(parenthetical) issue one may two thousand and fourteen
(parenthetical) issue #1 Š 2014
all copyrights remain with respective contributors
www.wordsonpagespress.com
words(on)pages is:
william kemp, co-founder and poetry editor nicole brewer, co-founder and fiction editor michael brewer, director of business operations
(parenthetical) issue one — contents
Note from the editors sleevelike and quiet poem by philip gordon breaking laws (before breaking hearts) poem by Lian Sing TO A GOOD HOME. poem by Ruth Zuchter The Modern Prometheus poem by Caroline Cherry My Name is Brown poem by Ramna Safeer I Am an Endo Warrior non fiction by Sarah Al-Hage Meat poem and painting by Sarah Al-Hage Birdhouse poem by Adrian Dziewanski In Between (In Latine: Crescere) poem by Amanda Childs A Lie That Tells the Truth poem by Tegan Watson Grave News poem by Andrea Chan Reviews— Air Carnation by Guadalupe Muro reviewed by Nicole Brewer Everyone is CO2 by David James Brock reviewed by William Kemp
Another goddamn literary magazine. (But wait, we’re different!) We are words(on)pages. We are The Rockers of Canadian literature, in which we’re Shawn Michaels and Canadian literature is Marty Jannetty. So get ready to be put through a barbershop window, Canadian literature. We are writers, we are editors, we are readers. We are tired of the cliquishness of the literary community, we are tired of unpaid internships, we are tired of baby boomers not retiring. And to change all of that—well, we started another goddamn micro-press, literary magazine, and reading series: changing the small press scene one emerging artist at a time. We are an organization created by emerging writers for emerging writers. And this little personally designed, hand-bound zine is proof to our contributors that their years of late nights and awful jobs and first drafts and rewrites are worth it. This zine is more than just tangible proof that their shit’s pretty rad. It’s our way of getting off of our asses and making sure the voices we think deserve attention get attention. On a bi-monthly basis, (parenthetical) will feature mainly Canadian contributors, and any non-fiction will be grounded in CanLit, since our goal is to create a community of emerging Canadian writers and publishers that will serve as a catalyst for inter-press conversation about how to take advantage of our constantly changing circumstances. We all know that in publishing and bookselling, we are the David to a multi-headed Goliath of a few select publishing houses and book retailers. And it may seem like they have us trapped underfoot, but we hope that this zine, and by extension this organization, can help to incite a change in the small press community. We want to show that small presses and emerging artists don’t just have to survive in CanLit—they can thrive. Sincerely, Nicole & William #smallpressrevolution
sleevelike and quiet philip gordon
into the utter somewhere of you i (knowingly) extend my hand and (soulful) fingers clench certainly the breathtake of infinite wherever. onto unspooled hours i sit like the moon your skin i (hopefully, hope-filled) bathe in refraction, and the pluck of your lungs and (sunlight) lips i drown in my own darkness. together, yesterday becomes two bodies, hills that sway (sweetly) in often flowers, in (indescribable) flowers; (in) resoundingly (flowers). to you, i dedicate the world, and play it (lowly) like the violin tomorrow; one note, birthed from an (unnameable) everywhere; resonance i shall call by your name.
breaking laws (before breaking hearts) lian sing i.
breaking laws
I listened to songs about time devices, and sang songs about sands pouring out of an hourglass— this is our anthem, the angry, passionate, and barely coherent string of characters accompanied by piercing shouts that reverberate with emotions that blend into each other and into ash. I’ve had a love affair with poetry since I learned how to hold a pen, and you’ve always been dancing with philosophy. I hang phrases about the moon on top of my bed so I can pretend to watch the sky when celestial bodies align and fall in love, although when you lie next to me I don’t have to stretch too far to reach another galaxy. I always told you about how there is something cosmic about the way everything exists with us. Something about kismet, something about parallel universes, something about how star dusts fall from our mouths as we whisper It’s going to be okay
into each other’s collar bones. And you, you are poetry, with the perfect stutters in between your bones, the metaphors of your body, the graceful flow of life and wonder at the way you pick out dresses for parties. And there is nothing philosophical about my existence, except, perhaps, the strings of love that stretch from my fingers to the first doorknob I found locked. You’ve been playing a song on them that would’ve made musicians weep, a song that would’ve made dancers reach for the extremities of the universe. It doesn’t sound like a lullaby, but the melody reminds me of calm, December nights, pressed against your body I love like the ocean. ii. deadlines I asked you: hold my ember hands, wait for the fireworks— this is our spectacle— kiss my winter mouth, dive into the leaves of my autumn eyes— this is the climax— tie a ribbon around our tree, recite me a spectrum of speeches— this is summer, and it is no longer ours.
