Claire is an artist and writer based in Yuułuʔiłʔatḥ Territory (Ucluelet). Her history working in the backcountry sparked an ecofeminist attention, which guides her as she explores connection to place through narrative poetics and still life (35mm). Claire was the recipient of Arc’s “Award of Awesomeness” in July 2024 and her work was nominated for the CBC Poetry Prize (2024).
You can read Broderick, Saskatchewan in the January 2025 issue.
Would you like to tell us a little bit more about your poem? For instance, how or why you wrote it, or perhaps provide some extra context?
My maternal ancestors, Marie and John, settled in the (so-called Canadian) Prairies. Marie was from the Sudetenland (also known as Czechoslovakia, present day Czech Republic and Slovakia) and John came from Poland. “Broderick, Saskatchewan” reaches into my ancestral memory to connect with them. This poem is especially interested in the collective support during labour and childbirth. It wants to understand beginnings (my own) and whether the baby survived.
Why was the poetic form the best fit for this particular piece of work?
The form is called a haibun (a Japanese tradition that combines prose and haiku) and is inspired by Fred Wah’s long poem “This Dendrite Map: Father / Mother Haibun.” I wrote it in a long form poetry class with Sonnet L’Abbé.
The haibun mixes forms in a way that reminds me of lineage welding through childbirth. I wanted to explore the particulars of the way my mom recounted her history to me via email, but not through the epistolary. Haibun felt freeing in that it allowed a mashup of biography, narrative, and diary; alongside a distorted, dream-like haiku that visually depicts something akin to the children’s game of telephone. It speaks to messages and events that get reshaped as they funnel generationally through time.
Is there a collection of poetry or even a single poem that acts as a touchstone for you?
I’m not sure if it’s necessarily a touchstone poem for me, but one that I read often is “Munich, Winter 1973 (for Y.S.)” by James Baldwin.
If you didn’t write poetry, how do you think you might access the same fulfillments that poetry offers in your life?
Writing poetry offers me access to a practice of curiosity and commitment (to improving craft), as well as a reverence for the psychic and anatomical senses that connect me with the world around (and beyond) me. Transcribing these observations is alchemical. I also access a similar kind of fulfillment through meditation and in(tro)spection.
How do you revise your work?
Read aloud, then let the poem settle. Read aloud to others. Reorganize. I know my poem is finished when it evokes the same feeling in my body that sparked the initial idea/thread of the poem, which is both abstract and very specific and can only be described through the final piece itself. I like to revisit the places (both physical and speculative) of the poem’s conception to help me linger in that feeling. Going into nature and moving my body always brings freshness and is a somatic sift through mental blocks.
Are there other art forms that inspire or inform your poetry?
Film photography, for sure. I love playing around with double exposures and opening the camera body to let in light leaks, which when developed juxtaposes intentionality and chaos. Like poetry, taking photos requires an attention to detail – choosing the exact moment to press the shutter down and capture the image in the frame.
Not surprisingly, reading is a huge inspiration. Right now, I’m reading Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation by Silvia Federici. I make a lot of found poetry in my day planner using scrap materials from daily life. It’s a satisfying way to track time.