Read Sarah Gibbs's full conversation with Tasnuva Hayden about the rise and fall of empire, Bob Dylan, and the poet’s role as historian:
Find a copy of Sarah's debut poetry collection, The Hundred-Year Circus (Frontenac House Poetry, 2024) at your local bookstore or online at frontenachouse.com.
Please note, this interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Tasnuva Hayden: For this month’s interview, I’ll be chatting with Sarah Gibbs, a local Calgary playwright and poet. She is also an actress, a professional librarian, a George Orwell scholar, and a Fellow of the Royal Society of Art (RSA). Her debut poetry collection, The Hundred-Year Circus, was released by Frontenac House Poetry in October 2024. To ease us into the interview, I’ll begin by asking you to introduce us to your poetry collection.
Sarah Gibbs: The Hundred-Year Circus has had a long gestation; I began the collection about fifteen years ago during my undergraduate degree. The poems are, in part, an exploration of the work of Bob Dylan and of the various personas he has assumed over the course of his career (folk singer, modish rocker, cowboy, born-again Christian…). I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of a shapeshifting, inscrutable performer. The collection’s central action follows three “champions”—the Prophet, the Man in the Mask, and the Tramp—who are derived from some of Dylan’s musical characters, and who must journey across America to reach New York. The pieces form a sort of tall tale, albeit an unusually dark one. For the champions have been called out of history at a moment of reckoning; intense political polarization and civil strife threaten the nation. The three men must recover the scraps of the flag, which has been torn asunder by the chaos, or the republic will unravel.
Tasnuva Hayden: The next question is one that I ask all authors—as filling Station is known as “Canada’s experimental literary magazine”, would you consider your latest book to be experimental? If yes, can you elaborate on the elements that you believe make it experimental?
Sarah Gibbs: The book is highly experimental in its fusion of literary forms. It presents the poems bracketed by stage directions and notes regarding lighting effects, and it draws heavily on the conventions of both narrative verse and classical theatre. The Chorus—a cross-section of the American citizenry—regularly appears to contextualize and comment on the action, and it deploys an elevated, heroic discourse distinct from the language of the rest of the book. The collection is a highly metatextual mock-epic; it investigates the psychology and societal role of the artist through its portrayal of Dylan and of the “playwright,” who is the work’s ostensible author and a woman in the midst of a mental health crisis that will ultimately prove fatal. The playwright’s “annotations” to the text introduce prose meditations to the medley of forms.
Tasnuva Hayden: Why did you choose to focus on America’s reckoning in particular? Can you tell us a little about your personal connection to Bob Dylan? And to what extent does the reader need to be familiar with Bob Dylan and American history/politics to access this poetry collection? Would you say this collection, in some way, might be a tribute to Bob Dylan?
Sarah Gibbs: Had you asked me at the outset of writing fifteen years ago, I would absolutely have described the collection as a tribute to Dylan. Initial drafts drew heavily on his biography and contained a number of allusions to particular songs. In the intervening years, however, my relationship to the notion of personal heroes has become a bit more fraught. I’ve even come to question the virtue of artistic genius; great creators seem to lay waste to much in rendering their masterworks. The piece “Diamonds and Rust,” about Dylan’s relationship with Joan Baez, displays this evolution in perspective. The mirror poem in the right-hand column was a later addition and closes with the lines, “When genius eats, a massacre. / And when it loves.”
When I began writing the collection, placing the characters in America was convenient. Dylan is an American artist whose life has directly coincided with the country’s period of post-World War II global dominance. I could engage with his own journey out of Hibbing, Minnesota while I followed the champions across the states. As the collection evolved, however, the geography became central to the project. Political polarization is a world-wide phenomenon, but it is particularly acute in the discourse of our southern neighbour, where grim economic and social realities clash with the myth of the American dream, and often create dangerous cognitive dissonance. The champions’ task developed in the later drafts into the reunification of a divided country.
