Uproar is changing!
The creators of Uproar Literary Journal are excited to announce important changes in content and focus going forward with their online publication.
We continue with the Carmen Ziolkowski Poetry Prize each spring, honouring work in the spirit of the late local poet Carmen Ziolkowski, but we add a new segment to our journal, called Local Author Profile, that highlights our community writers. Look for this profile, featuring the work of a community-connected author, one or two times a year in our journal. We start off with local poet Grace Vermeer.
The third piece to our new platform takes us back to our roots, when the word “Uproar” was characteristic of our publication. Twice annually, we offer a platform for a local issue or means of expression for a community group. Here, we use art to speak to important experiences, struggles, or celebrations using the voices of those in the community, and others who are connected to them, who have something to say about the area, its people, and the wider world.
Our first publication comes to us in January 2026. Entitled “Ceasefire: A Journal from Gaza,” the edition speaks to the human element of struggle associated with the ongoing crisis in Palestine for those who live in our community. Our second publication, coming in the fall of 2026, features the subject of Truth and Reconciliation through the lens of Indigenous local writers, artists, and community activists.
We at Uproar are excited to bring these changes to our journal. We believe local voices are important in our vibrant community, and we celebrate those voices by recognizing and sharing their contributions.
This is the first in a series of issues that focus on local authors. Our first writer is Sarnia’s Grace Vermeer. Rhonda Melanson sat down with Grace recently and asked her a variety of questions about herself and her work. Some of Grace’s wonderful poetry is posted below.
How did you come into the practice of writing poetry?
Grace: A number of years ago, I wanted to start writing. Lambton College didn’t offer creative writing but they shared a partnership with St. Clair County Community College which had a wonderful English department and I signed up for a creative writing class. The portfolio we had to create was half poetry and I thought, “Oh wow, I don’t know anything about poetry.” But the professor was very encouraging and taught us the basics, that a poem involves the five senses. I remember him reading Sylvia Plath’s poem “Black Rook in Rainy Weather” and I could physically feel what was happening in the poem.
The college also published a journal. When I submitted my portfolio, I was asked to submit to this journal so I did and my poetry bloomed from there. The journal published quite a few poems and one of my short stories. I was fortunate to have several professors who took an interest in my writing and helped me grow.
Then I became ill with undiagnosed Lyme disease. It affected my whole life. I struggled to read or think clearly and had to stop taking classes. I couldn’t write longer pieces, so poetry was perfect because it was small and concise. I call that difficult time in my life “the lost years” but I’m learning that what I call a mistake isn’t a mistake. It’s just what life is, we are human, our hearts break. To quote David Whyte, heartbreak is part of our journey and along the way we find what we love.
Before I wrote poetry, I journalled and now I can see how it provided a good base for poetry. Often in journalling you begin with questions and confusion and if you keep writing, you come to an epiphany, a surprise. In poetry, you write without knowing the end, you write toward that surprise.
Eventually, I was invited to the poetry group After Hours Poets. I remain grateful to this group because for many years that was the only thing I was able to do, besides medical appointments.
You were longlisted for the Mitchell Prize, a contest for faith-based writers. How does your faith influence your poetry?
Grace: My father loved poetry and loved the King James version of the Bible which is imbued with poetry. When he read his favourite scriptures, I was listening to poetry. Those stories and the rhythm and cadence of that language was my background to poetry. Writing poetry helps me try to make meaning of my life so that I can live and move forward. My illness taught me about what mattered and what didn’t matter. All of my favourite authors ask important questions. I don’t like didactic poetry; I am not interested if it’s not a mystery. Poetry comes from the source and it is mystery.
What other themes fascinate you as a poet?
Grace: Psychology fascinates me, why we do what we do, our humanness. When I read, I look for insight, how people triumph over great hardship or find peace in simple everyday things. I am also interested in poetry that explores where we come from, our roots, our parents as people.
Who are some strong influences on your poetry?
Grace: One poet is Mary Oliver. I like that she doesn’t tell all of her secrets. She showed me you can wrestle with darkness and move to a place where you’re not stuck in past trauma. On the nights I can’t sleep, I reach for Mary Oliver.
Richard Harrison’s “On Not Losing My Father’s Ashes in the Flood” inspires me, his writing style. Louise Gluck’s voice in The Wild Iris. Gerald Stern’s love of rust and ruin. I like anthologies that expose me to many different voices, Staying Alive and the two sequel books edited by Neil Astley are amazing.
What is a poem you wish you had written?
Grace: “Kindness” by Naomi Shibab Nye is a poem everyone should read. “Poet’s Obligation” by Pablo Neruda—unforgettable, his “answer to the shuttered heart.”
We thank Grace for sitting down and talking with us. Please check out her wonderful work below!
When my father was seventy-four and I was no longer a girl that cowered, skirting the edge of the room, I asked him to travel back to his childhood, the landscape he’d banished for years. He became an Amish boy in suspenders, hitching the horse to the buggy, driving Delaware’s back country roads past the
Some women resist ruin for three thousand years. The wrecking ball smashes the front closet and hall but they just keep humming and dusting the knick-knacks. Lot’s wife disobeyed, turned and looked back at what was forbidden, now she’s afraid to risk any tears, four could dissolve a salt pillar. I watched a woman sell
I cast my bread on the waters, what I’d wanted and loved shuffled off on a raft, waved, promised to call then never looked back. Sometimes grief braids a rope, crafts a cage or a prison. I set the last brick, found a noose coiled round my neck. What could I do but build a
He conjured up a crow and sent it like a curse, cloaked in black, raven-lit, it settled on her shoulder. Who could have guessed a crow could save, it stole the poisoned bread. Now when ravens strut she counts their raucous throats as gifts that forced a turn, her winter heart borrows light, just like
