An Interview with D.A. Lockhart

D.A. Lockhart is the author of multiple collections of poetry and short fiction. His work has been shortlisted for the Trillium Book Award, Raymond Souster Award, Indiana Author’s Awards, First Nations Communities READ Award, and has been a finalist for the ReLit Award. His work has appeared widely throughout Turtle Island including, The Malahat Review, Grain, CV2, TriQuarterly, The Fiddlehead, ARC Poetry Magazine, Best Canadian Poetry, Best New Poetry from the Midwest, and Belt. Lockhart is a graduate of the Indiana University – Bloomington MFA in Creative Writing where he held a Neal-Marshall Fellowship in Fiction. He is pùkuwànkoamimëns of the Moravian of the Thames First Nation (Eelūnaapèewii Lahkèewiit). His work frequently draws on linguistic and cultural decolonization with a specific mind towards building new Indigenous mythologies and poetics from the crossroads of cultures that contemporary citizens of Turtle Island’s First Nations find themselves in. Lockhart currently resides at Waawiiyaatanong. The latest on his work can be found here.

Tell me about your new book Leaf Counter.

My newest work, Leaf Counter is a poetry collection set in Prince Edward County, Ontario that explores canonical poet Al Purdy’s life and development as a writer through an Indigenous (specifically a Unami Lenape) narrative lens. The book was conceived of during a residency at the Al and Eurithe Purdy A-Frame in the spring of 2022. The title of the collection comes from the English translation of Aginjibagwesi, an important figure in the Anishnaabe culture, one who works at the reclamation of the language and culture for their nation. The collection is divided into three sections, using each one to explore the psychological development of a poet in the world through Purdy’s experiences, relationship with Charles Bukowski, and the reception of his work in and outside of the literary community. Through centralizing metaphors taken from James Bond’s Thunderball, the career of wrestler Bret Hart, and the anime show Kill La Kill, theses explorations balance literary history, pop culture, and physical spaces. Aginjibagwesi acts as the narrative focus point for the collection. Meaning that exploration of Purdy’s life and his development is done through Indigenous visions, on Indigenous lands, and within a shared context that is more than substantially Indigenous, but also leaves space for the relative newcomers to North America.

In English and among the settlers’ descendants of Turtle Island, Leaf Counter is the American Goldfinch. Under Ojibwe cosmology, Leaf Counter is the protector and collector of Anishinaabemowin. Each spring, Aginjibagwesi flies about the sprouting tree canopy and takes inventory of the leaves and sounds of creation as it awakes. Consider Leaf Counter as the great enumerator, the witness, the descriptivist for the world. For this work, this bird serves to move the reader through the lyric consciousness of the work and act as a stand-in for the land, allied peoples, and the rooted consciousness of the poet in place. And what they witness and share is a vantage point of old orders and those attendant troubles and the very necessary birth of a new order.      

What does Al Purdy mean to you?

I should begin with the fact that I am an American-trained writer. My literary education came primarily from two states: Montana and Indiana. Meaning the writers that I tended to centre my career and craft development upon come from primarily American writers. Writers such as Maura Stanton, Tony Ardizzone, Catherine Bowman, and Campbell McGrath were my mentors and teachers. And the meshwork of my education, readings and models, came from writers such as Jim Harrison, Michael Martone, Richard Hugo, James Welch, and N Scott Momaday. I returned to Canada in 2013 as a freshly minted MFA graduate and had to quickly learn about the literary scene and history here. I knew of Purdy, and others of course such as Ondaatje, Findley, Munro, all the big names in the scene. But it was Purdy’s work that resonated with me. I am, after all, from one of the most renowned blue-collar cities in the country, Windsor, Ontario. I looked for work that emerges from the everyday people and the land. Purdy’s voice clearly did that.   