iii.
breaking hearts
I can see someone screaming but no sound fills the room. A china vase shatters and history forgets the pieces. Forgets the way my hands bled as I bent down and tried to fix it. Forgets the empty space, and fills it with new matter that someday will be forgotten along with me and you. Write about me, darling. Write about the Christmas lights we hung together. The cigarette butts we stepped on as we took our last walk. Write about that walk, darling. Remember that walk. I am, can you hear? The rapid drumming of my fingers on the keys, trying to recreate the route we took on that evening. Just recreate, mind you. There is no way I can resurrect that particular formation of the earth, the moon, the sun, the specific point in which fate placed us like chess pieces. I can only march,
towards what I am yet to find in the bushes, but I am certain that that walk was when we started to unthread. Remember me, darling. Remember me— Sounds like something the dying would say. Sounds like I have to arrange a funeral. I am dressed in black, chrysanthemums in my hands, but there is no mausoleum to visit. I have dug up a grave, prepared a headstone, but there is no name. Doesn’t mean if there isn’t a body there is a lack of tragedy. I still mourn. I had to make up worlds with my hands. I had to forge cities with my mouth. I had to constantly break the monotony of your absence, the silence deafening with the reminder that this is no longer ours.
TO A GOOD HOME. Ruth Zuchter
FOR ADOPTION. ONE-EYED CAT. HAS ALL SHOTS. What if you and I could give each other up as easily as this? Protected against HEP and H1N1 and illnesses that turn our insides to mushy overcooked marrow, we wouldn’t be a threat anymore to anyone except to ourselves. And of course, there’s always potential for aneurisms of the heart or lung or mind, to burst out of our known confines. Blindered, we’d accommodate myopic visions of each other, making the meaning of ‘To a good home’ relative, relatively.
The Modern Prometheus Caroline Cherry
Olympus’s slopes were never so high nor its walls so unimpeachable as the ground floor concierge, undercover parking, elevator key cards and glass and metal balcony of this fifteenth floor apartment. The city lights were fires stolen from the gods and unhindered by the rain. They were wet and winking through the night when there were drinks in a bar not too far from here. The eagle of Zeus tore at Prometheus’s liver every day from the ages of eighteen to twenty-seven, from the hour of approximately eight p.m. until—
My Name is Brown Ramna Safeer
one day, some towers fell and the world rocked on its heels and grew blisters between its toes. yesterday, my grandmother called and with a voice thick like anesthesia and shaky like war, she told us the drones fly over Pakistan when the skies are bluest. with bullet-shaped silence on my end, she tells me that blue skies mean different things in different nations. one day, some towers fell. it is a dozen years later, a thousand suns and moons and caskets made to fit infant bodies, and my sister watches a commercial for skin lightening cream. i will wake in the middle of the blackest night to the sound of her warm feet against bathroom tile. i will listen to her gasping breath as she washes her face with the cold side of the tap over and over and over again. i will listen to her sigh as she realizes for the fifth night in a row that this brown does not wash off, does not spill into the drain, does not peel itself into a whiter, safer life.
one day, some towers fell. one day, i came to Canada on a plane with peppermint candies and foldable tables and my henna coloured hand clutched in my mother’s. one day, i came home from a new school with my native tongue carved out from under me, with a tougher, harder language in its place, with a language that never bathed me on a Lahore roof, never sold ginger chai on the street corner, never drove rickshaws like there were dreams tied to the bumper. a language that only side-eyed me when i climbed on the school bus, only coloured my brown cheekbones pink and the space between my white tights yellow when i did not know how to ask for the bathroom, a language that only called me a “terrorist”, only named my brown baby skin “exotic but not enough”, only faulted my father’s hands for those towers when the only words bookmarked in my English dictionary were “home” and “blame”.
