Elana Wolff writes from the ancestral land of the Haudenosaunee and Huron-Wendat First Nations in Ontario, Canada. Her poems have recently appeared in The Antigonish Review, Asemana Review, Best Canadian Poetry 2024, Blood+Honey, The Nelligan Review, Rat’s Ass Review, The/tEmz/Review, and Woman Life Freedom: Poems for the Iranian Revolution. Her Kafka-quest work, Faithfully Seeking Franz, received the 2024 Canadian Jewish Literary Award in the category of Jewish Thought and Culture. Her poetry collection, Everybody Knows a Ghost, is forthcoming with Guernica Editions.
You can read Don’t We Look Marvellous in the October 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?
“Don’t We Look Marvellous” was prompted by quadruple bypass surgery that my husband underwent this past January. The diagnosis came as a surprise and the surgery was urgent. There was angst, but we were assured that this is a routine procedure that takes about four hours. It lasted over eleven hours, during which time no updates were provided. My long incommunicado stay in the waiting area gave rise to catastrophic thinking, which wasn’t much relieved by my husband’s extended post-op stay in the hospital. I drove back and forth from home twice daily to be with him, always in a state of high emotional alert. I drafted the poem to collect and distill my thoughts and feelings. The closing lines—”This selfish self, this less-than-this / clutching the wheel”—were in and out, in and out. I decided to leave them in. They express the terrible selfishness that welled up in me during the darkest moments of the ordeal.
Is there a collection of poetry that never leaves your (perhaps metaphorical) nightstand?
The poetry of Louise Glück is a mainstay, as is the poetry of Mary Szybist (I eagerly await her next collection), Anne Carson, and Mark Strand. There are many. Lately I’ve been enjoying Kenneth Sherman’s Meditation on a Tooth, Peter Taylor’s Cities Within Us, and Jason Heroux’s Like a Trophy from the Sun. Kafka is always on the nightstand; I count him among the poets.
As a poet, what does creative success or achievement look like for you?
Creative success for me means achieving a poem. Success is embodied in the gratification of making, of having what to say and arriving at saying it—inventively, adroitly, with exactitude and resonance; of attaining a measure of creative completeness. It’s an inner thing. Of course, it’s always good to have one’s work read and recognized by others—to be received and appreciated. For this we share our poems and seek publication—to reach the ‘ideal reader/s’ in the world, to connect with poetry-loving others.
How or where or with what does a poem begin?
A poem can begin in any number of ways and places. For me, a poem often arises out of misreading. I tend to see words ‘forwards’ and ‘backwards.’ I also see words within words. So inspirations are always jumping up at me, as if from a wellspring. A poem may come from a specific experience—as in the case of “Don’t We Look Marvellous”—from the need to process an event or ordeal in a way that captures it meaningfully and lyrically, beyond the realm of mere telling. A poem may begin in one place and meander to another, in the way of exploration. I write a bit like a magpie collecting shiny and curious pieces for her nest. The pieces may be disparate and eclectic, but in the end, they’re integrated into a whole and choate poem.
Are there other art forms that inspire or inform your poetry?
I create on two complementary, often alternating tracks; that is, when I’m not writing—poetry or creative nonfiction (which comes from a different brain-space)—I make visual art. Usually, the art is unrelated to my writing. Recently I was asked to submit poetry to a new magazine and initially I thought I had nothing that fit the bill. But then, in working on a paintover piece, the opening line of a poem came to me, and I automatically wrote it onto the canvas. Later, the rest of the poem emerged on paper. This was the first time I’d had the extemporaneous experience of a painting of my own prompting a poem, though I’ve written many ekphrastic poems on the work of other artists. As it turned out, I submitted the poem along with the painting that prompted it and the pair were published together. I’m open to having that kind of experience again.
Do you have a trusted first reader and how did they win the honour?
My trusted first readers are my colleagues in the longstanding writing group I belong to—the Long Dash group. I joined the group in 2002—soon after my first collection of poems, Birdheart, was published. At the time, John Oughton, Mary Lou Soutar-Hynes, and Sheila Stewart comprised the group; also Rosemary Blake, who subsequently returned to her native Australia. Later, Clara Blackwood and Merle Nudelman joined, and then Brenda Clews and Kath MacLean. We meet on a weekly basis, as schedules permit, to share our poems-in-progress. I attribute the longevity of our group to our camaraderie and mutual respect for serving the work. I also have a pen pal, Sandra Barry—an Elizabeth Bishop scholar based in Nova Scotia. Sandra and I first connected over poetry (by email) and we’ve been in touch for over ten years now, though we haven’t yet met in person. Sandra reads with care and precision. She has a delicate way of responding to my questions and uncertainties that clarifies and reassures without imposing advice.
Do you write by routine or do you wait for the poetry to visit you?
I don’t wait for poetry to visit me. Subject matter and inspirations are all around. But poems don’t spring forth fully-conceived and all-of-a-piece out of the ethers. It requires effort to bring notes, musings and inspirations to poetic fruition. I make a point of writing daily—not according to any fixed routine—but as a creative discipline. And if not writing, then reading (or painting). One can’t be a writer without being an engaged and immersive reader.