That being said, while readers familiar with twentieth-century American history will find much of interest in these poems, the collection draws on a number of different sources for its imagery and action, including classical mythology, religion, literature, and folk music and Rock ‘n Roll; the book’s foci are varied, and embrace a number of different readerships.
Tasnuva Hayden: The playwright’s notes were some of my favourite poems. It felt like breaking through a kind of fourth wall. Why did you choose to frame the collection through the lens of the playwright?
Sarah Gibbs: During the revision process, my editor asked if I would be open to including a distinct authorial persona in the collection; he felt it would provide a further means to ground the action. I was initially uneasy about adding such a voice, as I associate it with lyric poetry, a form I seldom practice. I have a fear—no doubt stemming from insecurity on my part—of the tyranny of the “I,” the potential for deeply personal, first-person meditations to become repetitive or amount to navel gazing. The character of the playwright offered a solution: a foundational “authorial” perspective that could be separated from my own and managed to avoid any flirtations with self-indulgence. Giving the persona my own name allowed me to suggest intimacy and exposure, while in fact remaining hidden. Crafty, indeed. It also made for a very interesting artistic experience, as creating the character of Dr. Gibbs, self-destructive academic, allowed me to take a sliver of my personality, enlarge it under the poetic microscope, and imagine the consequences if that troubled slice constituted my entire self.
Tasnuva Hayden: In what ways did your experience as a playwright inspire or facilitate this particular poetry collection? Can you tell us a little bit about the similarities between poetry and drama? Also, in what ways are they different? (Just as you see it. I’m curious about the experiences of writing across different genres.)
Sarah Gibbs: The capabilities and demands of different genres are fascinating. Drama is a form reliant on dialogue; silence on stage is deadly. In contrast, some of the most affecting moments in film can occur in the absence of any sound. The viewer’s eye merges with that of the camera, and the emotional impact is immediate. Fiction requires at least some semblance of plot—A must at some point encounter B—whereas poetry can be successful simply by rendering an image or communicating a visceral truth of feeling.
Having acted and written for the stage, theatrical tools were readily at hand when I sought to give the poems a frame and provide readers with signposts as they navigated multiple characters, locations, and time periods. The stage directions and dramatic conventions also allowed for a productive layer of artifice and metatextuality. The book grapples with the role and responsibilities of the artist, and foregrounding the stage directions (including notes on lighting and character positioning) continually reminds readers that they are encountering an artistic fabrication—a lie that, if I have done my work well, tells a truth. I also enjoyed the ontological slipperiness that the structure generated. For instance, in what manner does the poet, who can move in and out of all the action, exist?
The history of verse drama demonstrates that poetry and theatre marry well, particularly when the work is high tragedy or concerned with heroic values (there’s probably a reason no verse drama has been written about doing your taxes). The poem “Nation Man” exemplifies the collection’s efforts to utilize the strengths of both the poetic and dramatic forms. The piece’s stage directions and description of lighting render a tableau—Jokerman in silhouette with the Nation at his feet—while the verse offers crystalized descriptions of each party to the centennial reckoning.
Tasnuva Hayden: This is, no doubt, a very cerebral book, with heavy references to history and myth. In particular, I noticed many references to Christian/Catholic mythos. Can you talk to the religious symbology and references used in the collection?
Sarah Gibbs: My interest in religious and mythological systems emerged in earnest during my first years in university. Courses in the classics and in ancient art history—the latter focusing on the religious art of Mesopotamia and India—left me beguiled by narratives and symbols that, through the force of human belief, had been imbued with immense emotional power and representational richness. For a reader or faith practitioner familiar with a figure in mythology, a single allusion can carry with it millennia-worth of narrative iterations and connections.
