu, Paul Kennett, Jordan Scott

Saturday Afternoon readers and host: back - Julia Williams, Laurie Fuhr, Mark Hopkins; middle - Weyman Chan, Andre Rodrigues, derek beaulieu; laying down - Jason Christie; missing - Brea Burton

Saturday Evening readers and host: ryan fitzpatrick, Natalie Simpson, Jay Gamble, Paul Kennett, Jonathon Wilcke, David Bateman, Larissa Lai, Carmen Derkson w/ Lachlan Gamble

Our Man at the Hop'n'Brew

Feel free to add your own captions.

Dog Days of Summer

I always find it amazing how everything dies at the end of August as we wait for September and the new school year. Literary-wise, things pick up in September as Calgary gets a new influx of grad students, Markin-Flanagan gets its big gears turning, and Wordfest announces its lineup. Here's my wishlist for fall:

- Hopkins finally tells us who's reading at flywheel next month, and that he continues the quality of readings that flywheel is known for

- dANDelion announces their new assistant editor and that a new issue is forthcoming sooner rather than later

- Wordfest has at least 1 avant/post-avant/experimental/whatever poet in their lineup this year

- The new grad students at the U of C get involved in the literary community outside of the university (this seems like a crapshoot every year)

I have a bunch of pics from the blow-out that I'll post at some point. I'm hoping to get close to a high speed connection before I do.

Also derek says that Margaret Christakos and Stephen Cain are coming through town this fall. Jon Paul Fiorentino should be through to push Post-Prairie at the Wild Words conference. Things to look forward to for sure.

Thursday, August 18, 2005


Though we were hopping around like excited little bumblebees telling everyone in sight, I would like to take this opportunity to invite everyone to:

Our Because-we're-married-and-didn't-have-a-real-reception-or-even-get-properly-drunk Party!

(and, okay, I was flitting about like a jolly bumblebee; Ed was being terribly dignified, as always)

When: Saturday, August 20th. Any time after 3pm

Where: My house! 2728 6th Ave. N.W. in the back yard/basement apt.

Bring: something to toss on the barbie, and booze.

call or email (nzwalschots at gmail dot com) if you need directions or details. Come! Schmooze! There will be pie.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

A special treat, fiddy style

When I was editing FAKE MATH over at Nedalie's house, there were a bunch of poems that I pulled from oblivion back into the manuscript. I didn't feel like posting them to process documents, so I didn't. So here's a blow-out exclusive:

My Penis Hurts When I Glue it to my Hand

(for derek beaulieu)

Stop! I glued my cock to my coke.
I need sandpaper on my cock to make
fire. My CNN burns when I pee.

First, I pee some moped exhaust, then
pull a gun made of poop. Hot coffee
hurts when it hits my cock. Sore to intense.

I boil my clothes, oink oink, my good
cock, spoink. Over the couch to knock
a chicken bucket away, a scavenger hunt.

Lastly, in the news, got a clue. Aloe Vera
gel or jump rope. A civil tongue in my ass
keeps my cock informed, infirmed.

it never has to end!

Hello everyone. I am posting most of what I read at Blow-out. Isn't that fun? Other people who read at Blow-out should post their readings. DO IT!


from 6 hours, a chapbook published long ago. My first chapbook ever, in fact. Tildes indicate a new poem

tin roof cool drips peel
light like
your hammer like
scales fine as
shark skin
rough as
your stubbled chin like
sand as
liquid as
thunder coloured
chocolate dusked old as
a black egg dark as
your thumbnail
flat and dented as
a dish of pewter
of tin


glass insulators
seagreen water coloured
oil acrylic like
black and white Mount Baldy paperclipped
paint chips sawdust
encrusted cogs and metal flakes like
asbestos banded kiln and
lost-wax rings of
crackle opals in soft water in
fogged vials
your sapphires
in boxes honeycombed to the wall with yellowed varnish like amber like pitch on squirrelled fur feathered goose down jayed waxwings
sweaty brass
rusted hooks
smoked shavings

size of my thumb tapered body humming bird heart shiver pulsed mouseleap from the trap after a visible pause clocked invisible between 24:41:23 and 24:41:24, fraser and broadway. that’s in east van, the grown world attic suite lit by ear skylights, cloaked by oak,
not hickory

this other life
that transition

where the flowered sheets are the same as my grandmother’s
where my pocket is a collage of transfers
where the rug is on the table
where the sister hates
just like in the novel
where the novels are
no less artiface than
no more artful than
needless to say
“we never had a problem with mice
stepping on needles”

on the road to texada island, i am mistake
n for a little brother
for 41 minutes
from sechelt to nowhere, a boy

that painting, by vermeer
where the rug is on the table too.