My name is Sarah and I am an Endo Warrior.
Endo is short for endometriosis: a chronic pain condition that affects 1 in 10 women and some men. 176 million women worldwide—that’s more than breast cancer, prostate cancer, diabetes 1 and 2, and AIDS combined, and yet you probably haven’t heard of it unless you know someone in your family that was lucky enough to get diagnosed. It is difficult to diagnose endometriosis because of misdiagnosis or lack of awareness all together. Warriors often spend their whole lives thinking their pain is normal, and all too often I hear people say that doctors tell them to take an Advil and to try and stop complaining about their “cramps.” The only way to accurately diagnose endo is through laparoscopic surgery, and sometimes without knowing what to look for, an unknowledgeable surgeon might go in and not even find it. Endometriosis is caused by lesions made out of the endometrium lining inside the uterus, which most commonly grow on the surface of organs in the pelvic area, but can grow anywhere in the body. These lesions cause pain, internal scarring, formation of adhesions, infertility, and countless other medical complications. Everyone experiences different levels of pain, but for me my pain can cripple me, causing me to be bedridden. Finding and maintaining a job is very difficult, and intimacy is a big scary question
mark because that’s when the pain strikes at its worst. After coming out of a mentally and sexually abusive relationship, my path to mental health has become a priority. I try to focus on what makes me an individual, because I believe that makes me a stronger person. If I feel like I need other people, I question what’s lacking in me, and I work on that. I also spend a lot of time doing things that make me happy, which often revolve around urbanism and all kinds of art—fine arts, street art, performing art, and attending art events to support the community around me. The art community in Toronto is endless and I let it take me away and inspire me. The most amazing thing I’ve experienced so far is feeling horrible pain for days, and then going to an art show or visiting a friend painting a mural, and realizing my pain is gone. Surrounding myself with positive energy truly does help me. Even if my pain is still there, I am fuelled with strength to push forward. That’s why my recent body of work revolves around endometriosis—the weaknesses and strengths that it brings, and the experiences—the bad and the good. I portray figures that think they are weak as beautiful and strong. The painting featured in this article speaks to sexual abuse while dealing with a chronic pain disorder, and the poem “Meat” illustrates it with words. The woman is in a bad situation and she is terrified, wondering how she will ever make it out. I put a lot of my own pain from my experience into each stroke of this painting. I hope that victims of sexual abuse and chronic pain can look at this painting and release their fear into her so that they can find the strength in them to move forward like I am. Out of guilt, I’ve spent a lot of time asking myself, “Why me, why is this happening to me?” But eventually I realized that everyone in life has their shit, and this is just mine. I am proud to say that I am an Endo Warrior, and I stand strong alongside the community of Endo Warriors worldwide. The support I get from them cannot be compared to any support that I get anywhere else, because simply being in the same room as them without saying a single word gives me a cleansing sensation—they just know. And understanding what I go through is the greatest healing gift of all. If you suspect that you or a loved one might have endometriosis, please visit http://endometriosisnetwork.com/ to find free information and guidance.
Meat
Sarah Al-Hage After he is done with me I am alone Alone with myself and my injury Can’t you see That in order to make you happy I need to stick a shovel in my gut And carve out my center until I am done Sometimes, before he is done with me I get a head start on my emptying So that when everything is done Life feels so incredibly difficult That I can lie there like a pile of scraps Confirming again and again that I – am – useless I am not like the other girls And because of that I need to work extra hard Gamble with what my body can handle Always two steps behind Trying to catch up in this battle To the girl I was supposed to be I am sorry To be so melancholy I am sorry For just being me I apologize That I cannot seem to organize The pieces of meat inside me On time for your scheduled activity Of reminding me that I am not worthy
That I could never have a voice Because those tiny little lesions are so conveniently tucked away And if they are invisible to the world, well I don’t have any other choice But to be quiet Keep digging myself down, and in Until I am empty enough to be perfect for him.