Purdy’s work became that touchstone of Canadian lit for me. While I am an academically trained writer, I see his path as a self-taught poet of the people to be closer to the centre of a true Canadian poetics and our conception of the bardic tradition of poetry going back to at least 800 CE in the Western World. His rise to prominence in an era in which connection to the academy in terms of employment and education was essential to the success of poets and writers. Purdy’s was a voice that could not be silenced. That the Purdy’s renowned a-frame cottage/home in Ameliasburg, Ontario was built using funds from a Canada Council Grant and the leftovers of a seedy Trenton Hotel speaks something to the greater Canadian experience in the arts. Our lives are often patch works of government project grants, heavy side hustles, and good fortune. Purdy’s work was tied to the lands he walked. Often full of uncomfortable honesties and memorable, “Horsemen of Agawa” and “The Country North of Belleville” are two particular poems that often included in “must-read” poetry and without doubt filter my relationship with his work. As an individual, I have heard enough stories from people that knew him first hand that I do not idolize the all too human person that was Al was. I respect and celebrate his unique and powerful sense of self in the world. Al Purdy was profoundly human and was exquisitely talented at expressing his humanity through his work.

When did you know you wanted to dedicate your life to writing?

Suppose I could say that it started in high school. Catholic Central in Windsor, Ontario. I took my first creative writing class there and my teacher, Stephanie Cosgrave, was the first teacher to encourage me to do so. She let me read and respond my very early influences of Henry Rollins, Nick Cave, and the like. But I wouldn’t really say that I had given myself over to writing. My first degree was in Indigenous Studies from Trent University. And during that period, I recall simply trying to soak in as much Indigenous and Lenape culture, language, and experience.

Bozeman, Montana might be that time and place for me that I might say I first dedicated my life to writing. I earned my English Literature degree at Montana State University and was heavily involved in a group of fellow students quite passionate about writing, poetry specifically, and with the rare amount of drive to create in an academic environment more prone to criticism than creation. We spent our evenings on the Peet’s Hill back deck of our neighbours, fellow poet john d powers and family, talking our way through Richard Hugo, Sheamus Heaney, and Allen Ginsburg work. We wrote together, started a literary magazine, and really built my first strong literary community. Three of us ended up graduating from different MFA programs. We had come to see the academic or Ph.D., route offered to us not in keeping with our community and those shared evenings. You could say that my dedication to craft sprouted to life beneath the stars of Gallatin Valley and the shadows of the Bridger Mountains with Bob Dylan quietly playing beneath it all.      

What is the most difficult part of the writing process for you?

The early stages of the initial composition of any work is what I often consider the most difficult portion of my work. I often compare it to song writing, in that the time it takes to find the central melody often feels like an eternity. And there are many wrong turns and false starts before one really discovers the proper register for the work. Concepts for stories and moments or occasions for poems are fairly easy enough to draw from. Consider the breadth of writing and ideas available to us as creators. Thousands of years’ worth of writing from across the globe, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, English and non-English, the material stuff of the craft process is all out there. The problem comes down to wading through it all, organizing, and discovering the right approach to share one’s work. As with all things, it’s almost not so much what you say, but how you say it that matters.

This is the heavy experimentation part of my writing process. Lots of starts and stops, little pieces carried forward to the final work, massive portions tossed for what they fail to accomplish. You might call this the messy part of my process. Occasionally other kernels of future work might come from it. But the trial-and-error part of this portion is often taxing and time consuming. A regular mire if you will. Necessary, occasionally rewarding, but not the most “fun” in terms of my process.    

What part of the writing process brings you the most joy?

The infill potion of my process definitely brings me the most joy. This is the part where the road map, the general concept of the work, and the individual moving parts are assembled into a working book or collection. You could refer to this as the portion in which the vision of the overall work really coalesces into something recognizable. I’m not necessarily saying the final completed draft, but that stage before it. Where the overall vantage point of the book or collection is available to see. And what work that is left is filling in the gaps, focusing the vision. Detailed level stuff, organization, and clarification of voice. Being able to see how a work finally comes together is a particularly rewarding part of the process.  

Do you try to stick to a writing schedule?

Generally speaking, yes. And for the most part that tends to work. Being a night owl means I have considerably more quiet time towards the end of my day than the middle or early portions. My days usually begin with all that busy work of email answering and rough edits, read throughs, and light revisions tend to come during my afternoon writing. That work is sandwiched between reading of both factual research materials as well literary material guides for the project(s) that I find myself focusing on.  

