Words from the editor

Welcome to “Forgiveness,” an issue that could have just as easily been called the “pardon” issue or the absolution, acquittal, amnesty, charity, clemency, compassion, condonation, dispensation, exculpation, exoneration, extenuation, grace, immunity, impunity, indemnity, justification, lenience, lenity, mercy, overlooking, palliation, purgation, quarter, quittance, remission, remittal, reprieve, respite, or vindication (whew!) issue. And while the “absolution” issue has a nice ring to it, what we are talking about in this issue is plain old forgiveness. Just as CV2 has addressed the relationship of home, truth, and mythology to poetry in the previous three issues, in this final issue of this publishing season, CV2 examines the relationship of forgiveness to poetry.

And like CV2’s previous three topics of exploration, forgiveness has both practical and sacred associations. The potential for forgiveness to positively influence quality of life has, in recent years, made it the subject of scientific research. Practical applications of forgiveness have been studied in some depth by scientists and emphasized by medical and mental health-care providers as a means of revitalizing the soul in a more secular sense. In the promotion of physical and mental well-being, some studies have found the regular practice of forgiveness, or letting go of past resentments, to be a way of achieving a healthier emotional balance, improving a person’s ability to cope with the unpredictability of making their way in this world. It is an approach that frees the individual from what can become—in our hyper-paced, materially obsessed, and violent world—a constant struggle with lack and resentment, and as a result promotes healthier lifestyles.

In looking at the relationship of forgiveness to poetry, it is important to acknowledge the nature of language to constantly transform. It seems to be an innate human tic to meddle with our prevalent mode of communication—to change it, disorder it, reorder, it break it, misshape it, and put it back together in altogether new ways. In addition, being the contradictory mammals that humans are, we have a tendency to assign many words to mean one thing, while at the same time using a particular part of speech or word for as many meanings as we can. These are idiosyncrasies that perhaps make it easier for those who are native to the language, but a minor nightmare for those who are not and are trying to learn it.

For many people who profess to have trouble with poetry, it is inherent capacity of language to shapeshift which becomes the struggle, one that is often compared to the frustration of learning another language. As a person who has been decidedly unsuccessful in two serious attempts to learn another language, I do understand. It is a horrible, sinking feeling, when the ability to communicate is swirling just beyond your grasp. I can also sympathize with the experience of feeling obtuse in the face of poetry. We all have to start somewhere and when I realized in my late twenties that I wanted to write poetry, I felt almost completely overwhelmed by what I didn’t know. It is an awful way to feel, but I knew I needed to “learn the language” and so I started at the only place I knew, by reading.

However, it remains the quintessential reality and comfort of poetry that no matter what approach the poet takes, language remains the primary medium of poetry. Whether it is a part of the poet’s creative process to apply new technology, re-contextualize it physically on the page etymologically, or to extract new revelations of understanding and meaning through the innovative use of image and metaphor, poetry is made primarily from language, often words we use every day. Given that the basic medium is the same for every type of poet, whether approached scientifically or through performance, poets often confront the same limitations. How the poet deals with those limitations is the stuff of inspiration and is the primary ingredient in what we commonly refer to as “voice.”

In Heather MacLeod’s interview she talks humorously about the difficulties involved in finding voice:

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.

In my personal vocabulary, patience is yet another synonym for forgiveness. It is hard not to go straight for the goods, forsake the learning process for a series of misguided leaps, which get a person nowhere but stuck between a rock and the hard place of their impatience. The development of voice requires a period of gestation. A mistake I often see as an editor is poetry sent out too soon or poetry that relies completely on the emotional gravity of the subject matter for its impact. Good poetic process isn’t a sudden revelation: it requires patience, an ability to forgive the poem for being what it is in the moment, and understanding the responsibility you have as a poet to shape it. For me, forgiveness and patience in the poetic process are the same thing. A poem written for the sake of writing a poem often lacks soul, feels empty. It may be beautiful to look at, but, in the end, there will be nothing to capture the patience of the reader, and it will disappear into the ether of other poems that have nothing of substance to weight them in memory. No poet wants to write a bad poem, but as Julia Williams relates in anecdote about a friend, poets who want to be good poets, like all writers, must learn to forgive the “shit.”

My friend, the poet and musician Arran Fisher, was taking a writing class with Fred Wah a few years ago. Arran was worried that everything he wrote was shit. He told Fred so, and Fred responded, “Well, write lots of shit.” I think that’s the best advice I’ve ever heard about writing.