---
“Meat” | Sarah Al-Hage
Birdhouse
Adrian Dziewanski her and I
sliding
new brighton park
knowing not knowing
on a snowy night
spotting
new birdhouses by the train yard post-natural this slipping past
made-to-look-it water lilies
creek
snug between ice and snow
and new birdhouses by the train yard eyeing the arc of
boulders
fit and thrown from hands
how many good lilies had to fall beneath
new birdhouses by the train yard this night after all
voids the beaten path
whites out with glares
cut across the tract
and looking up at new birdhouses by the train yard tiny mounds the frozen mulch
soft on fence links
digging
if only a warbler come to her new house by the trainyard
stirring without a moon
In Between (In Latine: Crescere) Amanda Childs
Orion sees me walking and he the hunter laughs. Why walk when you can crouch or run, compello, cucurri, casum through the woods? And Cassie the Queen laughs, too. At him, the searcher. Why run when you can laze, she the lounger lady, with doors of mirrors. Cassie sees Cassie, Cassie videt se, sese. Orion and Cassie don’t get along so well, so much. You’re full of id, it said. The err of wandering and walking You’re a shot deer, it said. A lumpy pillow, it said. And I saw them watching and they say me, One foot after another through Hera’s milk pleasing neither one or the other.
A Lie That Tells the Truth Tegan Watson
please don’t write me as a ghost girl, all blurry lines and faded features that caricature themselves into the minds of those that think they see me— i am not a canvas. my life is not a blank sheet for you to paint your vision across, and i have no wires in my bones— you cannot pose me so i’ll catch the light just so, like a kaleidoscope of clever quirks and tragic backstories; i am written in the words i discard when i write bad poetry at 3am, and if you look, you can find me echoed back to you in my all time top five favorite movies. i am the way my hands hurt when i get nervous; i am the urge to speak italian, even though after a year of classes, i can barely say hello; i am the calmness that hits when i smell cigarettes, even though i’ve never smoked, and i am the grudges that have lingered because i forget to let things go, and i am the passive-aggressive comments that i should be sorry for, but never really am.
if you want, you can trace your pen along the creases of my skin, the slouch of my spine; you can read my past in old photo albums and taste my lips at midnight and listen to the stories that i whisper in the dark but when the sun hits us in the morning, neither of us will light up the room in a cacophony of kaleidoscopic beauty; we will be piles of bone and sinew and sighs, with morning breath and books to finish and work to do. we are not ghost people. kiss me anyway, and smile when i say hello.
Grave News Andrea Chan
You wear your face like a tomb names and dates carved into worry lines; I lay flowers on your lips. They wilt when you don’t speak for days, decomposing on your tongue and you swallow them. The seeds in your belly crack, steeped in acid—lining your stomach with curling tendrils. They wind their way through the notches in your trachea, double helix of python and prey. It’s sunny out when you finally break, the tunnel collapses you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe.
reviews
Air Carnation by Guadalupe Muro reviewed by Nicole Brewer BookThug | April 2014 | 192 pages | $23.00
I have come to realize that most of my favourite books and poems are those that occupy the space in between what we call style or genre—narrative poems, fragmented stories, non-fiction called fiction just so some of the details can be blurred, and so on. I am in love with stories and in love with writers who know stories are impossible to tell in a straight line. Guadalupe Muro’s Air Carnation is a beautiful representation of how scattered, unpredictable, hurtful, and hopeful life can be, and her chosen narrative structure—vignettes never longer than four or five pages, assembled in loosely related sections and subsections—perfectly suits the impulsive nature of the storyteller. “Leaving and returning are the only actions I have managed to do consistently,” she writes
