“Let’s do it for the poets.”
“There is no better way to describe the chapbook, broadside, and zine publishers scattered across Canada than transient. The stop/start nature of the micropress “industry” is a solid reality. Presses come and go partially due to the lack of financial incentive—mostly micropresses are self-funded labours of love—and, more impactfully, as a result of the changes in energy levels of the committed individuals who run them. Micropresses are ofter one-person operations, and many of their founders have writing lives of their own to maintain. Sometimes, presses look dead, but are suddenly revived, returning to activity after periods of dormancy.” – JIM JOHNSTONE, Write Print Fold and Staple (Gaspereau Press, 2023)
Culling through albums, at work on a new KFB Photo History Book Project, I open one of numerous “JIM” folders to select a few images for Fertil3 and the upcoming 10th Anniversary of Anstruther Press, whose Reader Anthology comes out this fall with Palimpsest.
And I scroll, and I scroll…
o, my friend, I cannot imagine my life without our loving friendship, our having met. Your poetry BUD to my poetry BIATCH. Such times. Such love.
A poet intimate of ours once said, “I really love seeing who you & Jim are to/with each other.” As visible as these portraits.
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Me? I’m just one lucky recipient (albeit, a special one… because it’s you & me. But, I can testify, I know I’m not the only one on the receiving end of your generous care. You are Jim in their lives, too. Make a point of it).
I mean, look at these pictures, or as you have said, “the story is all there in the photos.”
Jim, if you can make it, you’re there. You fucking show up.
But, I want to speak to our love in this moment.
You once kindly wrote, “I simply cannot imagine the Toronto Lit scene without Kirby and knife | fork | book.”
Well, darlin’ you were the one who took me under wing, made a point of introducing me to everyone “You need to meet Al, Michael, Klara, Evan, ______,” a litany of blanks to be filled, “You’ve got to meet Kirby!” Girl, I was so frightened inside, this gayer than queer thing with a smile (not always the surest in navigating heteronormative waters!) you always assuring me it will be okay, you’re with me. As we are for each other.
“Let’s do it for the poets.”
The strength that is at the core of your poetry, not in any way “strongman,” (that simply is) but, a hard-won strength, an unconventional heart, aimed for what is good, solid good work, a deep respect for the work itself, poet, that in turn touches us deeply.
That and the “self-funded labour of love,” the two-person wonder known as Anstruther Press now for ten fucking amazing years. I know the work. The hours. The love. The bug. Infectious. The look on poet Amanda Merpaw’s face next to yours holding her debut Anstruther chapbook. That times what, 200? 2000?
And you, lovingly holding the “Purple Love Chunk,” which happened because you said, “Kirby, where are you at with that book you were telling me about? Can it be ready any sooner?” Simple thing, letting someone know that you care. Saying yes when you can, or pointing to other possibilities.
I also know, it’s rarely returned, met in kind, which we both know it can’t really, I mean, that’s what makes you Jim, all that you bring to it, to us, all that you give.
My fellow fountain. It’s such a delight to play in these waters with you. To be poets. To be at your side. To be poetry buds. The wonder of it all. I love you.
See you Sunday.
Knife Fork Book 