Marion Agnew

For  several months, I've been keeping track of five things  I'd like to remember from that month. Here's what came up in July.  I haven’t always enjoyed dental visits—often I need more work done, no matter how diligently I brush and floss, regardless of regular cleanings, thanks to insurance—but I do love the feeling of having freshly-cleaned teeth. It’s nice, like when the sweater stack is aligned. new perspective on beloved country --from the boat I may have expressed surprise in a previous month at enjoying legumes and oat-based cereals, while expressing gratitude that they have helped lower my cholesterol levels. However, there’s another reason that enjoy experimenting with legumes: it’s the experimentation part. I’m using them in cold salads this summer with fresh vegetables, different vinegars, and different spice blends. I anticipate combining them with roasted vegetables in various ways, autumn. It’s just unexpected fun. late asters (?), with bee Wild blueberry ...

June included a trip to see family, which doesn't count for these five things. I doubt I forget that visit any time soon--it was lovely to spend time together.  So below is this month's list of five things from the month that are memorable to me. (This practice, which I started only in January, has been very interesting. I make notes all month and sometimes I return to the document and think, "that was only last week?" But maybe that's just how all of 2025 is gonna be.) One. White wine vinegar. It’s perfect for dressing greens in the summer. Balsamic is great too but sometimes you need a lighter option. I'm not sure what finally made me choose to buy some white wine vinegar, but I ran across a lentil salad recipe calling for red wine vinegar recently so today I added that to our pantry. Fun times ahead! A sunny morning near the summer solstice   Two. Antihistamines. Excellent additions to springtime. Thanks, science, for medicine!   Three. The quest...

Back in the Days of Yore (pre-lockdowns—actually, more than a decade ago, wow, what even is time) I’d periodically get four-hour coffees with a specific writer-friend who is also a musician.   One of the questions we’d mull over is “What is the writer equivalent of scales?” Another was its related idea, “What is a practice session for writers?”   Obviously, the questions don’t have a 1:1 answer. Musicians perform, and although writers can perform also, it’s rarer. Perhaps. For me, anyway. As a writer of things on paper (vs. writing works for performance), I don’t focus on a performance element of my work, though I’ve grown to enjoy the more performative opportunities for readings and conversations. An accident, but I like it!   But! Back to a scale—a form that musicians can practice to gain muscle memory and general mastery.   For me, the equivalent is a daily writing practice. My practice varies, in terms of form, result, and effectiveness (and even ...

  The allure of a clean slate: the first vanilla ice cream  of the year, peepers sharing their froggy angst,  fireflies’ did-you-see-it no-there-over-there winks,  the sharp head-clearing scent of  fresh-washed pines, a dog’s fur  coarse beneath your fingers. Back indoors, how can I  breathe, with the old everythings crowding every room? Toss it all into the air, atomize it with the sheer force  of your joy, send it higher and higher until you no longer see it  though it will still exist In someone else’s fresh start ________ I found this in the Notes folder on my phone. Can you tell that I've been removing many of my things, old things, broken things, WHYYYY? things from the house this spring and summer? Can you tell that my refrain while doing so has been, "Get real, Marion!" It's worked pretty well, actually. Yes, I'm also trying, a little, to move on from MAKING UP THE GODS to do serious work on my new novel and a nonfiction project that'...

Here are my thoughts about some of the books I've read recently. Not homework at all! My Name is Lucy Barton, Elizabeth Strout     “I had not yet learned the depth of disgust city people feel for the truly provincial.”   I read this book a few months back but held off writing about it, hoping I’d eventually know what to say, but I still don’t quite know how I feel.   I don’t mind books in which “not much happens,” which is a criticism I’ve seen of this book. Here’s what “happens”: Lucy Barton lies in a hospital bed. Her mother comes to visit. They talk and remember. The end.   But that summary is, of course, not everything. Lucy and her mother talk about and around and behind their own relationship. Lucy wonders about the world she left behind and second-guesses her choices. She’s attentive to those who are attentive to her. She’s not sure what’s happening at times. It’s a quiet book about people.   Did I like it? It was fine. Would I reread it? I can’t qui...

Treats and fun things to do.  I make a list and pick from it. Does it feel fake, to rely on a list instead of some sense of joyful spontaneity? Sometimes. Is it worth it? Yes. Because sometimes it’s hard to remember, in a glum moment, what might cheer me up. What’s fun, when nothing sounds like fun. So the list is helpful. What’s on the list? Fun things to make in the kitchen (like the turkey breast roast we had in December or the banana bread loaves that might appear this afternoon). Ways to bring the outdoors indoors intentionally (not like tracking snow in) and beautifully (also not like tracking snow in, and harder in the winter than other seasons). Specifically, growing a bulb or buying flowers or a potted hyacinth. Also: specific movies (seasonal or nostalgic) to watch. Using special mugs for my morning coffee. Small things, but mighty. Until they're growing outdoors, I can grow some indoors. Or, you know, try. Music. For the past several years I’ve fallen out of the habit of...