early in the novel—a flightiness that we as readers should be endlessly thankful for, as it has yielded this inescapably honest, captivating, inspiring novel from a writer I can only hope we see more of. Here is where I would normally offer a bland-but-necessary plot summary, which many readers will skip over but which every reviewer agrees is an integral part of a useful review. But Air Carnation’s plot escapes me. Muro just doesn’t need one. It is a story about a woman who leaves her small town because writers need to leaves small towns, who returns to it because nostalgia is as important as progress; it is a story about how we lose ourselves in other people and how that is not always a bad thing; it is a story about how stories don’t happen in the order we’d like to tell them in. I suppose it’s about a woman born in a small town in Argentina who leaves to attend university in Buenos Aires, who occasionally visits Canada and the States, and who happily lets herself be momentarily anchored by lovers across the continent, but often not for long. One of these lovers deserves special thanks from us, the reader: the one called Adam in the book, probably fictionalized, but based on Muro’s own real experience. They met in New York—he was an artist, she a writer, and they did their best to share their crafts. Of course, she could appreciate the beauty of his art, but her Spanish poetry always got lost in translation. When, eventually, she returned to Buenos Aires, she began a letter to him. She wanted to write him a letter in English so that nothing would get lost. Eventually, that letter became Air Carnation, this beautiful collection of literary polaroids, a I want my imagination to produce book that Muro didn’t translate from something brand new…. To wear Spanish, but wrote in English at the the third person like a pair of same time as she learned the language. seven-league boots that with each
great stride takes me further and
Françoise Mouly once said that further away from myself. learning small talk is the hardest part of learning a new language, because it’s using words to say nothing. I love listening to people who have learned all the bits of a new language but haven’t yet learned how to use words to say nothing, haven’t quite learned connotations as intimately as a native speaker. So they stick to simpler words, and they turn simple words into complex thoughts by using other simple words. Muro’s prose is unlikely to send anyone to a dictionary, but is no less
evocative for it—in every sentence, you can hear the deep sigh or held breath or quiet laugh that accompanied the pen or keyboard that transcribed it. You can tell that she embodies her art, and that although she writes introspectively, she wants her readers to feel intimately connected to her stories and characters. Guadalupe Muro, it seems, is a woman who craves, cherishes, and creates intimacy. Not sexual intimacy, necessarily, but any honest intimacy between strangers or lovers or family or friends that she can find. I had the pleasure of meeting her and seeing her read at BookThug’s Spring launch in April, and I can confidently say I’ve never met a less pretentious person. Listening to her read was like having someone gently break my sternum open and show me what a heartbeat feels like. Even from behind a microphone on a large, raised stage, she made the room feel tiny, made me feel like she was reading just for my benefit. In fact, her narrator describes the experience best in Air Carnation: I look people fiercely in the eye. Before I start to read, I take time to look at them in silence, as if considering the weather. Sailing away from the coast is a violent action. I’m heading against the waves, and this requires determination. When I stop hearing the swish of clothes and the groan of springs sagging under the weight of bodies seated in the chairs, that means I have reached open sea. When people like what they are hearing, they drop their guard and let themselves go. Their bodies begin to lean forward, their heads are up, facing me openly, making the shape of a wave attracted by the magnetism of the words. The poem becomes a moon that gently rocks them. There are many reasons for you to read this book: because you want to learn something about yourself, because you want to read a compelling story, because you want to witness language dancing, because you want to support a small press or a young author, because you want to write something that makes people sigh someday. Pick whatever reason suits you best, but don’t let this book pass you by. You will most certainly learn something by the time you finish it, and we can always stand to learn a little more. I wrote this review while listening to the soundtrack Lupe, her brother Julian, and her friend Anna composed for the movie that doesn’t exist yet: Songs for Runaway Girls. It’s amazing, and you can find it at songsforrunawaygirls.com.
