Feature Friday - Sarah Wolfson
Name
Sarah Wolfson
Pronouns
She/Her
Bio
Sarah Wolfson is the author of A Common Name for Everything, which won the 2020 A.M. Klein Prize for Poetry from the Quebec Writers’ Federation. Her poems have appeared in journals throughout the U.S. and Canada including AGNI, The Walrus, The Fiddlehead, TriQuarterly, Geist, Arc, and The Yale Review. Originally from Vermont, she now lives in Montreal, where she teaches poetry and creative writing at McGill University.
Bluesky
@sarahwolfson.bsky.social
Where in Montreal are you located?
In N.D.G. We have a wild turkey problem, apparently.
What do you love about that neighborhood?
The trees. The alleys, which are often home to murals and play spaces. The parks. The kids playing hockey in the street. All the grassroots arts initiatives. The used bookstores (shout-out to both Encore and Phoenix Books). And of course my fellow dog walkers — and especially their crazy, charming, fierce, incorrigible dogs.
What’s your favourite art space in Montreal and why?
One thing I really enjoyed this year was an open-air pub and music space run by Rendez-Vous N.D.G. The organizers repurposed an underused chalet in N.D.G.’s Parc Girouard and turned it into a café and outdoor performance space. All summer there were live concerts by local musicians. As an initiative, it built on some hard-won pandemic wisdom: that parks are lovely places to congregate when other forms of gathering are not possible. In extending that wisdom past the pandemic, Rendez-Vous N.D.G. created a great model for strengthening community through free, public access to art. This underused space suddenly became a flourishing hub of music, dancing, and connection. There was even a winter edition with free soup and mulled cider. So that’s been a highlight: the local buvette and music space. You can read more about it here.
Describe your art in your own words.
I often think of myself as a strange sort of nature poet. When I say nature here, I mean not only ecologies and green things, but nature in the broadest sense — the fundamental interconnectedness of things. My poetry is strange, sound-obsessed, ecological, creature-interested, a little bit wild, a little bit domestic, short on the lyric "I," and long on longing.
What have you been working on recently?
I’m working on a poetry manuscript that’s interested in digital, local, and natural ecologies in an increasingly troubled world. It’s about neighbours, climate, internet-speak, aging, breaking, domesticity, wonder, and the rhetoric we reach for in times of crisis. I know that doesn’t sound light, but I actually think this collection contains plenty of levity and love.
How would you describe your poetic voice?
Persnickety, a little bit obsessive. Attentive. Both awed and amused — even bemused. Ideally a little bit playful and a little bit soulful. But I guess that’s for readers to judge. This is a hard question.
Where do you find your inspiration?
Everywhere. Out the window. On the metro. In the way my neighbour’s vine has gone wild and gotten into a love affair with my laundry line. In the fervent springtime march of ants into kitchens. In the textures of overheard conversations. I believe in the poetic practice of looking out from the self. Away from the self, even. This doesn’t mean you abandon the self. It just means you access your inner landscapes by first looking outward. There’s some strange alchemy there — in the way an inner ache meets a vine or face or snail or news story. That’s how it happens for me, at least.
Describe your writing process.
Well, as I said, I look out windows. And I walk a lot. I move around physical spaces collecting poem-seeds in my notebook. Then I get to my desk. Early drafts tend to be loose and rangy and somewhat wild. After the initial drafting phase, I obsess for a long time over language, sound, pacing, and form. I rarely feel that a poem is done. I think that feeling is a myth — and I sort of don’t trust it if it happens to me. I print a clean draft. I let it sit. I return to it the next day or in a few weeks. I listen hard for what the poem is trying to be. It’s the poem’s job to tell me, not the other way around. Then I try some revision experiments accordingly. And I hone the language some more. I do this again and again. It’s typical for a poem of mine to get stuck in this draft purgatory and just sit for a long time in the sunshine amidst the total chaos of my desk. I am not a fast writer. I sometimes envy those who are, but I can’t imagine doing it any other way.
Who are some of your favorite writers?
M. Travis Lane, Kay Ryan, Wisława Szymborska, Francis Ponge. I have also recently enjoyed books of poetry by Mikko Harvey, Claire Wahmanholm, Medrie Purdham, and Susan Glickman.
What do you love about Montreal's poetry scene?
Well, I have to admit, I’m a bit allergic to word “scene”. I think it falsely suggests that poetry is both cool and unified. It’s neither, in my opinion — and that’s not a critique! Poetry is not cool. It’s serious and strange and urgent and difficult. And there are so many distinct ways to encounter it. I love this about poetry. Any given day in Montreal, you might have to choose between several poetry readings, a book launch, two spoken word events, a lecture, an archival event, an open mic, three poetry workshops, five bookstores, or just a cozy corner at home with a book by a local writer. I also really value Montreal as a multilingual literary space where translators are a vital part of poetry. And I love how poetry in this city extends beyond the boundaries of literary art. For example, I went to a clown show last year directed by the talented Krin Haglund. Until then I hadn’t realized how much clowning is an implicitly lyrical artform. Great clowning uses image, surprise, precision, and a sense of off-kilter wonder — all qualities I know and admire from poetry. Montreal is great like that — for blurring the edges between the arts.
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