Words from the editor

Welcome to “At Odds With Tragedy.” In this issue, CV2 attempts to explore the ways in which poets approach the experience of loss. To talk about grief, sadness, and the difficulties that come with the death of loved one, lengthy illness, losing a job, or any of the other myriad of painful obstacles a person might encounter in life is never easy. For the person to whom the loss has occurred, broaching the subject can be excruciating; likewise, those who wish to offer their condolences can find it difficult to know what support to offer. But beyond the immediate physical experience of sorrow, how does one approach the subject of sadness in a discussion of art? Why is it important to do so? And how can the experience of a tragedy of a horrific event like the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, be mediated by artistic expression, if any sense of solace is truly possible after such a devastating event?

That art would offer comfort in the face of such profound grief I think comes as no surprise to those who read and write poetry, or who find themselves engaged by other art forms, because through artistic expression it is possible to create the means to translate what seems utterly unspeakable, into something tangibly said, whether it is in paint or a long hard solo on an electric guitar. It is also important to say that the comfort a poem might give a poet and readers has to do not with providing a beautiful distraction, but rather with providing the beauty of insight.

Part of the problem for those of us in the Western world is that excessive displays of emotion are frowned upon. Not only is uncomposed grief “undignified,” it belies weakness—vulnerability—which, in its revelation, invites the possibility of victimization, if not by tangible evil, than by intangible forces. Perhaps it is the legacy of the Anglo-Puritan Christianity—and primarily this expectation of emotional reserve—which has served as the pre-eminent magnetic north in North America’s moral compass for the last several centuries. Then again, it could be a lasting result of the frontier experience that has embedded a tendency toward emotional reserve. Most likely, it is a combination of these two influences, and many others both historic and more recent: but the resounding message we have inherited is, “don’t dwell—get on with it.” If this “rectitude” continues to contribute to racial discord in this country, it is a cultural trait in dire need of examination.

It is a huge miscalculation to underestimate art as passive: it is in implicit action that, sometimes, art alone can offer solace in the face of extreme circumstances.... Likewise, it is a mistake to relegate the importance of artistic expression to activity that has as its primary purpose the achievement of aesthetics for the sake of impressing others—whether it is done solely to drive home a particular political or moral point, or it’s created in order to aggrandize one’s limited talents by offering superficial observations about the obvious turmoil of tragedy.

George Murray begins the first section of his essay, “Full Circle—Disaster vs. the Poem,” thus: “So there I was, watching people choose between burning to death and falling 80 storeys to the pavement.” He ends the section with the question “Do you know what I thought of at that moment? I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t poetry.”
Later in the essay, he describes the difficulties of writing about tragic events, both public and private:

The danger a poet faces in writing tragedy is twofold: first, there’s the divide in artistic intent (and authenticity) between writing about disaster experienced and disaster witnessed; secondly, there is the temptation of the journalistic gaze, the allure of writing head on about what one thinks “Important” (thereby providing a simplistic and safe filter through which to approach any given catastrophe). In many ways, these two hazards are barbs in a larger trap: hubris.

I would hazard—no pun intended—a more direct and perhaps crass comment: Talk is cheap, art is not. It means something when a poet seriously endeavours to speak of grief, and it is this reality I believe is in evidence with the writing included in this issue of CV2, from the insights offered in Nina Berkhout’s conversation with featured poet Shawna Lemay, to the thoughtful observations of essays by George Murray and Karen Connelly, to the evocative timbre of poems by Judith Krause, Carole Langille, Barry Dempster, and many others. And while the revelations that these poets illuminate may not be true to everyone’s experience, there can be little doubt cast, as George Murray refers to it, on their authenticity.

Poetry has long been held to be inherently elegiac. From Homer’s time on, poetry has been one way to chronicle the magnitude of human loss in Western culture. Poetry, it needs to be said, is by no means a specific prerogative of our culture—it exists in every culture. But whether about war or the untimely death of a loved one, generations have created poems to somehow give that experience meaning. To give “meaning” is perhaps one of the most important things poetry can do, and, almost instinctively, humans are given to marking loss. The compassion, then, that poetry offers in the wake of tragedies large and small is not about the process of understanding or knowing loss, but the acknowledgement of the importance of the
experience, and of how it touches our lives.

Recently, I came across a quotation—in the form of advertising, of all things, albeit for poetry—that articulates better than I can why poetry is worth reading, perhaps especially in times of tragedy. It is part of the current promotional package for Poetry Magazine, a popular US publication. Poetry’s Editor, Christian Wiman, writes:

Let us remember . . . that in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both.

That is essentially what this issue of CV2 is about and what I believe you will find in the fine collection of writing we have assembled for you. And while you are at it, don’t forget to check out the winners of CV2’s 2006 Two-Day Contest: Jenna Butler, First Place; Jennifer Houle, Second; Frances Boyle, whom you might recognize from our last issue as the recipient of an Honourable Mention in our 2005 contest, in Third; and, finally, Karen Clavelle, who received this year’s Honourable Mention. CV2 would like to offer a great big thanks to poet Karen Zoppa, a previous Two-Day Contest winner who did us the honour of judging this year’s competition.

Before I sign off, I want to introduce you to CV2’s new Critical Features Editor, A. J. Levin, poet and columnist extraordinaire, known to you previously as CV2’s production editor. He will be taking over the duty of editorial commentary while I turn my attention to the more mundane but equally pressing duties of running CV2. And as I leave you to A. J.’s capable talents, I am very happy to report that with this issue, we return to our regular publishing schedule. So, next up is “The Open Issue,” in which you will find the much-anticipated interview with Goran Simic, which was originally to appear in this issue but was delayed. Look for Sharon Caseburg’s conversation with Goran Simic in the next issue of CV2, coming this fall to a mailbox or bookstore near you. Be there or be square! That’s it for me, folks.

— Clarise Foster