I'm having a moment. Not the kind that means fame or cultural relevance (see: monstera plants, which have displaced succulents, and mushroom-growing, which is apparently replacing baking with sourdough), but the kind I like.  I mean. A moment in which most things feel possible; the moment in which I haven't yet dropped anything irrevocably today and I can maybe pick up some of yesterday's things.  Little things. The laundry is in the dryer and if I'm not around when it's done, the wrinkles won't matter. I have an idea for supper and don't need to thaw anything. We have adequate supplies of sandwich fixings, butter, raisin bread, chocolate bars, coffee and decaf, and prescriptions.  I have ascertained that the blub in the top of the upright tag alder at the shoreline, which I know is NOT the blackbird and NOT the kingfisher, IS indeed a bird. A goldish little round sparrowish jobber. (The ongoing "learning more about the world around us" project is ...

Some twenty-five years ago, I had a disagreement with a friend and former colleague, who had moved away to live and work--slightly too far to see frequently, but still close enough to intend to see at least regularly .  He and I communicated by email (near-instant contact in those heady days), and in a rare case of actually valuing a relationship enough to be forthright, I took the time to write a careful explanation of my perspective in the dispute.  In response (a few days later; how valuable that time!), he said, "I'm going to let your 'explanation' just lie there...." and changed the subject.  At the time, I was annoyed (by the quotation marks--"explanation," geez--and still irked from the original dispute). However, I let it go and allowed the change of subject. We never referred to the subject of disagreement again, and that was fine with me. Our friendship subsided--his life got busier, I moved, etc. We're still in sporadic touch, with apparen...

I don't really like the colour orange. As an athlete and fan, I wore orange t-shirts and accessories, mostly without thinking. They were accepted and expected parts of my life. I don't mind coral, especially as Spring takes its own sweet time showing up and I'm tired of winter's browns, blues, and silvers. Peach, too. Back in the pre-pandemic days, coral toenail polish or a peachy scarf brightened April right up. But I can look sallow in orange. And I have such mixed feelings about many sports (athletes and head injuries, mostly) that I've ditched all but one of my orange t-shirts.  And then this time of year happens. Look! Turns out, I like orange. I really do. I surprised myself! I don't like it in all its versions. I'd still be careful about choosing to wear it. ( Orange Shirt Day is September 30 this year; I'll wear mine then! ) It got me thinking: what else about myself (or the world--but let's start small) could I wonder about? I've said I ...

Good morning! Look at this:  Pretty, huh. Yesterday, I participated (online) in a workshop from the North American Association for Environmental Education , entitled "Nature as Inspiration and Transformation: An Intro to Nature Poetry." I got to spend an hour with Aimee Nezhukamatathil, author of World of Wonders , to be published by Milkweed (one of my favourite publishers) in August. Here's more: Interesting, though possibly less "traditionally pretty." The workshop, though: it was wonderful! Especially because I'm generally intimidated by poetry, both reading it and writing it. And I have an appreciation of others' scientific expertise, which I emphatically do NOT have. And yesterday, I was reminded that all writing starts somewhere, and a sense of wonder--both in the sense of "awe" and in the sense of "curiosity"--is a great starting point. Also: the power of starting small. Of keeping journals wher...

Disclaimer: I am not a poet. I do not write poetry, except sometimes accidentally. Disclaimer: As a person closer to fuddy-duddy fogeydom than hipster up-and-coming-hood, I have great respect for the traditions in which I was born. Namely: * immersion in the work that came before now, this moment when my fingers are on the keyboard * development of skill (through education) in traditions and rules * devotion to and respect for reflection, time, and care in expression Disclaimer: I am not here to trash or demean "insta-poets" or "is this poetry" or "how can these young whippersnappers make millions from poetry" or whatever conversation of the moment is happening around social media and poetry. Equally, I am not here to say "we should all do this." I'm just here to share what I enjoy. April is Poetry Month. Last week I talked a little about my Instagram feed and the pleasures it brings . Among the images of journals, fabrics, and col...

Social media is...interesting. I appreciate its ability to connect people and try to manage its ability to exacerbate disagreements. My (current) favourite is Instagram, where my presence is newest. I have curated what I see there carefully, so that my feed is mostly images from arts and artists, with a smattering of books, bags, and boots (none of which I am currently buying) (except within certain rules). So, poetry. One of my favourite accounts is Today Calls, a product of artist Christof Migone. The visual is black (itself an interesting addition to what I see, given that most of my feed is so colourful), with a recording of three voices. The text each voice reads is below that day's entry. The commentary within and among prompts is interesting. All the voices are interesting. The events that they use as prompts are interesting. It's a really fun way to experience poetry, especially in the form of a daily moment. I haven't seen anything like it on Instagram or e...