this hummingbird hanging around
(whose range should not extend further north than south

memo (published as a chapbook in um 2000? or so. asterisks indicate a new page)

Haida Gwaii ravens big as eagles
this morning, big as ostriches, strange as a moa
black & purple crystal boa
ghost ravens
pink & yellow
tippy on a slope with big black boots on, my rain pants are gone
my sleeping bag is wet, orange nylon pseudopod buried in dead leaves
a moth died
drowned in a dish
when I walked by the table.
I watched until it was still, out of focus.
it was a dream but the moth was dead in the morning.
a moth is a raven is a blue starfish

eye-spots whirl,
radial symmetry, crooked fingers throw it off & the carnival ride squeals like trains, pink & yellow ravens knocked off the cables spark on enameled red & gold upholstered cars remind me I can fly, in the sun, in the stars
cables fall, sing down the slope. they hold the ravens up, dark marionettes.
down sails across Bearskin Bay, echoes of moon-luminous jellyfish, mesmerized by the sky & reflections of themselves on the surface.
a paddle-current ripples her body
what are clouds? she wonders & is washed up at Tlell, on the sand
the otters give her a wide berth, sniff the dogfish, dead in their nests of kelp.
dinner-plate jellyfish, glazed orange. she waits for the leaf-stained tide.

jellyfish foam from the river’s leaves churns in the surf & births a gale.
she pulls her dress across the water & sand
sepia strands
lace & tulle
ravens & gulls in her hair.
drags broken shells, magenta seaweed
the edge of her salty Cape
trips a wild cow & drags her, kicking, lowing, to the cliffs-- she falls
rust-orange, bones broken, stranded
blinks her downy eyelashes, watches the tea-brown tide come in.
foam catches on glasses, on our backpacks & legs
blows across waves of sand
seafoam disintegrates the rusted oak planks of the Pesuta
bow noses through the surface of sand, blind eyes, portholes
wonders what the wind is
steel rusts into the surf, stains Hecate Straight
ravens, thumbs in their belt loops, wait for the tide to trap dinner-plate crabs in the Pesuta’s forward berth.
a crab is an oyster is a Lewis moon snail
eye-stalks whirl,
bilateral symmetry sideways, serrated pinchers & feathers, & frustrated crabs are blind. pebble eyes, raven gullet. sea polished agates grind empty razor clam shells, empty shells fall from rusty cables, from Pesuta’s broken prow
it was a dream but she’s dead in the morning.
I watched her break the waves, eyes pecked.
when I walk by, brown foam marks
her drowned forehead, her
mantilla of flies.


from A Painted Elephant

the shy breathing of the radiator. night sighs

my anointed knuckles, a hierophant inhabits fingertips at midnight, a greenglow sacrifice. attracts sanguine cinnabar moths know nothing of boats, their ways, the binnacle doesn’t draw mercuric insects.

at night cannibalism’s alright.

consumptive nasal whine as i ravage wild cattle at Cape Ball, strip layers like thinner strips chairs, strips of darkness for contrast in chryselephantine mosaic of ruddy gold, of yellowed ivory dirt in seams and creases mercury filings, fillings, gild her over with strips, scrap
petition Hecate at the seal

tank with pennies and nickels, nickel and diming “Lori the Seal” wishes for change, change for a wish, chokes to death on pennies and nickels, nickels and dimes, hundreds

of wishes
of coins
ballast in her belly
gags on the medium of exchange
ragged tail flags behind
swallow icons and
chokes on elizabeth r.

swishes lower & lower in a circular current of (not sea)
water tea-brown tepid, cinder black and grey spots sable sleek
cow eyes cloud over she’s slower and slower ‘til

It was a dream but she’s dead in the morning.

breaks the waves, eyes pecked.
rust foam marks her drowned forehead

Hecate’s seal her mantilla of flies
poplar leaf revolves across mirrored skies

Tuesday, August 16, 2005


While I certainly have things to say about the final night of Blow-out other than how awesorm it was (and it certainly was), I'm not fully recovered or ready to reveal my secrets. Until then check Walschots' recap of the post-Saturday shenanigans and Samantha Marcelo's pics of the New Gallery and *Calgary's sexiest poet* Jason Christie. I'll be stuffing envelopes with chapbooks and hopefully buckling *FAKE MATH* into a couple of envelopes to T.O.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Blow-Out Night 2!

