Elements

Nunatsiaq, Nunavut novelist and poet Jamesie Fournier talks to Sabyasachi Nag about his debut poetry collection.

Sabyasachi Nag (SN): Elements as bilingual verse (in Inuktitut by Jamesie Fournier, translation by Jaypeetee Arnakakappears) appears counterintuitive at one level  (given that you wrote your debut novel in English). But when I learned (from In A Word, your piece in Literary Review of Canada, Dec 23) that you are relatively new to Inuktitut, the narrative impulse in the book appears to be subjugated to the discovery of language. Can you tell us a bit more about these choices?

Jamesie Fournier (JF): The narrative follows a character as he discovers more about life and his role in it, finding a place in a culture that offers definition in a chaotic world. And language is culture. Inuktitut and English speakers can both read this as an individual searching for acceptance as he makes his way home. Discovering and celebrating language through poetry as expression has been rewarding.

SN: The verse in Inuktitut laid out on the left against the English text on the right provides a visual reference to those who don’t know Inuktitut. Is the title targeted at audiences who speak both languages?

JF: It is for those who may speak English or Inuktitut and for those learning to speak either or. It has been an amazing experience in my Inuktitut education to relearn and rediscover my poetry in our language.

SN: The Elements as evidenced in the chapter titles (Blood, Sinew, Flesh, Bone, Faith Stone, Fire) appear to follow its logic. Can you tell us a bit more about the chapter titles?

JF: Each section represents different ‘elements’ that make up our figure. They are spheres of influence that overlap and speak to the character’s state of mind as the reader moves from a place of pain to one of identity. ‘Blood’ speaks to mental health. ‘Sinew’ strings together cultural oppression and grievance. ‘Flesh’ is love and hurt. ‘Bone’ is in the marrow of addiction. ‘Faith’ attempts to approach spirit. ‘Stone’ builds resurgence. While ‘Fire’ burns resistance to reclamation.

SN: How did the idea of the book visit you? In other words, what pushed you to poetry after your debut novel?

JF: I had been trying to find a home for individual poems for some time before my novel had been published. It wasn’t until I strung the pieces together that and saw what they really were, a narrative of an individual trying to find out who they were, are, and could be. The abstraction and coding of poetry appealed to me for describing turmoil. A sort of distress signal I allowed myself to express that I may understand my thoughts and feelings once externalized.

SN: How would you describe the most important questions this book deals with?

JF: The collection deals with the states of mind of addiction, trying to understand its origins, compulsions, and repercussions. It is a tapestry deluded with grief as our figure comes to accept that he is going to be part of this world, blemishes and all. Seeking connection through culture while coming to terms with a legacy of colonization.

SN: Elements as a collection share some of the poetics on display in your novel “The Other Ones” – in terms of how it evokes discomfort in the reader, how a sense of betrayal, grief, trauma and alienation in the narrator creates a kind of claustrophobia that is so omniscient? How conscious were you in your choice of poetics for the title? Did you craft this work as a continuation of the previous one?

JF: ‘Elements’ does share some themes with ‘The Other Ones’ in that they both deal with a sense of reckoning and self-betrayal, that we are the authors of our own demise. However, it does posit that love, family, and culture can offer support to provide identity to face the trauma of our lives together. The two works share a sense of omniscient negativity, speaking to overwhelming forces that appear insurmountable.

SN: Inuit storytelling is one of the key drivers of the narrative in this collection. In a quote attributed to you in Inuit Quarterly, you said, “Inuit storytelling can express the kind of darkness and stark reality that there is out there in life” Can you tell us a bit more about the other features of Inuit storytelling that you drew upon to create the narrative in this collection?

JF: Most indigenous cultures believe in a world behind the one we currently inhabit. A spiritual landscape existing beyond what we see. In my collection, I have glimpses of spirit peek through, nudging you on as you tap into a black nerve of corruption. The other side cheers you on and abets your downfall. There is also a sense of hardening as one finds reasons to survive. And, if there’s one thing Inuit know, it’s survival.