Good reading recently! 1. Tanis MacDonald, Out of Line . Thoughts on being an artist outside of The Big City (as you define it). Addresses lots of issues of class. Contains lots of truths, both hard and inspiring. * "What is there to say about not winning, or even not being nominated? This is the state in which most writers live their lives" (p. 163). * "Artists need to be sensitive, but they also need to be tough" (p.  169). * "Don't worry about a grand plan. Produce work. Make stuff" (p. 174). 2. The simply lovely blog by Alberta writer Shawna Lemay, Transactions with Beauty  A photographer and writer, she shares words AND images AND bits of poetry from others. It's a treat to dip in, and she updates often. Here's just one recent thought, from a few months that have felt especially difficult (although perhaps most times feel especially difficult). * "But there's something about good writing by women that makes me feel les...

"...history to question..." "hope--a new constellation/waiting for us to map it/waiting for us to name it--together" Today, I remember that the "American" continents look the way they do because of theft and murder, the shameful dismissal of lives, human and other. That the exploitation is redoubled, today. And I remember that we can again face the stars and map that constellation. Hope. Here is the full text of Richard Blanco's Inaugural poem, "One Today."

This time of year I'm still walking outdoors, and enjoying it, for as long as I can. Soon, the snow on the roads won't melt during the day, and the ice will force me to the treadmill. But not yet. Monday, I picked up two leaves--one a bright orange birch-type with a dark streak down the middle, another with lobes (like a maple or white poplar) that was a tasteful pink-and-yellow. They were lovely, a really eye-catching moment of brightness on a grey day when autumn has nearly-but-not-quite lost its glory. There they are, below: No, really.  See, it started raining while I was out, and an unpleasant encounter with workers in my neighbourhood had left me rattled, so when I got home I put my dripping waterproof jacket and pants into the dryer without emptying the pockets.  And then I had to race through the shower and get to town for a work date, and on the way, two different cars apparently didn't see mine (though I was driving with my lights on, even) and ...

Also at Definitely Superior Art Gallery: an exhibit by Sarah Link and Riaz Mehmood . (The link above goes to the gallery's exhibits page, so there should be way to find the description for a while, though the exhibit itself closes at the end of October.) The art combines technology and ceramics in a bunch of interesting ways, and I encourage everyone to visit to experience its several elements. The part I'm participating in, as one of many poets in Northwestern Ontario, is called Light Poem. In a dark room, a poem is projected briefly onto the back of a screen and then flies into bits. Motion sensors detect the presence or absence of a person in the room--and then whether that person is still or moving. For the poem to reassemble so you can read it, you have to remain motionless. It's a fabulous, physical reminder that sometimes the best way to experience life, and art, is through stillness--internal, external, both. And while it's always awesome and extreme...

Last Thursday, I put on orange construction coveralls and, as part of a "word construction crew," read some of my work as part of Random Acts of Poetry, a project of Definitely Superior Art Gallery and Artist-Run Centre. Now in its 12th year, Random Acts of Poetry takes small groups of poets, singer-songwriters, and other spoken-word artists into the community, bringing a moment of reflection and creativity. See the list above? I'm not a poet, singer-songwriter, or spoken-word artist. I'm prose all the way, baby. I still agreed to participate, because I have a few short pieces of prose, although I find it difficult to keep them short. I figured I'd read one of those. But I found something surprising in my Dropbox catch-all folder. A few weeks ago, I mentioned the writing equivalent of practicing musical scales . I even wondered about using writing prompts daily as a form of warmup--you know, like scales. Which is what I found in that folder in Dropbox. Ap...

This week has had its share of good news. The main thing for today is that my husband received a grant from the Ontario Arts Council to write a novel he's been puzzling over for years. While the cheque is nice, it's the support that he appreciates most. (Truthfully, we appreciate the cheque a whole lot. Especially because this is tax time and therefore budget time.) He found out maybe Tuesday. Since then he's cleaned his office, which he calls the den, and tackled a couple of other big projects (NOT his novel). Today he decided he needed more file folders. This need required a trip to town, which engendered other errands. Of course. I know what he's doing. I've done it and I still do it. He's clearing his mental decks. It looks like procrastination. It may even feel like procrastination. (In me, it usually IS procrastination.) However, in him, it's really preparation. He doesn't multi-task, and he can't be pondering other obligations or decisions whi...