With drunken buffoon ryan "50" fitzpatrick at the helm you knew it was probably going to be a substandard evening, right? Well, you'd be wrong. The second night of Blow-out was a rousing success despite fitzpatrick's buffoonery.

7 readers + a HUGE audience = super literary fun.

The night continued fS' proud tradition of never starting an event on time (a tradition that goes as far back as fS' inability to put out an issue without a typo), but no one seemed to mind until Al Purdy flew in in full superhero regalia with a bottle of the finest Shiraz (no doubt nicked from Christian Bok's wine cellar) declaring "I call thee Blow-Out!" and smashed the bottle against the good ship Jordan Scott.

fitzpatrick said some things about why we were at the reading, but I ignored them mostly. He is boring. Jordan Scott however is not boring. Switching between sections of blert (from the hawt No. Press chapbook, no doubt assembled by Christian Bok) and the new material he's been posting to his blog (Bella Coola!), Jordan deftly (daftly?) maneuvered through the material with aplomp. He didn't even stutter, even though his stuff is about stuttering, but you would think that he would say something like "he stuttered" after every phrase though. I am amazed at how little Jordan stutters when he is drunk (more on that later).

I was hoping derek beaulieu would give us an interpretive dance of some of his visual poetry like he did at the Scream in High Park in 2001. How am I supposed to understand how authentic his voice is if he won't perform his poems. He started with some poems from Frogments from the Frag Pool (a book coming out from Mercury Press, or something) which fitzpatrick said was "visual poems and bad jokes". I for one didn't hear any visual poems. He then made some noises followed by some newspaper articles about sentences, and stuff from his book with wax which I don't understand because Lee Shedden told me not to. It was really good. Al Purdy is really drunk at this point. Not as drunk as Lorna Crozier was last night.

Natalie Zina Walschots read poems from some 100 page heap of something (it look pretty) about people going to the emergency room. I heard that the poems are really about what happened on the honeymoon when she married her first husband the lovely Count Edward Schmutz in his castle in Windsorvania. I heard they got wrecked. Natalie's poems are really close to the language of hurting people if they ask for it. A lot like Limp Bizkit if you ask me! Awesome!

Paul Kennett was supposed to read some story about killing but it was about some guy looking for a killer in Winnipeg it wasn't like Scott Turow or that guy who wrote those books about the nursery rhymes in the title or anything. Chuck Paluniuk was at the back talking to Christian Bok and complaining about how Paul's book didn't give a nuanced enough view of modern masculinity. Paul's story was good because the old lady in it was funny ("Leaks, what Leaks?"). I like funny.

A break. People got more drunk. Jordan went to the emergency room.

Christopher Blais sure likes Jesus. He wrote a whole book about him. Except Christopher's (CHRISTopher!) Jesus is not like other Jesuses. Christopher's Jesus is made out of styrofoam and his book is all about this girl who listens to what the Styrofoam Jesus has to say and does his bidding. So far all the Styrofoam Jesus makes Lucy (that's the girl, the girl with the banana tray hair) do is be devout and make herself feel guilty, but I'm hoping that the Styrofoam Jesus makes her go kill people. That would make Chris' book way better than Paul's because Paul's book is supposed to be about killing but it's just about some guy visiting old ladies.

If you like your Writers-In-Residence self-important and stodgy, you wouldn't like Natalee Caple. She didn't stay up at the university smoking cigars and drinking fine shirazes and going harumph at all. Natalee read some story about a woman who was looking for her mom who was actually Calamity Jane. Part of the story took place in Deadwood. Now I've seen Deadwood, and I don't think Natalee said cocksucker even once. As far as I understand (this is what the ghost of Archibald Lampman told me during a seance) Deadwood is made from actual footage shot during the old wild west and what I've gleaned from that footage is that people really liked to say the word cocksucker a lot. I mean, Natalee's story was good but could have used a lot more cocksuckers to make it a lot more authentic.

Lee Shedden and his posse left before Trevor Speller read and I don't blame them. I would have left too but I was in the back makin out with Lorna Crozier. I missed all of Trevor's reading, but a lot of people were saying his stuff was funny and intelligent dealing with important topics concerning the effects of high capital on human society. Other people were saying that he totally just ripped off Alexander Pope (I think it might have been Alex himself spreading this rumour).

After getting more drunk, we went to the Unicorn pub to get more drunk. Jordan Scott shot deer. Chris Ewart and Jeremy Leipert totally made out after Julia Williams dared them. Natalee Caple's dog bit every male nipple in the room. I don't know where fitzpatrick got that lampshade. Now, if you like rude waitresses, an who doesn't, the Unicorn is the place to be.