In this collection, I was particularly interested in the Catholic faith’s discourses around personal sacrifice and martyrdom. The reaction to Dylan going electric in the mid-1960s was quite vicious—as though he had betrayed a faith or nation, rather than simply plugged in his guitar. I examine the response in the poem “Said an Audience Member at the Newport Folk Festival, 1965.” The Dylan the folk music community wanted was the harmonica-wielding oracle of “Blowing in the Wind” and “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”; the rocker in his sunglasses was a heretic, an apostate. The figure of the Prophet emerged from considerations of what an artist owes the audience, and what happens when the truth teller displeases the crowd. The reflections drew me to the Christian tradition, in which prophets and isolated believers are regularly made sacrifice. When I considered the time period in which to place the Prophet, the presidency of John F. Kennedy seemed a natural fit, as he implored citizens in his inaugural address to ask not what their country could do for them, but what they could do for their country. The notion of duty to the nation—to Camelot, the City on a Hill—undergirded Kennedy’s administration.
Tasnuva Hayden: I also noticed hints of beat poetry in the text, and references to Ginsberg. To what extent have the Beats inspired you and this project?
Sarah Gibbs: On our first encounters with their work, certain poets have the power to shock and amaze, because they demonstrate something we didn’t realize poetry could do. Allen Ginsberg was that artist for me. I was a poetry neophyte—having consumed only a basic dose of Shakespeare and Keats—when “Howl” blazed across my vision: the ultimate anti-sonnet. While the poem is no longer among my favourites, the anarchic energy of the Beats and the depth of their engagement with the American landscape continue to interest me. The impression that its speaker fosters that “Howl” is a spontaneous effusion of verse called to mind seers or oracles plagued by uncontrollable visions; I wanted to connect the poem to the Prophet’s narrative, and including the figure of Carl Solomon, with whom Ginsberg was institutionalized in the 1940s and to whom “Howl” is dedicated, seemed like an interesting means to do so. Several lines from the third section of “Howl,” in which the speaker addresses Solomon directly, reflect the complexities of patriotism and citizens’ relationship to national geographies that the collection attempts to excavate:
I’m with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that
coughs all night and won’t let us sleep. […]
I’m with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America
in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
Tasnuva Hayden: On some level, the collection feels very Jungian. Can you tell us about how you’ve used archetypes throughout your collection and the significance of using them? In particular, can you speak to the archetypes/characters of the Prophet, Outlaw, and Ex-Con Tramp, (which seem to be variations of the ‘outsider/stranger’, as well as the ‘Poet’, who will be the one to ‘remember them to history’.)
Sarah Gibbs: The collection’s three primary characters emerged more-or-less as the playwright describes in her first note to the text: from photographs of Dylan in his various personas in the 1960s and 70s. The Tramp derives from Dylan’s first incarnation, as a folk singer and activist heavily influenced by Woody Guthrie and the artists of the Great Depression. The Man in the Mask is the cowboy of the mid-70s, the leader of the Rolling Thunder Revue and countrified voice of “One More Cup of Coffee” and “Oh, Sister.” The Prophet is a pseudo-Beat oracle birthed from Dylan’s interactions with Ginsberg. The images from Dylan’s early career—black-and-white, often grainy and with minimal context—seemed to flatten man into myth, distilling the personas to their essential characteristics. The impression left by photographs aligned with the traditions of the tall tale, in which de-individualized characters engage in impossible quests and defy the laws of time and space. The archetypes coalesced.
As the collection evolved, however, the champions departed further from Dylan to become avatars of American history and identity, representations, respectively, of the common man and the rugged outlaw in untamed lands, and of the complex relationship to faith in a nation that declares on its currency, “In God We Trust.” The characters crisscross the country and move through their timelines, and the text interrogates the distance between the ideas they embody and lived reality in America. The United States reacted against the aristocratic culture of England by venerating the humble, working man, but the Tramp and his fellows are victims of the nation’s predatory mid-century capitalism. Dime, the gunman whom the Tramp meets on the New York Express, declares, “[M]y government has sold me to the Pacific Fruit Company.” Similarly, nineteenth-century outlaws like Billy the Kid fascinate the American public, but popular culture often elides the cruelty and violence of the Wild West. The Man in the Mask encounters his sins on his journey to the Underworld. Finally, the nation of pilgrims casts out its prophet, attempting to lobotomize him when his visions no longer serve. Problematic though the archetypes are, however, the collection’s overarching theme is resurrection. Each champion is reborn in the course of his narrative, and the question is whether the country can likewise regenerate. The Prophet, the Tramp, and the Man in the Mask are denizens of the collective unconscious, and a nation without one is chaotic, polarized, and breaking.
