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Patrick O'Reilly is a bonafide discovery. I met him in an undergraduate senior projects creative writing class at St. Thomas University in Fredericton. He was wearing a tweed suit. With his mustach... 
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Here's a little onstage interview I did at Wordfest in Calgary last fall when I was out promoting Savage Love. As you can clearly see, I got myself into trouble talking about copulas and copulate. ...
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In an inviting and challenging series of fictions, Sean Johnston’s We Don’t Listen To Them will leave readers puzzling while they smile at the acrobatics of his words and techniques. Some of Johnston’s stories border on “flash fiction” where incidents rather than an actual narrative drive the story. In the opening piece “How Blue” a boy is caught in the vortex of his father who drinks, his mother who condones, and a church representative who reforms. There is no plot, just Ronnie eating his purple ice cream and thinking his way through the maze.
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FREDERICTON - Avec des étincelles dans les yeux, Lisa LeBlanc, Kevin McIntyre, France Daigle, Daniel Léger, Luc A. Charette et Marc Paulin figurent parmi les artistes qui sont repartis de la Soirée des Éloizes, samedi, avec une statuette.
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Brian Bartlett is sitting on a rock by the bay.
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My Family and Other Endangered Species at the Big Secret through May 3 downstage.ca Four stars Phineas Walsh thinks you super-infinity should see this show.
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I am certain of the exact date I met Alistair MacLeod, because my copy of his first book, The Lost Salt Gift of Blood, has the following inscription: “November 13, 1978. To Frances Itani with all best wishes and good feelings.” I was studying for an MA in English Literature at the University of New Brunswick; Alistair had completed the same degree at the same university, some years earlier. He was visiting Fredericton and had given a public reading. My thesis supervisor, poet Fred Cogswell, introduced us at the reception that followed. Alistair knew that my own first book had just come out. To my surprise, he was familiar with my early stories. I was thrilled to be talking to this quietly encouraging man.
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DG is on his way home, though at this stage of life home is a moving target, indeterminate and scattered, more like a field of destinations than a particular place. Let's just say he gets mail at a...
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BRECKEN Booze tides me. tv abides me. My tits slung astride me, I noose quiet to lie with me. My other husband’s a broom. PROGRESSION BLUNTS EMPATHY Hush now, Mama, don’t say a word. Daughte...
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Downstage is a theatre company based in Calgary, Alberta, Canada dedicated to the production of Canadian theatre that creates conversation around social issues.
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I read all my stuff out loud. That way I can be sure at least someone will hear it (me) before it falls in to Malaysian flight oblivion. I also find reading out loud helps me make sure the piece isn't boring. If my mind starts to wander half way through, I've got to New-Brunswick-Forestry-Policy that stuff and cut it down! MP: I was also interested in the poem's form. The poem begins and ends with a quatrain, but in-between you choose to write in quintains. For you, how does this book-ended structure engage with the poem's themes, and perhaps the contest's maze theme? RK: I've always felt ('always' meaning for the past month) that zoos are a type of maze, where the audience saunters through these tropical locations, interspersed between desert or oceanic habits, traveling the ecological world, only to end up back where you started: the toll gate, not giving a shit about the belugas in whale-jail. I wanted the poem to bookend itself to insinuate the cyclic feeling--that a lot happens between the first and final stanza, but nothing is too different.
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All of the Best of Region, Honourable Mention and category winners of the 2013/2014 Canadian Regional Design Awards were announced last night to a packed crowd of top designers in Toronto.
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Anthologie de la poésie des femmes en acadie:20e et 21e siècles : Boehringer, Monika - | Archambault
Anthologie de la poésie des femmes en acadie:20e et 21e siècles, Poetry & Theatre
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All night in his lifeboat my father sang to keep the voices of the other men who cried in the wreckage from reaching him,
he sang what he knew of the requiem, of the hit parade and the bits of hymns, he sang until he would never sing again,
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