Myna Wallin, a Toronto-born poet and prose writer, was recently published in Antigonish Review, Vallum Magazine, Quarantine Review, Sledgehammer, Miramichi Reader, League of Canadian Poets’ chapbook On the Storm/In the Struggle, and Event Magazine, among others. A poem is also forthcoming in The Literary Review of Canada. Myna has a master’s degree in English from the University of Toronto. Anatomy of An Injury, her third book, was published by Inanna Publications (2018). Wallin was longlisted for the 2022 Nick Blatchford Occasional Verse Contest. Her short fiction received an honourable mention in Esoterica Magazine’s Inaugural Fiction Contest, March 2023.
You can read her poem Tiny Monsters in the July 2023 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?
Tiny Monsters began when I had a routine blood test, where my hemoglobin levels were too low, and a search began to see what was amiss. Initially, it was thought I was anemic. Then, I had numerous blood tests, full body x-rays, and finally a bone marrow biopsy (terrifying). Months later I was diagnosed with a benign condition called MGUS, which is an early detection for abnormal changes in plasma cells. But waiting to find out what was wrong was the hardest part. While waiting I wrote a few poems about my ordeal, and this was one of them. Now I see a hematologist twice a year, and so far, (hopeful blow on the dice) so good.
Do you have a collection of poetry or even a single poem that acts as a touchstone?
Ariel by Sylvia Plath. One of my favourite poems of hers is “The Applicant.” Anything by Sylvia Plath. Also, Emily Dickinson’s Because I could not stop for Death.
How or where or with what does a poem begin?
There’s a wonderful film about a child poet called The Kindergarten Teacher, starring Maggie Gyllenhaal, and in it, the student calls out “poem!” whenever he becomes inspired. Then Maggie as the teacher transcribes his poem because he cannot write! I sometimes feel that way myself, when a line wafts into my head and has me scrambling for a piece of paper. Sometimes it’s a dream I have, where the imagery just serves itself up, as a fully realized poem—though that is the exception to the rule.
Have you ever received advice (or has there been something you’ve learned on your own) about writing or revising poems that has made you a better poet? What was it?
I recently got superb advice from poet, Julie Bruck. The Writers’ Union (of which I am a member) offered Mentorship Microgrants at the end of 2022, and they accepted my proposal to have a poetry mentor (of my choice) look over my current manuscript and offer suggestions. Julie gave incisive feedback, and we had a long Zoom call where we discussed my manuscript and poetry in general. One piece of advice I felt was particularly salient: “My main suggestion for you to consider has to do with what I felt was the divide between poems that felt a bit like reports on events, and those that were pure events in themselves.” It was eye-opening. Bruck’s award-winning poetry, How to Avoid Huge Ships and Monkey Ranch (among others), are published by Brick Books.
Do you belong to a writer’s group? If not, where do you find poetry community and feedback?
Yes! I’ve been part of a writing group, on and off, since 1998. It gives me extra incentive to write a poem by the deadline that we are meeting, and the feedback is always insightful. I would say that I am a better writer because of the writer’s group I belong to. The other poets have become some of my closest friends, and I draw inspiration from their work, too.
In terms of poetic style or craft, is there a big question you are trying to find an answer for?
It seems to me that I can’t ever finish writing about death. Probably because my parents died when I was quite young, I keep going over those old memories I have of them, trying to keep them alive in some fashion, and trying to make sense of the loss. But the further away I get from the memories, the more desperately I hang onto them—my own personal mythology, I suppose.