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The turnout to hear Nicole Brossard read her poetry was, to say the least, entirely impressive last Thursday at the New Writing Series poetry reading.
Usually, the seating at Soderberg Auditorium is adequate enough, spacious to accommodate the usual group and then some.
With word of Brossard’s visit, however, the fans crawled out of their corners and several rows of extra chairs to be carried into the auditorium.
It was homey.
At 4:30 p.m., those in their places – whether in theater seats or folding chairs – awaited the world-respected Canadian poet, essayist, novelist, filmmaker, anthologist, traveler and theorist.
As all her titles would suggest, her work challenges the distinctions between genres.
“[To describe my writings] I would use the term ‘Fiction Theory/Reality.” “[A reader] doesn’t know [when reading my work] if she is in fiction or poetry,” Brossard said. But I still make the distinction between poetry and fiction. Poetry is about the present tense, but with fiction it’s a process about time. In poetry you are in direct relation to the world, but through fiction you are in reality through characters.”
Steve Evans, University of Maine English professor, introduced Brossard at length, respectfully detailing her credentials in the literary world.
Today, Brossard actively sits at the core of Quebec feminist and post-modernist writing. Co-founding and editing the journals La Barre du Jour (1965-75) and Les Tetes de Pioche (1976-79), she also has published six volumes of prose and 11 books of poetry. Among her works translated into English include “The Aerial Letter” (Women’s Press, Toronto, 1988), “Picture Theory” (Roof Books, New York, 1990), “Lovhers” (Geurnica Press, Montreal, 1986) and “Mauve Desert” (Coach House Press, Toronto, 1990).
For “Mecanique Jongleuse” (1974) and “Double Impression” (1984) she twice won the Governor General’s Award for her poetry in French. In 1989 and then 10 years later in 1999, she won le Grand Prix de la Po�sie de la Fondation Les Forges. Le Prix Athanase David, an award given for a lifetime of literary achievement, was given to her in 1991. That same year, she received The Harbourfront Festival Prize. And in 1994, she was made a member of L’Acad�mie des Lettres du Quebec.
“Gathered by the hush, I take it we’re ready to start,” Evans said.
Standing at the podium, she smiled widely and began to read out of “Mauve Desert.” With a prominent French accent, she called upon her words carefully yet naturally, using fluctuations in her voice and hand motions to further dramatize her reading.
“It’s harder to write in English,” Brossard said,.”Because what I don’t know is the background thinking of a word I will use, but I like the experience. It’s very interesting to be in my situation. It gives you wings in a certain way -until you fall down.”
Her poetry is the telling of a story.
Her story; our story.
Characters with names; images with realities.
“Her apron was yellow with little flowers,” Brossard narrated from the “Mauve Desert.” “I had never seen her wear a dress; so many times I have sunk into the future; humanity is fragile.”
“Writing happens in the body, in the rhythm of the language. I like to be surprised by a book I have written. Something happens [from the time you stop writing and go back to it]. Who you are is in the rhythm. [After you finish] something is different in you and you will see it when the writing is over,” Brossard later added.
For two of the poems that were read during the hour, Brossard co-read them with two different UMaine professors: Jennifer Moxley and Sylvester Pollett, who read in English while she read in French. This procedure seemed an easy fix for a problem that finds her stuck so often.
“Sometimes I get mad at my translators.” Brossard said. “[I say], ‘Why can’t you say this in English? It sounds so beautiful in French”
Clever and clear, her poetry is a found beauty in a rarely mastered medium.
“Reality always exists elsewhere; [In my work there is a] fluidity that moves throughout it. Borders relax and move,” Brossard said. “I relax always on the slow side of a poem.”
Bangor Daily News