There is grimness and there is vitality in Tell the Birds Your Body is Not a Gun. Rayanne Haines engages with pain and scars, but is also familiar with warmth and tenderness, in her rendition of the personal and social—she is by turns unapologetic and humorous as she excavates and plumbs the contours of agony to signal the resilience of the human spirit. Her poetry is also an affirmation of the bond between mother and son, each bolstering the other’s capacity to endure life-threatening challenges.
Uche Umezurike: I am fascinated by the metaphoric resonance of your book title Tell the Birds Your Body is Not a Gun. What is the inspiration behind it?
Rayanne Haines: Writing this book felt like a lot of little deaths. The death of innocence, the death of hiding, the death of naivety, the death of what I thought my physical body meant. Also, the death of silence and complacency. Within those deaths, it felt like I opened to a lot of hope and acknowledgement of grief as a real thing that needed my vulnerability to write it. For me, that meant sitting with this grief in my body. Letting the words come from my body versus my brain—if that makes sense. The motivation behind the writing of the book came out of an act of violence perpetuated against oneself, and yet the act of writing itself was a form of healing and truth-telling. Because of that, I had an almost visceral—almost sacred—need to be surrounded by nature and living things during the writing of the collection, so that I didn’t fall too far into myself. I think that is where this metaphor comes from; this idea that my body and words are both a blackness and a softening, that the violence we lived in was also an act of tenderness—that how we appear outside is very different than inside.
UU: In the poem “A Keening,” the speaker says, “this is about surviving.” There are several beautiful lines in that poem—for example, “can we reinvent silence after sound?” and “let seagulls carry shadows from your breast.” So how does a poem start for you?
RH: This is such an interesting question because this poem was the first poem I wrote in this collection. I was sitting beside the ocean trying to find a way to come to terms with my son’s suicidal behaviour and crisis. For almost a year, I’d hidden myself from dealing with it—other than to care for him—and that day the poem poured out. The “silence after sound” line is me almost begging myself to stop hearing his feet on the stairs as he walked out the door towards his attempt. This is a poem in which I’m trying to make sense of it. Which of course, we cannot. In this case—I believe in all my writing—the poem began from a moment.
UU: Another poem I liked very much in your book is “A Mood Disorder Resulting in Feelings of Severe Despondency and Dejection.” Could you talk a little about this poem?
RH: I wanted to write about all the ways we touch depression. All the things it looks like and sounds like. All the ways we pretend and hide from it. All the ways we live with it and thrive with it. That’s what this poem is. It’s my life and my confession.
UU: What did the writing of this book offer you during challenges you were dealing with at the time? Is poetry a source of solace for us in times of crisis?
RH: I do believe that poetry is a source of solace. I believe it offers us a way to try and make sense of the unbearable things. In my case, I could no longer hold within my body the terror in the sound of my son’s voice when he finally answered his phone. No mother can. I also had to acknowledge the PTSD I lived with from an often traumatic childhood, and my own experiences with depression and anxiety. I had to acknowledge that I had hidden from my life. Working on this collection allowed me to remove all that pain from my body; writing it all down became empowering—the editing of each piece, the process of working to make this poetry and not simply a cathartic release, became a secondary offering. I challenged myself to make this unbearable stuff into poetry, so that I could bear it. What a way to release. Honestly, it saved me. I want to acknowledge, also, that my son and I spoke openly about the importance of writing this book. He supports the book and the healing journey we took to get here.
UU: Family is the pivot around which you reflect on pain, death, resilience, pleasure, and love. What can poetry tell us about the relationship between identity and place?
RH: For me, identity was fully rooted in place. Having grown up in a rural farming community, on the prairies, as an artistic kid, my identity was often shaped by how I did not fit in, in my place. Yet I am completely a child of the prairies. The river, the growing season, the smell of lilacs, abuse, anger—these defined my childhood. Also, the desire for escape—a recognition that, even as a young woman, my politics and beliefs felt different than those of most of my family. Poetry/language/art helped me try to make sense of my differences and to love myself despite often believing I was unlovable. These things were imperative in helping me claim my identity with this place—and yes, family—that fit, but also never quite fit. Now, as an adult, I can embrace all these things and recognize that my identity has also shifted or solidified as my environment and other external forces have shifted.
UU: There is much grief in your poetry, but there’s also a strong accent on love and humour. How did you approach the writing of a poetic essay such as “My Dog has Fleas?”
RH: I love this essay—thank you for asking me about it. “My Dog has Fleas” details the deepest part of my depression, when I fully and unapologetically fell apart in every way after trying to hold myself together for so long. It was also the most ridiculous reminder that life/dogs/fleas/strangers do not care if you are breaking. You still must exist in the world—thank god. I approached this piece by first giving myself permission to write about throwing my life at the wall. That permission became vital in enabling me to be fully vulnerable; anything less and the telling of it would have rung false. The importance of acknowledging the humour in that breakdown and the stories we tell ourselves in order to deal with trauma also became imperative. Who would’ve ever thought caring for a flea-infested dog would have been what kept me from drinking myself into utter oblivion? What an incredible gift. What a wonderful reminder about the comedy of life and tragedy.
Rayanne Haines is the author of seven books, including three poetry collections. Her artistic practice focuses on projects that look to redeem and empower the female narrative. In addition to her writing, teaching, and festival work, she also produces/curates intersectional feminist poetry films and panels with authors across Canada. Past Executive Director of the Edmonton Poetry Festival, Haines is the current host of the literary podcast, Crow Reads, and is the Vice President for the League of Canadian Poets. Rayanne is a 2019 Edmonton Artist Trust Fund Award recipient.
Uche Peter Umezurike holds a PhD in English from the University of Alberta, Canada. An alumnus of the International Writing Program (USA), Umezurike is a co-editor of Wreaths for Wayfarers, an anthology of poems. He has two books forthcoming, namely Wish Maker (Masobe Books, 2021) and Double Wahala, Double Trouble (Griots Lounge Publishing, 2021).