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Joanne Epp
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Joanne Epp’s poetry celebrates the tiny marvels and shifting layers of the Prairie landscape. Author of Cattail Skyline and Eigenheim, she lives in Winnipeg.
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This is a gallery of work specially created for #ThinAir2021. Spend time with writers you love, and discover some new favourites! Ceci est une galerie de travaux spécialement créée pour #ThinAir2021. Passez du temps avec des écrivains que vous aimez et découvrez de nouveaux favoris!

Joanne Epp’s poetry has appeared in Prairie Fire, The New Quarterly, and Canadian Literature, among other journals, and has placed in the Nick Blatchford Occasional Verse Contest and the Banff Centre Bliss Carman Poetry Award Contest. Her collaborative translations of early modern German poetry, with Sally Ito and Sarah Klassen, have appeared in The Polyglot and are forthcoming in an anthology. Her first poetry collection, Eigenheim (Turnstone Press, 2015), explores the intersections of home, memory, and longing. The Malahat Review called Eigenheim’s “spare and unpretentious language [a perfect fit] with the poet’s alertness to the limits of our knowledge of ourselves, each other, and the world.” Her second collection, Cattail Skyline (Turnstone Press, 2021), is an intimate look at landscapes where she has lived and travelled, full of light and colour, revealing new discoveries along the most well-trodden of paths. When not writing, she may be found practicing the organ, making linocut prints, or photographing wildflowers by the creek. Born and raised in small Saskatchewan towns, she spent several years in Ontario and now makes her home in Winnipeg.

Interview / Entrevue

If there was a book I hid from my parents, it was probably “Are you there, God? It’s me, Margaret” by Judy Blume, which I read when I was in grade 5 (as did many of my classmates). I found its candidness about puberty helpful, but was too shy to actually talk to anyone about those things (even to my mother).

This isn’t a line, but rather a scene from Little Women by Louisa May Alcott: Jo’s ambitious attempt to to cook dinner for her sisters and guests when she really doesn’t know what she’s doing. I’m a pretty good cook, but I’ve had some interesting kitchen adventures, so I sympathize entirely.

Cluttered, definitely. If things are put away in drawers, I forget about them.

One of my recurring dream motifs is about being unprepared: for instance, coming to play in a piano recital, having not practiced at all and being unable to find my music.

Being published in The New Yorker. Or—I don’t know if this is more modest or more ambitious—making a convert of someone who thinks they don’t “get” poetry.

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