campfire notebook.

A Cathedral of Poetry

Reflections on UNB’s 23rd Poetry Weekend |

The University of New Brunswick’s Memorial Hall. (Photo: Bryn Robinson, 2026)

It was my first time stepping into Memorial Hall. Against the reverence of dark-stained Gothic arches and warm stained glass panels depicting the Bard and alumni lost in WWI, 73 poets gathered October 2nd – 4th to celebrate Poetry Weekend at the University of New Brunswick. I was invited to share from my debut chapbook, but the hook was truly set with a chance to connect with community outside of algorithms and learn from others’ devotion to the craft.

Organized by professor emeritus and poet Ross Leckie, the annual festival — now in its 23rd year — hosts six readings across Saturday and Sunday, with a Friday evening “icehouse poetry & friends” ushering in the festivities. Throughout the event, Westminster Books was on hand to sell the poets’ collections, with a chapbook press takeover on Sunday morning for those who recently published a shorter collection.

In summarizing the event, attendee and poet Alex Prong reflected that the theme of “noticing” linked the diverse readings. The “noticing” that I noticed — what led me to continually reach for my notebook and pen — were the poems that noticed the small moments: the unapologetic, unmyelinated slivers of life that are unabashedly human in their visceral vulnerability. At turns, I found myself near tears, breathless, or joyful as poems took turns plucking taut strings of fiercely sweet love, ready to burst like berries ripe for picking; putting into words the feeling of no feeling — that one could search so deeply for a mere sensation of pleasure that one would turn inside out to find it; talking about powerful feelings in such quiet tones that it screams volumes. All things that feel mundane at first blush but were noticed by these poets as the vital rhythms under our skin, in the way that prose that never quite get right.

Looking back at the weekend, it was inevitable that I would leave as anything other than with a full cup. The hall was warm and supportive to both new and returning poets, especially considering writers are often introverted souls by nature and it was the first time for many presenting their works to a live audience. The readings resonated deeply within me as if I were a chapel belfry in this venerable hall. In Alex’s write up, they noted that the grand hall provided an environment that was less of a performance space but truly a “cathedral of poetry”. And in a cathedral, if one opens up their spirit to the experiences, one can be transformed.

Next year, if you’re in Fredericton the weekend before Thanksgiving, consider stopping by the next Poetry Weekend for a similar experience. Admission is free and open to the public, and with the quality of the program, is beyond a steal.

Cory Lavender reads during one of Saturday’s sessions. (Photo: Bryn Robinson, 2026).

Excerpts That Made Me Grab My Notebook

To whet your appetite for next year’s festival, I’d like to share excerpts from poems I encountered from the weekend. Some of these were recited during the weekend; others come from purchases I made from attendees. All of them rearranged my molecules into new configurations. I can’t wait to read more of their works and be transformed again.

Ambrose Albert (he/him)

words carry weight. press me between the pages of a book
like the ochre leaves from the oak outside our apartment come 
October. a ticket stub or sun-dogged Polaroid. lost and found. 

From: top surgery and it's completely different but also still top surgery

Jo Bear (she/they)

  • Now available: Check out their website for links to publications in various reviews and anthologies, including the quoted poem below.
From above, the body is nothing
but a pool of silk. I have tried—
being a body, having one—
but my hand pierced my abdomen
until I was holding myself at a new
hinge. 

From: Anhedonia with Light and Lens (after Kelly McCormack)

KIRBY (she/they)

  • @itsakirby.bsky.social on Bluesky.
  • Now available: FAIRY (Palimpsest Press, Windsor ON)
  • (Edit: I first reported that I was upset that their poetry bookstore in Toronto, knife|fork|book, escaped my radar last spring. Kirby sent me a follow-up, clarifying that knife|fork|book as a bricks-and-mortar store was lost to COVID, but that it continues, “…as a poetry micro press, a poetry festival (Fertile), occasional small press fairs and pop-ups, and online at knifeforkbook.com”)
Then I feel someone come up behind me, move the
chair from the table, escort me onto the dance floor.

My love. My leading man. The man who takes me
in his arms, holds me, fills my heart, guides my feet
in a slow dance.

Don Pyle. There is no one braver.

So much braver than myself. I would have never.

But you, my love, knew that to celebrate, we had to
dance. Didn’t give it a second thought.

From: Hop in the carriage girl, we’ve a got a ball to attend!

Jessi MacEachern (she/her)

The silk kerchief is listening to the nervy recitation of facts:
“I fell,” I’ll say if saying it will win me love.

I am in the habit of building reality... 

From: Inherited Smallness

Alex Prong (she/they)

Born to be buoyant in bodies of water, I
crash limbs callously, nerves crackling, calcifying
desire to become the fish I have just
eaten for dinner—trout—easy epicurious
freshwater, farmed.

From: Sunday Swim

Adelle Purdham (she/her)

I mean, it isn’t like they’ve kissed
their hands have barely grazed the stardust surface
of each other’s existence

From: Moonlighting

Grace R. Taylor (they/them)

She is in the bedroom, looking for all her bruises.
You and your family are at the only bridge to town, burning it down.

She is lying on the grass, hoping it will grow over her.
You are poisoning the cat, wearing its fur as a trophy.
	
From: Time Moves Backwards for Herakles in the Dollhouse

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© Bryn Robinson, 2026. All art and words made in Canada by a human.