an interview with Heather Simeney MacLeod

This interview was conducted in June, 2004.

CV2: Poetry can be a very difficult genre to exist in as an artist. How do you handle the rigours of writing poetry in a world that doesn’t necessarily appreciate its true value? Any art can be a challenge, and the frustration of being stuck in the creative process is huge; how do you let go of lines that go nowhere, ideas that seem amazing in the zero gravity of the mind and conversely dull when set to the page—in other words, how do you forgive yourself when things are not well in poetry land?

Heather MacLeod: I find it frustrating when I have an idea of something I want to get down on the page and it simply won’t comply—it won’t let loose and fall out. There are some tricks to try to lure it out. I’ll sometimes take notes of the poem as opposed to attempting to force it out onto the page. Sometimes this involves creating a kind of outline of the poem, other times it’s just the idea of the piece, and sometimes it’s just the emotional essence of the poem. There are times when the poem simply won’t work and I have a tendency to rework and rework a piece in the hopes of salvaging something. Obviously I have a bit of a problem just letting it go. I don’t find fault with the poem. It’s similar to taking a photograph. I know there isn’t anything wrong with my camera; rather I know the fault lies with me, as I have done something to wreck the photograph—I’ve set the light meter incorrectly, I’ve stood against the sun, I’m doing something that is working against the camera. I think it’s the same with the poem when it isn’t working. I realize I’m doing something wrong, but often can’t detect what it is and so I put the poem in a file folder, sometimes I delete it, shrug, and eventually I move on. I realize that some pieces simply won’t work. I also realize that even the ones that do work still fall short because, I think, the poem lives in a kind of perpetual perfection in the mind and begins to fail with my first desire to write it down.

CV2: Who are your “mentors”—who do you go to for inspiration? Who would you recommend to less experienced poets to help them find their feet?

HM: I think early on, particularly through my undergrad at the University of Victoria, my professors (Patrick Lane, Lorna Crozier, Derk Wynand, Brian Hendricks, and Margaret Hollingsworth) not only mentored me, but also in some fashion literally taught me what poetry and writing was by suggesting I read voraciously and introducing me to the basics of poetry and writing. It sounds quite simplistic now, but literally—and I am being genuinely honest—saying to me, this is a villanelle, this is a sestina, this is a prose poem, this is plot, theme, character development, and so on. I learned the names for the things I was doing at the time. As well I was introduced to a variety of writing that I wanted to attempt. It seems almost funny now, but at the time the whole process was quite astounding to me, as if I had stumbled upon a language I had been searching for.

Michael Ondaatje said, in the book Where the Words Come from: Canadian Poets in Conversation that when he is looking at a poem, he expects to have his life changed by it. Ideally that is the case for me as well. I want to read poetry that introduces me to the common in a way I haven’t before imagined.

To younger or less experienced poets I would recommend the work of my contemporaries Gregory Scofield, Rebecca Fredrickson, Brad Cran, Carla Funk, Catherine Greenwood, Philip Kevin Paul, Heidi Greco, Karen Connelly. I feel as if there is an almost—renaissance of Canadian writing, an emergence of strong, profound poets.

CV2: When you began The Burden of Snow, what were your expectations of your poetry? What had you hoped to write about, and at the end of the writing process, was that hope fulfilled? Did the collection accomplish all that you wanted for it—thought it could do? What expectations did this book not meet, and why?

HM: When I began The Burden of Snow my expectation was to complete a collection of poems, which would take me through ancestral memory. Certainly, during the writing process I was able to write about ancestral memory—write out the essence of my ancestors as well other poems, and, of course, slipped in poems of snow, of affection, of desire. As I was saying earlier, I think the perfection of writing always exists internally and by placing even one word on the paper is to begin failing the poem, story, novel and so on. In this respect the piece of writing always falls below the expectation.

CV2: In reading this book I got the sense that in writing this poetry, you underwent a sizable personal transformation, one that resonates throughout The Burden of Snow, and beyond. What advice do you have for poets starting out who find themselves blocked by the things they feel they can’t say for possibly hurting the feelings of others, or who feel somewhat unhinged by the sometimes brutal self-awareness it takes to write poetry well—to discover the most important of poetic tools—their own, special, and amazing voice?

HM: I have very seldom felt inhibited to publish work due to the concern a poem may raise in a friend, boyfriend, former boyfriend, or in a family member; and I haven’t ever felt inhibited in my writing by the response a piece of writing might solicit from someone in my life. I think, and this is obviously only my personal take on the matter, that the most important element is the poem and I’m not concerned with anyone else’s response to it. I am unaware of an audience while I write. I do know from conversations with other writers that this unawareness of an audience is not common. In my conversations with other writers like Billeh Nickerson, Rebecca Fredrickson, and Katy E. Ellis Jr., I became aware of the difficulties and the emotions their work prompted within their families and particularly with their parents. I am fortunate in that I have a very supportive family and my mother is almost painfully proud of my achievements with writing, and if she has found discomfort in any of my work (a lot of which has included personal information about her) she has never indicated this to me.

Writing requires not only a lot of discipline but also, as you pointed out, brutal self-awareness and a sense, I think, of distance, and in some cases a sense of almost indifference. I feel that I am sometimes outside the events going on within my life as if I am watching them, taking notes, and saving them up as a kind of creative fodder.

Voice was the element I was most concerned with in my early writing. I wondered how I could get it. Where was it? Could I take a class for it? Too bad you couldn’t buy voice on the shopping channel. Was that it? Did I have it last week? Could I lose it? Had anyone seen it ? And really where the hell was it? Of course, a writer’s voice simply arrives, I think, on its own and at its own pace. As you pointed out, voice is special. It is amazing and sometimes quite unmistakable. I am able in a few lines to recognize a Patrick Lane poem, a Michael Ondaatje piece of writing, and of course, Margaret Atwood. I can also recognize Brad Cran’s work. I was able to identify Karen Solie’s poetry in The Malahat Review, having previously only read a few of her poems.

I think, and this isn’t really advice, but rather just some mild insight, that an unwavering, even brutal self-awareness is required to write, along with the bent-over posture in front of the computer— dragging your mind back again and again to the matter at hand from the distractions of “I should arrange my CDs in alphabetical order,” or, “Should I streak my hair, or cut my bangs, or both,” to, “You know, I should have some little nibble because I am, after all, peckish.”