That's it. Hope to see you tonight.

Your Palm,

NOT ryan fitzpatrick

Friday, August 12, 2005

Blow-Out Kills One

Night 1 of the 3 day blow out was awesome. Hopefully some blow-by-blow later, but a quick note of some highlights:

- The possibility of Chris Ewart placing his novel. An announcement soon?

- Jocelyn Grosse and James Dangerous with the most unexpected and exciting reading of the night. Music and cryptic local literary references! But I am no pimp, Jimmy Danger.

- Sandy Lam rolling in the snow. And rocking.

- A beautiful reading by Jill Hartman, contextualizing A Painted Elephant within a wider look at some of her early work.

- A subdued but still wonderful performance from Frances Kruk, showing that she doesn't need a ton of equipment to turn in a great performance.

Sleep now.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Last Call

I am working on the Blow-Out! chapbook right now. It's called Pylons. If anyone has ANYTHING they would like to submit to be, you have about 2 hours left. You were warned. Now where are my socks?

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Listening is Good!

This Wednesday at 8:55am and 5:55pm, hear beaulieu, Walschots, and fitzpatrick on the CKUA. Awesome!

Saturday, August 06, 2005

"It's About Time!"

Why not indeed?

For my inaugural post to this blog, I have a proposition everyone participating in the Blow-Out readings on the 11th-13th.

I'd like to put together a chapbook for the reading, as my and dANDy's contribution to the event Nothing major, just a piece of cool ephemera . I'd like to invite anyone who is reading and interested to send me a little material, no more than a page or three. It doesn't necessarily have to be anything you're reading, just something you'd like to see in a Blow-Out collection.

I'll be accepting material until Wednesday, August 10th, late morning. Send it to my gmail account, n z walschots at gmail dawt com.


Friday, August 05, 2005

"Frankly, Why Not!"

Thursday, August 04, 2005

It's in the air

calgary radiates poetry, even up to 40,000 feet. I just flew from thunder bay to vancouver, and as soon as I could see the rockies, I started writing. true story.

awesome blog, ryan!

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Calgary, i slowly come

though not yet a Calgary poet, i am pleased to join this blog, & rest assured that when i roll into Calgary on the 1st of september i will have in tow both poetry, chapbooks, & much love to share with my Calgarian friends. direct from Winnipeg (which has perhaps Canada's most exciting & under-appreciated film & music scenes), some prairie long grass poems & even an attempt or two at a manifesto.

TO the desk of derek beaulieu, likely still boycotting the blog


Since part of this festival's mandate is the free and open sharing of clever missives, wouldn't it be grand if the New Gallery opened their wall space to all kinds of creative expression? Fat felt markers? Collage? Sloppy painted glops?

The festival could create its own marvelous chocolate factory of fun!

Of course, it would be only fair if a corps of volunteers made their services available to help re-paint the walls after the event...


From the desk of beaulieu ('cuz he'll never join this blog)

whoa nelly - i really like the blowout blog - well done mr.ryan! are you planning on keepin it around after the big blow out?

and by the way - check out silliman's review of breathin fire 2!

and also, i count 10 calgarians in PP, not 9 as youve posted (perhaps you didnt count you?):

derek beaulieu, Louis Cabri, Jason Christie, ryan fitzpatrick, Jill Hartman, Larissa Lai, Nicole Markotic, Suzette Mayr, Ian Samuels, Natalie Simpson

and in case your interested, applying the same standards to _Shift & Switch :New Canadian Poetry_, 13 of the 40 contributors, the following are (or are recently departed) calgarians:

derek beaulieu. Jason Christie. Ryan Fitzpatrick. Jay Gamble. Jill Hartman, Larissa Lai, Janet Neigh, Jordan Scott, Natalie Simpson, Trevor Speller, Andrea Strudensky, Jonathon Wilcke, Julia Williams...

oh - and the gauntlet is doing an article on BLOW-OUT too!

take it easy dude!


Monday, August 01, 2005

File Under Self-Fellation

Flipping through the finally finished 33rd issue of fS to find an interview between angela rawlings and Jon Paul Fiorentino, I spot angela's question to Jon: "what's the best poetry scene in canada?" and Jon's answer: "Calgary!" (I may have added that exclamation point, I don't have the issue in front of me). The fuzzy feelings we give Jon can be seen in the upcoming anthology Post-Prairie he put together with Bobby Kroetsch and the fine folks at Talonbooks. Look at the contributor list that Jon's posted on his blog. 9 writers out of 25 from (or recently departed)Calgary. No offence to the cities the other writers are from, but we rule. Awesome!