Tasnuva Hayden: In many ways, this book felt like it was trying to explore the apocalypse from ground zero, from the heart of the rot so to speak (i.e. American Empire). In what ways do you think this collection speaks to what is happening in America now, (especially with the re-election of Donald Trump)? In particular, in the poem “America 2”, you talk of the ignorification/misinformation of the current climate. In what ways does this tie back to some of your research on Orwell? For example, the idea of ‘doublethink’ is one that immediately stands out to me.
Sarah Gibbs: “America 2” and its companion piece, “The New Republic,” constitute the collection’s most explicit commentary on the current political climate in the United States. “America 2” attempts to render the mental chaos of individuals in the grip of conspiracy theories and inundated with “alternative facts.” The speaker in “The New Republic” voices the discontent of those raised in the tradition of American exceptionalism who feel cheated of their birthright: global power and ever-increasing prosperity and wealth. The speaker declares, “I was promised / I could get in my car and drive / the road the world / never running out.”
While the collection offers only one direct allusion to Orwell—the playwright quotes from Coming Up for Air (1939) in expressing her terror of neo-Fascism—his ideas regarding political ideology and social cohesion are rarely far from mind when I write. In “America 2,” the speakers’ diatribe breaks down mid-flow to reveal the psychological effect of continual exposure to extremist content: “I don’t sleep always the pounding in quiet hours drums of war deep in the brain stem, forgotten lobes electrode on the animal self.” On social media, virality is generally directly proportional to extremity, and much of the material is intended to provoke anger. The phenomenon recalls the Two Minutes Hate, a daily ritual in Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) during which citizens of Oceania view threatening propaganda against enemies of the State; the newsreels provoke almost animalistic rage and channel discontent away from the repressive government toward near-mythical boogeymen. Much politically focused social media endeavours to engender and exploit anger. The reference in “America 2” to the “drums of war” nods to this Orwellian technique. Likewise, the cognitive dissonance of the poem’s speakers, who subscribe to multiple, often conflicting conspiracy theories, evokes Orwell’s concept of “doublethink,” in which contradictory beliefs are held simultaneously.
Despite the commentary “America 2” and “The New Republic” offer, however, the collection’s primary goal is not to castigate or condemn. Contemporary readers are products of the American century, having consumed its culture and media and existed in a geopolitical climate in which it has been dominant. Now, that time may be ending. Whether the transition is cause for mourning or celebration, it unquestionably demands analysis. “America 2” and “The New Republic” assess effects of political polarization and of the public’s consumption of disinformation, but they also gesture toward a possible deeper cause. After all, the inhabitants of the new “nation” are destitute, and poverty is a great oppressor of the mind.
Tasnuva Hayden: In what ways does the collection talk to the Canadian experience, if at all?
Sarah Gibbs: The collection considers a nation’s ideas of itself. “I only exist as story,” America declares in “The Outlaw.” In the piece, the country’s scientists have kidnapped the Man in the Mask in order to exploit the power of myth and restore the “spent” national narratives. Identity crises and fragmenting populations are not phenomena unique to the United States. In Canada, we likewise need new stories. Traditional ideas and icons of our country are in many cases products of colonialism, or constitute empty negations: “Not English. Not French. Not American.” New Canadian identity markers—just, inclusive, and forward-looking—are necessary.
Tasnuva Hayden: Outside of the beat poets, who and/or what were some of your literary inspirations for this book?
