Off the Page
A blog on Canadian writing, reading, and everything in between

Dazzling Memoirs
Marjorie Simmins, author of MEMOIR: CONVERSATIONS AND CRAFTS, recommends her dream lineup of memoirs.

For Fans of Grisham, Munro, Wolitzer, Shriver, and More
Isn't it great when you find a new author or series that fits your reading taste to a tee? Here are a few new books that …

A Taster: Spring 2021 Nonfiction Preview
Life stories, family, baseball, and retreat. These highlight the nonfiction we're most looking forward to this spring.
…
ICYMI: Don't Miss These Beauties
The pandemic has wreaked havoc on our attention spans, making it possible to miss really great fiction. These books caug …

Small Courage: Parenting Memoirs
A recommended reading list by Jane Byers, whose new queer parenting memoir is out now.

The Chat with Kimiko Tobimatsu
Author Kimiko Tobimatsu and illustrator Keet Geniza have teamed up to create Kimiko Does Cancer, a timely graphic memoir …

A Record of Literary History: Best Canadian Poetry 2020
An excerpt from Marilyn Dumont's introduction to BEST CANADIAN POETRY 2020.

The Donair: Canada's Official Food?
Excerpt from BOOK OF DONAIR explores how a bitter rivalry between Halifax and Edmonton helped propel the donair to be de …

Notes From a Children's Librarian: Questions, Questions
Great picture books that engage with questions and encourage readers to think about answers.

Most Anticipated: Our 2021 Spring Fiction Preview
Exciting debuts, and new releases by Christy Ann Conlin, Pasha Malla, Eva Stachniak, Jael Richardson, and more.
Results for keyword: “mother tongue publishing”
"Love Song," by Theresa Kishkan
Theresa Kishkan weaves a gorgeous narrative out of light and time in her beautiful essay, "Love Story," which opens the newly-released non-fiction collection The Summer Book, edited by Mona Fertig. Reviewer Howard Stewart calls the The Summer Book "a masterpiece collection of finely crafted and evocative reminders of why summer is such a special season"; read this essay for a taste of just how right he is.
*****
On an early summer morning, I wake to the sound of Swainson’s thrushes. Beyond my bedroom window, beyond the house, they sing where the woods begin. And there are robins, vireos, the long whistle of a varied thrush. My curtains are rough white linen, and they filter light, the light at dawn, coming from the east, pink and golden as the sun finds its way over Mount Hallowell. My husband sleeps closest to the window, and he pulls the curtains aside to let in more song. There is honeysuckle blooming, and dog roses, trumpet vines. Hummingbirds bury themselves in the flowers. The pink throats of the tree frogs inflate, a loud vibrato close enough to touch. A face peers in the window through the lattice of vines, and it’s a weasel, as surprised to see me in a bed with pillows and a log-cabin quilt as I am to see a weasel among the dog roses. That’s what I …
Continue reading >
"Woods," from WHAT IS LONG PAST OCCURS IN FULL LIGHT
“Bowering is one of our essential poets. Despite her unflinching acknowledgement of the horrors humans visit on themselves and others, her vision is grounded in the subtle integrity of love. Her brilliant imagistic gift is always offered in service to the mystery of insight, the other invisible worlds gathered close in this one.” —Jan Zwicky
*****
Woods
Woods, you are very sly, picking those moments when you are quiet and off guard to reveal yourselves to us, folding us into your calm, accepting us to the sway, the rhythm of your space, space interwoven with the calm that rests forever in you….
—Emily Carr
Everywhere I looked, even on dark days,
sun eluded the trees and became the open palms
of skunk cabbages (Lysichiton americanus),
their yellow spathes soft and wet in the sponging air.
I turned off the road, and the caravan wheels sank
in the marsh of the track. Nobody came this way,
but once—see the apple trees and the cut marks?—
a family planned to make a home in the forest banks.
I did not know that trees come quietly,
their roots advance so slowly
I would not sense their approach
until their mouths opened high up,
within birds’ nests.
I lay down on the moss,
and listened to all they had to say—
because nothing could ever extinguish
the art of this gr …
Continue reading >
"Love Song," by Theresa Kishkan
Theresa Kishkan weaves a gorgeous narrative out of light and time in her beautiful essay, "Love Story," which opens the newly-released non-fiction collection The Summer Book, edited by Mona Fertig. Reviewer Howard Stewart calls the The Summer Book "a masterpiece collection of finely crafted and evocative reminders of why summer is such a special season"; read this essay for a taste of just how right he is.
*****
On an early summer morning, I wake to the sound of Swainson’s thrushes. Beyond my bedroom window, beyond the house, they sing where the woods begin. And there are robins, vireos, the long whistle of a varied thrush. My curtains are rough white linen, and they filter light, the light at dawn, coming from the east, pink and golden as the sun finds its way over Mount Hallowell. My husband sleeps closest to the window, and he pulls the curtains aside to let in more song. There is honeysuckle blooming, and dog roses, trumpet vines. Hummingbirds bury themselves in the flowers. The pink throats of the tree frogs inflate, a loud vibrato close enough to touch. A face peers in the window through the lattice of vines, and it’s a weasel, as surprised to see me in a bed with pillows and a log-cabin quilt as I am to see a weasel among the dog roses. That’s what I …
"Woods," from WHAT IS LONG PAST OCCURS IN FULL LIGHT
“Bowering is one of our essential poets. Despite her unflinching acknowledgement of the horrors humans visit on themselves and others, her vision is grounded in the subtle integrity of love. Her brilliant imagistic gift is always offered in service to the mystery of insight, the other invisible worlds gathered close in this one.” —Jan Zwicky
*****
Woods
Woods, you are very sly, picking those moments when you are quiet and off guard to reveal yourselves to us, folding us into your calm, accepting us to the sway, the rhythm of your space, space interwoven with the calm that rests forever in you….
—Emily Carr
Everywhere I looked, even on dark days,
sun eluded the trees and became the open palms
of skunk cabbages (Lysichiton americanus),
their yellow spathes soft and wet in the sponging air.
I turned off the road, and the caravan wheels sank
in the marsh of the track. Nobody came this way,
but once—see the apple trees and the cut marks?—
a family planned to make a home in the forest banks.
I did not know that trees come quietly,
their roots advance so slowly
I would not sense their approach
until their mouths opened high up,
within birds’ nests.
I lay down on the moss,
and listened to all they had to say—
because nothing could ever extinguish
the art of this gr …