SN: It has been said that you often work with illustrators, especially your brother Zebede Evaluardjuk-Fournier. Can you describe the collaboration? Has it ever been the case where the story illustration compelled you to explore an aspect of the narrative that you might have overlooked?

JF: Growing up, my brother and I would collaborate on school projects, he would do the art and I would try my hand at stories. Revisiting that partnership as an adult has been wonderful and nostalgic. My brother and I messaged each other back and forth with ideas. I would send him profiles, sketches, and reference image collages of the scenes I was trying to convey. What’s even more interesting are the images he creates that are left on the cutting room floor. Some great pieces of art. One of which was a portrait of our mother and aunt together for a story we did for a magazine. For some reason, it never made the cut. I would have loved to see that.

I remember when we were children, I had crafted a story of a demonic Jack Frost and my brother provided me with nightmarish artwork that was much more devilish than I had originally intended. That moment made me rethink of what we were capable of. It made me think that, if I wanted to, I could push the envelope much, much further. And I liked that idea.

SN: Some of the starkness in this collection derives from the narrator’s inner journey. Was that your intention from the start?

JF: ‘Elements’ was not originally a journey. It began as an outlet to describe the dynamic and unsettling forces I was feeling within. It saw me through times of great change and I noticed my writing reflected that as well. I realized what I had was an arc in search of acceptance and identity. It helped me make sense of the elements of my life and encouraged me to take a step back to gain perspective as to my role in all of it.

SN: Do you remember any experience around learning to write that became formative for you in the later years?

JF: I used to eagerly await the poetry unit each year in class until someone told me that I could simply write anytime I wanted to. That was an obvious, albeit embarrassing, moment of clarity that inspired me. My friends encouraged and applauded my work and that gave me the confidence to keep up with it.

Once upon a time, I had written a fantastic and ridiculous tale and when I presented it to my class my teacher was critical and expressed that I should avoid doing that again. That set me off on an even more determined path to prove them wrong. I’m not saying my entire writing career has all been spite but I’m also not not saying that.

When I was teaching another teacher helped me work on my writing and encouraged me to pursue and refine my work. I owe a lot of my success to her help and guidance.

SN: Has there been a relationship (in your writing life, that you are aware of) between your writing practice and how your writing has been more or less of a social activity integrated or interdependent on the community around you?

JF: A number of the poems included in ‘Elements’ were the results of poetry and collage nights that my friend, Kyle Napier, would host. We would all come together and write poetry, cut up magazines, and create art. They were festive occasions and that is when I started to realize that my writing was oddly improving. I began to think that I was on to something.

The impetus for my first short story, ‘The Net’ included in ‘The Other Ones’ was the result of an assignment. I was teaching in Fort Smith, NT and a fellow teacher had an artistically inclined student. The teacher knew I was a writer and asked if I could write a story for her students to illustrate. However, by the time I had finished the story the student had moved away and we were leftover with the story. The teacher, Molly McAllister, helped me through many drafts and revisions before we decided it was ready to submit to Inhabit Media. Graciously, it was accepted, and I have been writing with them ever since. 

SN: Can you reflect on a specific performance, song, painting, film, or other non-written artwork that generated or strongly influenced any of your recent work?

JF: I am working on a horror short story collection that takes influence from a number of horror films: Wes Craven’s New Nightmare, The Witches, The Mothman Prophecies, The Prophecy, comic books, and a number of zombie survival films amongst others. The unique escapism that horror provides is appealing. They take what you value most in life and immediately throw it in peril. When pitted against supernatural, terrible forces, humanity has the potential to shine its brightest or fall into ruin. Either way, it’s one hell of a ride.

His debut fiction, The Other Ones, was published in 2022 with Inhabit Media and won silver in the Independent Publisher’s Awards. His debut poetry collection, Elements, was published in 2023. A recurrent speaker at the Northwords Writers Festival, Jamesie was also runner-up for Up Here’s 2018 Sally Manning Award. He is part of the 2023 Audible Indigenous Writer’s Circle and NBC Universal’s Indigenous Screenwriting Program. Born and raised in Nunatsiaq – the Northwest Territories – Jamesie lived the past year in Iqaluit, NU learning his culture’s language, Inuktitut.