Sarah Gibbs: I think I owe Michael Ondaatje a fruit basket. Or maybe a fat stack of Starbucks gift cards. Ondaatje’s verse novels The Collected Works of Billy the Kid (1969) and Coming Through Slaughter (1976) were hugely influential in the development of The Hundred-Year Circus. The works’ fusion of poetry and prose, and their reimagining of historical figures and events, provided a guide for writing about a Dylan who is and is not Robert Zimmerman from Hibbing, Minnesota. Ilya Kaminsky’s Deaf Republic (2019) offered a model for using theatrical conventions to structure or supplement narrative poetry, and George Elliott Clarke’s incredible Whylah Falls (1990) suggested the possibilities of new epic forms.
Tasnuva Hayden: Who are some of your local literary favorites? And do you have any book recommendations for us?
Sarah Gibbs: Collections that bring poetry into conversation with other literary forms are always of interest to me, so I must recommend Rayanne Haines’s What Kind of Daughter? (2024). Haines’s book was published with mine in the 2024 Frontenac House Quartet and is a beautiful meditation on identity and grief that includes lyric and narrative pieces, prose poems, and essays. I’m also excited to begin Christine McNair’s Toxemia (2024; Book*hug Press), another hybrid collection and one that recounts its author’s medical odyssey in the context of discourses—both historical and contemporary—of pregnancy and motherhood.
Tasnuva Hayden: As a fellow poet, I am always interested in hearing about the writing process. As you’ve told me before, this book changed quite dramatically from the submission stage to the finished product. Can you take us through your editing process and what did you learn from it as a writer?
Sarah Gibbs: Prior to beginning the editorial process, I was already a fairly seasoned workshopper and reviser of my texts. I had completed a creative writing concentration in my undergraduate degree and subsequently wrote—and several times rewrote—a doctoral dissertation. Bringing this book to its final form, however, reinforced for me the absolute necessity of retaining one’s artistic vision while relinquishing any writerly ego. Over the course of three rounds of revisions, my editor, John Wall Barger, and I cut thousands of words from the original manuscript and, as I’ve discussed above, created new frames and narrative devices to guide readers through the poems. As the individual pieces contracted, the language sharpened and emotions deepened. Themes that had been hiding in the dense verbiage emerged. Editors like John, who help surface the best version of a work, are a writer’s greatest gift, and I would advise new practitioners to find a reader whose feedback they can trust, and then do the most difficult thing imaginable: listen to and act on constructive criticism.
Tasnuva Hayden: Do you have a writing routine? What does it entail? Do you have any tips for new poets?
Sarah Gibbs: At the University of Calgary, I took a fiction writing course with Suzette Mayr, who counseled her students to write for a set time every day, as composition is a skill like any other and regularly scheduled exercise strengthens writerly muscles. Very solid advice, I think. A habit of writing becomes a habit of seeing; walking through the city, you begin to notice the metaphors—the things like other things—and the alignment between the internal and external worlds. Poems can germinate quite spontaneously when your eyes are peeled.
I would also advise new poets to embrace the terrible first draft. If in the light of day last night’s masterwork turns out to be monstrous, resist the urge to abandon the piece. More often than not an unsuccessful poem contains an image or line that is worthy of life; rescue it, and rebuild the work around it. Mallarmé said that poetry purifies the language of the tribe; that sort of thing generally takes a few tries.
Tasnuva Hayden: Lastly, can you tell us about your current work-in-progress? What themes and elements are you excited about exploring in your next body of work?
Sarah Gibbs: I’ve recently begun drafting a new collection tentatively titled The Unwell that explores experiences of ill-health. It takes inspiration in part from Alphonse Daudet’s In the Land of Pain (1931) and considers the psychology of sickness. I’m also exploring a few possibilities in screenwriting. Perhaps Ondaatje will let me adapt Billy the Kid for the screen. Better get on that fruit basket.
Sarah Gibbs is a poet and playwright whose work has appeared in publications such as Descant, filling Station Magazine, and Novelty Magazine. She is a George Orwell scholar and Fellow of the Royal Society of Art (RSA), and holds a PhD in English Literature from University College London (UCL). She lives in Calgary, Alberta, where she works as a professional librarian.
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