Patience is imperative in writing poetry, as is the acceptance of the world beyond our immediate rational grasp. Whether we wish to give credence to the relationship of poetry to theology or not, forgiveness and patience are also implicit in the fact that poetry does have a intimate connection to spiritual writings by virtue of the common language of verse.

For many peoples of the world the sacred, and practical elements implicit in forgiveness are one in the same, because not only is forgiveness a key ecclesiastical concept in Christianity, but also a primary devotional aspect in other major religions and spiritual philosophies such as Islam, Buddhism, Judaism, Hinduism, and more regionalized spiritual faiths such as Shinto. It exists in many faiths as a important means of expiating rancour and discord—encouraging personal, and, by extension, universal peace.

Like the Bible, the spiritual texts of most major religions and spiritual practices are written in some approximation of verse or poetry. In the previous issue, Volume 26 Issue 4, we have already talked about the importance of poetry to the ancient Greeks, the means by which dealings of the gods and humans were recorded. Poetry became a public record of events, of achievements, of history—the means by which humans could trace their way back to their beginnings.

It is a reality of the today’s world that matters of religion are separated from those of state as a practical matter of course. While it might be true that religious teachings on some level inform our global sense of law and order, organized religion has been responsible for some of the most horrendous debacles of racial segregation, human neglect, discord, and violence in history.

Especially in the west, there is an intellectual expectation that the separation of “church and state” keeps things in balanced perspective. The authority of government is public and the reign of spirit private and never the twain shall meet. But however well entrenched the idea of right and wrong, however well established in a legal system, it is still vulnerable to those who see authority as coming from a “higher”, “unimpeachable” source. In many cultural traditions and belief systems, matters of state and spirit are one in the same—hence we continue to have conflict.

A recent example of this kind of disagreement is the current controversy surrounding the legalization of same sex marriage in Canada. While the logistics of the type of relationship are clear—you have two people who feel practically and emotionally committed to each other and they want to be married so what’s the big deal? But the moral and religious objection raised by North Americans because these two people happen to be of the same sex is huge and resistant. Another is the current state of the Middle East, where there are tremendous conflicts at a very primary level of moral and spiritual considerations. It makes sense that addressing these issues would be crucial to the discussion of a truce of any kind, but while peace is ultimately desirable to all parties, whose peace is going to predominant? In other words who will forgive who first—it becomes first and foremost a communication of trust.

Communication, for must of us and particularly writers is largely about language, and while many of our institutions can be abstentious split between private and public, secular and religious, the institution of language and the arts associated with it can not be so easily dissected.

An example is a remark made by Sarah Klassen, our featured poet in this issue, in her discussion with Sharon Caseburg, about the relationship of forgiveness and poetry.

Writing itself is an act of radical faith. You have to trust that the project is worth-while. That it has meaning. What can my poems possibly offer? Why write? Your beliefs and convictions inevitably colour your work, and I’d like to think that mine point to the possibility of grace.

Now I am not, even in the stretch of the most forgiving imagination, what anyone would remotely call a religious person, but I do believe it requires a certain amount of spiritual awareness to write poetry. By spiritual awareness I lean toward a more secular sense of the expression, one that allows us to articulate our personal relationships into meaning.

When I think about what poetry gives to the world, the word that always nails it for me is “grace.” In her statement above, Ms Klassen also mentions the word “faith” as a crucial part of the writing process, another important “spiritual ingredient” in the creation of a good poet. It is not always easy to trust instincts. The writer’s life is not an easy one, even one pursued in the luxury of one’s spare time, so ya gotta have faith.

Grace is a good word to describe what poetry offers because not only does it imply forgiveness, but it embodies a sense of home, reverberates with truth, and comes with its own mythology of saints and angels and more practical iconography like a glorious fall sunset, a tunnel of autumn trees, and birds—sparrows and jays and magpies and whiskey jacks, to mention just a few. Grace is also about acceptance, celebration, and thanksgiving—it is also about sweating the small stuff.

Lastly, poetry is difficult to make, and while the best poets make it appear easy, it is never as simple as the words it is shaped from. For that matter, neither is a poetry magazine, and upon this occasion of forgiveness it is necessary for us at CV2 to once again offer our apologies for the tardiness of the last few issues.
So now I invite you to partake of the small but sparkling sample of graceful poets we have assembled for our discussion of “forgiveness.”

We do hope you will join us for the next season of CV2, which will offer the launch of CV2’s new French language section, a new feature on young and upcoming writers, and more of the usual insightful stuff of which poetry is made.

—Managing Editor, Clarise Foster