Do you have a dedicated writing space?

I do. I have a home office where I do the vast majority of my work out of. I get to do this craft thing full-time, meaning this is my primary job, so I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to craft my own space. Which, after a recent move across the city, now includes a second-floor view of Windsor’s well-treed South Walkerville neighbourhood. A view that is both tranquil and urban in its nature. And a view for a writer is a rather critical necessity.

To a lesser extent, than say a personal library is one of the most critical portions of an office. That library takes up the largest portion of the physical space of my office. As I work, I have physical access to the works that have inspired and guided me throughout my career. And that access means I have literary touchstones should, or more appropriately when, I get stuck in my process.

I do love my physical media. Which also means that I have a vinyl collection within the same space. Music and the physical act of playing records are central to my process. And any poet that does not use music as a guide for their work is typically failing to meet the lyric aspects of their work. From Bob Seger to Raekwon to J Dilla to Freddy Hubbard, I have a depth and breadth of vinyl to fuel new work and fresh revisions. Creating an inspiring and functional workspace was something that was reinforced to us as graduate students at Indiana University. This is about building respect for your work, thoughts, and process. And self-respect is critical for any writer’s success in a world that often feels as if it exists only to tear down the individual.          

What advice would you give to new poets?

Read well and widely. Understand that poetry, like all writing, is an ongoing conversation across the generations. The diversity of voices and styles and origin points really help to expand that conversation. And that previous part about my process illustrates that need to have a bank of images, voices, and styles to draw from when you create new work. Writing is not as much of a solitary endeavour as one is often sold to be. I would, in fact, argue that the greatest lie told in society is the myth of individualism. We all live in relationship to each other. Reading and speaking back across those literary lines and spaces is central to breaking that lie of individualism in art and the world itself. And I generally find one of the reasons poets in particular and writers in general state as to why they write, speaking truth is most often at the top of the list.    

What is the best piece of writing advice someone gave you?

I might say the previous answer. Which was frequent advice from a lot of wildly intelligent and well-read faculty and friends throughout my undergraduate and graduate degrees. And quite honestly, when I’ve been stuck in the creative process or even occasionally on smaller mechanical portions of my work, it’s all the reading that provides the framework for me to correct and move through the work. And when you look at it, my previous work of North of Middle Island (Kegedonce Press, 2023) is based on Beowulf, Gravel Lot that was Montana (Mansfield Press, 2018) is based on Ginsberg’s The Fall of America: Poems of These States, and Devil in the Woods (Brick Books, 2019) on Richard Hugo’s 31 Letters and 13 Dreams. When I say “based on,” I am perhaps not being as precise as to the relationships between those texts. They share certain similarities in format but are meant to resonate as communication between the works, illustrating the universality of storytelling, lyric consciousness, and the craft that goes into how we speak regards of spatial or temporal contexts. And I’m not alone in this process as a writer meaning that the majority of great writers throughout the eras have done the same thing, adding to the greater arc of human existence and experience.

What are you working on now?

In terms of my overall work, I am wrapping up work on my second short story collection, Shift Change. The stories together work to form a narrative arc for the entire book in which in Great Toad of Lenape pre-history returns to bring new order to a desperately chaotic and fallen world. Set in around Waawiiyaatanong (Windsor-Detroit), I consider the book to a community novel of sorts. This is where the same space and overall plot is shared by multiple different, but interconnected characters. Consider Taratino’s Pulp Fiction as one of the more notable versions of this style. Poetry wise, or up directly after this wraps up, is Palsewakan. A collection that explores illness from a Lenape perspective and involves a Hunter S Thompson-esque romp through southwestern Ontario. The illnesses considered relate primarily to socioeconomics, but are also rooted deeply in inter-generational trauma, residential schools, and corporate theftocracies leading to wide-spread drug abuse and homelessness. You could say one project is one of hope and the other of witness. Both of which should be completed well before the new year.  

* This interview was conducted via email in October 2025.