Everyone is CO2 by David James Brock reviewed by William Kemp
Buckrider Books (Wolsak and Wynn) | April 2014 | 65 pages | $18.00
Let’s get this out of the way right now: I may have a slight bias towards David James Brock, not only because he is a cutie-patootie smooth-talking playwright/dude who offered to hang out and grab a drink at the launch for his book, but because he is one of the few people in the world that realizes that Blind Melon is one of the greatest rock bands of all time. Seriously, go listen to Blind Melon’s self-titled album and tell me with a straight face that Shannon Hoon doesn’t have the voice of a Goddamned angel. I’ll wait. You done? Good. Blind Melon is awesome. And so is David James Brock’s Everyone is CO2. Like that smooth segue? Everyone is CO2 is the debut collection from David James Brock, published by Wolsak and Wynn’s new imprint Buckrider Books. Paul Vermeersch and
the rest of Wolsak and Wynn could have rested on their CanLit laurels and “played it safe,” so to speak, with Buckrider Books. They could have published work by already established authors and poets to launch their new imprint, but they didn’t. In its debut season, Wolsak and Wynn’s imprint has published three debut books, and that in and of itself is commendable. That risk, though, doesn’t mean much beyond an “Oh, that’s interesting” and a sympathetic head nod if the books are, as we say in reviewing circles, shitty. In the case of Brock’s debut, at least, the risk has paid off—Everyone is CO2 is, simply put, a great debut. Having met Brock, I can confirm that beyond being a cutie-patootie, he is a young white guy. There is not much that a young white guy can say that hasn’t been said by many a young white guy. Brock may not say much “new” in poetry, but the way he says what he says is unapologetically, undeniably unique. Brock does not fall back upon the sometimes-crutch of innovation for innovation’s sake—a sometimes-default “white guy” voice in poetry. That is not to say that poetry has to be an either/or thing: formal innovation or having a unique voice, whiteness lacking a voice, or any of that a-bit-too-heavy-for-a-review stuff. The point is: it’s nice to see that Brock is confident enough in his own poetic voice, and it’s unique and strong enough to carry the book. Seldom have I read, in recent memory, a collection of poetry that is so willing to have fun. Sometimes—read: very often—poetry can be a bit too navel-gazey, a bit too self-serious, a bit too lost-in-itself because poetry is very fucking serious. That is not to say that Brock’s collection is completely devoid of technique or poetic merit, as if “fun” and “sophistication” are mutually exclusive. In fact, quite the opposite. Brock’s poetic voice is a much-appreciated, much-welcomed one that is, for the most part, conversational in tone, but still steeped in technique and skill. His ass warmth still clings to the sand, and a trace of his yellow army cotton lingers on a tree root. Punchiness is a weird word to describe Brock’s approach to imagery, but it is also the best way to describe Brock’s approach to imagery. Often, he does not dwell, but finds the perfect way to present the reader with a concise, dynamic image.
There is a practically tangible immediacy and impact to Brock’s imagery. For a moment, the image seems abstracted, but then it just clicks, and you see the image that Brock is conjuring for you. Ask Charley why he limps, and he describes a shed like a Guthrie song, rusted sickles, sunsets findin’ knotholes prit’ near blindin’ a sumbitch. Brock drags the reader along on a mash-up bender of small-town-Ontario and this-is-meness. And the reader can really see this in the poems “Sons of the Pioneers,” “Family Feud,” “Dude and Dude’s Dog,” and “Asshole, Werewolf, Hangover.” Even the titles of Brock’s poems—“‘Waterfalls’ by TLC is a Better Song than ‘High and Dry’ by Radiohead,” “I Lied About Being the Outdoor Type,” “#4Eva,” and so on—are quirky and reek of Brock’s unique voice. Brock revels in the word “fuck” and all of its lesser curse word cousins—he plays with the musicality of it; his celebration of a language simultaneously familiar to us as Canadians and foreign to Canadian poetry is just fun to read. He shows the reader, without a hint of irony, the strange, quirky beauty in a language often thought of as less refined—and by extension, less beautiful. And it’s hard to explain, really, but Brock’s use of the “I” never feels alienating because he is so upfront and honest about it. Brock’s voice is not wholly unique, but it is a much-appreciated, fun, infectious refrain from the formulaic CanLit “poetic voice.” And then, just to fuck with you, he presents you that sophistication and skill within forms with poems like “Gilgamesh: A Libretto” or his tribute to the late Adam Yauch. Brock’s ability shines through at all times and he presents the reader with a fascinating, multi-faceted, fun approach to his wide-ranging subject matter. David James Brock’s Everyone is CO2 is a fun book of poetry to read. That in and of itself is a feat, and you ought to read it for that reason alone.
The world needs this idea, my idea, an idea so calculus-telephone-DNA good, that you have invented yourself as Newton-Bell-Watson-&-Crick great. I am now the lunatic with blueprints, sure shot turned crank shouting in tongues. On subsequent readings, you start to discover Brock’s talent, you appreciate his approach to language more and more, and you feel as though you’re in conversation with him. It’s a great debut from a great poet. Read it.
contributors Sarah Al-Hage is an urbanist by trade and artist by way of life. At 24 she has accumulated a life-long portfolio of paintings and drawings, and has recently taken up street art and spoken word poetry in order to explore new venues of art. She partially draws inspiration from her experiences suffering with endometriosis, a chronic pain disorder, and hopes to empower others struggling with immediate and secondary repercussions of chronic pain disorders. Andrea Chan hails from Malaysia, and is a sophomore studying English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Iowa. Her work can be seen in Fractal Mag and Craft & Draft. She is currently a writer on Oscar Moreau’s maiden project, Rep N Red. You can find more of her poetry on her blog at andreawrites.tumblr.com Caroline Cherry is a writer, photographer and model from New South Wales, Australia. She likes trying her hand at anything creative, be that channelling her inner steampunk, lying in the dirt to get the perfect angle, or pouring her soul out into the keyboard. Though she has been published as a model, (parenthetical) is her first publication as a poet. You can find her varied creative work on Facebook: CarolineRoliCherry. Amanda Childs is a Toronto based poet currently studying English at York University. As an avid bibliophile, she attempts to blend Classicism with Modernism—integrating her own, innocently-candid, experiential style. Many thanks to the words(on)pages team for this opportunity, as well as to her friends and family. Adrian Dziewanski is a poet and blogger who advocates for DIY culture and a need for an artistic outlet in one’s life. Dziewanski has a recent haiku publication in Roadrunner (R’r), a forthcoming publication for Sterling, and is the author of two self-published books of poetry: hellodrama (2013) and Epoch of Humility (2012). He lives and writes in Vancouver, BC.
philip gordon is a creative writing student from Vancouver Island, recipient of the 2014 Kevin Roberts Poetry Award, and an editor of the literary magazines Ash Tree Journal and Text (launching in September, 2014). His work has been published in Wax Poetry and Art Magazine, Potluckmag, Chrysanthemum, Portal, Passion Poetry, The YOLO Pages, and a few other places. philip is a romantic dork, lover of shades, and proponent of the Oxford Comma. He can be stalked at twitter.com/greymusic_ and grey-music.tumblr.com. Ramna Safeer is a girl who lets poetry be loud for her. She has been writing for most of her life, inspired by her parents’ love for traditional Urdu poetry. She is an avid tea-drinker, shoe-wearer, and book-buyer. Some of her favorite things include mangoes, August, red lipstick, and feminism. Her work has been published and featured in several other publications, including Atwood Mag, Bande a Part Zine, Unrooted Mag, and Flume. Lian Sing is a seventeen-year-old girl born and raised in Manila. She has a penchant for jazz, movie soundtracks, and anything New York City. She has been writing poetry since her father gave her a Robert Louis Stevenson book when she was six. She is older and younger than she seems to be. She’s only been published in school papers and a writing workshop anthology, so she’s pretty excited about this whole thing. Tegan Watson is twenty years old and studies film and creative writing at a tiny, haunted college in New York. She is in love with fairytales and folklore and anything ghostly. Prior to this, she has been published in The Missing Slate. More of her work can be found at aprilwednesday.wordpress.com. Ruth Zuchter is a digital media executive turned intrepid copywriter and editor (with several steps in between), described by best friends as “multifaceted” and lesser friends as “complicated.” Ruth nurtures a deep-seated love for the (mis)uses of language and lyricism, most recently through working with members of University of Toronto’s Influency Salon (www.influencysalon.ca), BookThug (www.bookthug.ca), the Toronto New School of Writing (www.tnsow.com), and interning with Random House of Canada. In her free time, you can find Ruth plucking away on two novels, participating in poetry reading and writing groups in Toronto, or romping with her husband and her wonderdog, Milo. Follow her on Twitter (@theruthyz).
colophon
This publication—issue one of the literary magazine (parenthetical)—was published by words(on)pages in the month of May in the year two thousand and fourteen. It was designed, printed and bound in Toronto, Ontario by words(on)pages co-founders William Kemp and Nicole Brewer, who used Adobe InDesign for layout, and was typeset and designed using Adobe Garamond Pro, Kingthings Typewriter 2, and FFF Tusj. It was bound by hand, with paper, thread, needle, and patience. This inaugural issue of (parenthetical) could not have been printed without the support of Michael Brewer, words(on)pages Director of Business Operations.