TtD supplement #227 : eight questions for Garrett Caples

Garrett Caples is a poet who lives in San Francisco; his most recent book of poems is Lovers of Today (Wave, 2021). He’s an editor at City Lights, where he curates the Spotlight Poetry Series.

His poems “Negative Wound,” “Fleet Week Eclogue,” “#115 AND COUNTING, A REVOLUTIONARY LETTER” and “Index to Revolutionary Letters” appear in the thirty-fifth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poems “Negative Wound,” “Fleet Week Eclogue,” “#115 AND COUNTING, A REVOLUTIONARY LETTER” and “Index to Revolutionary Letters.”

A: These poems were written while I was working on the 50th anniversary edition of Diane di Prima’s Revolutionary Letters. “#115 and Counting” was premised on the idea of the “revolutionary letter” as a form; I think the final edition went up to #114, so my thought was that we might all take up the task, and the collective effort of subsequent poets might be classed as the 115th letter. The “Index” is exactly what it sounds like, insofar as I had to make an index of (sub)titles and first lines for the book, and during the process of revising this according the specs she left behind, various lines or groups of lines would leap out at me as potentially their own stanzas. So that one almost wrote itself and became something about the book and about Diane too. “Negative Wound” is something of a result of listening to and reading about Nina Simone during this period. “Fleet Week Eclogue” came from the hideous fleet week San Francisco is forced to observe every year, during which our own armed forces terrorize us with their goddamn warplanes. It’s a celebration of imperialism and death and ecologically unjustifiable. The title was borrowed from British symbolist John Davidson, who had a book called Fleet Street Eclogues (in reference to what had traditionally been London’s newspaper district).

Q: How do these poems compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: Hard to say; I’ve got a couple newer things since I sent you those that are more or less entirely rhyme-driven, though not necessarily end-rhymed. I also have a couple that are more inspired by work I’ve done this year on Ted Berrigan’s collected prose. Ted’s pretty good for giving you the itch to write, because he makes it seem like almost anything can become a poem. So I wrote a thing that would usually be the kind of thing I would write in prose but I made it into an open field poem. Like the #115 poem, I’m trying to get away from the left margin just because it’s goes against my usual habits.

Q: I’m fascinated by the way you seem open to being influenced by the work you do as an editor. Is this something you are deliberately attentive to, in part to, as you say, go against your “usual habits”?

A: I definitely try to break my habits when I notice them and don’t think they’re necessarily productive. That said, I don’t deliberately try to make myself do something that goes completely against the grain of my inherent inclinations. It’s a fine line, I suppose. I know, for example, my hewing to the left margin is mostly about not wanting to waste time when I’m generating text, as the words themselves are always going to take precedence over the layout. But when I can pull myself away from the margin, it can be generative in its own way, so that’s the left-hand margin is a habit worth challenging to see what comes of it.

In terms of the influence of my editorial activities on my poems, it various quite considerably, as I’m perfectly capable of editing something and not have it intersect with my own work. But if you’re dealing with giants like Ted and Diane, it’s inevitable that they’ll put some notions into your head about stuff to try. The short answer would be, being an editor, for me personally, is a subset of my being a poet, not the other way around, so it’s entirely natural for that work to affect the poetry.

Q: Were you aware of a shift in your work once you began working as an editor? Is there a line a discerning reader could catch in your work, demarking your output between your pre-editing to post-editing periods?

A: I would say no to both questions just because it’s essentially the same thing as when I engage with any poet I’ve read to the point where something of that poet enters into my work. Maybe editing makes a little more intense of an engagement because you need to think about the same bit of text often from more than one perspective, about how the text is situated on the page and in relation to other things on the page. You have to make decisions about things. And if you’re editing for trade press publication, you’re on a deadline and you have to get it done, so you might be forced to think about some text more than you would want to in ordinary reading, and that can lead somewhere. But ultimately it’s incidental whether I’m doing this as an editor or a reader. Poets I’ve never edited, like, say, Gerrit Lansing, have impacted my own work just as much. Mostly I’m lucky I’ve been able to work on projects like Revolutionary Letters and the Berrigan in close proximity.

I need to let new things into my poetry fairly steadily because if it doesn’t keep changing I get bored with it.

Q: With a handful of poetry titles and a collection of essays under your belt, how do you feel your writing has developed? Where do you see your work headed?

A: That’s a hard question because I don’t have terribly grandiose ideas about my poetry. My ambition is the self-contradictory one of wanting to fully realize whatever it is I do as a poet and wanting it to continually change. I would say the difference between The Garrett Caples Reader (1999) and Complications (2007) is fairly vast as it was still early on, then the going to Power Ballads (2016) also seemed like a leap. Lovers of Today (2021) is maybe less dramatic a transformation but it’s also the least amount of time between volumes for me. And realistically the changes grow more subtle as I go. Right now though I’ve got a few new things going on that I’m excited about because I hadn’t written much poetry since the last book. I spent most of 2021 writing fables, as I think of them—fiction, but I don’t like to just say that because it’s nothing like contemporary American fiction. But I’m finally back on the poem.

Q: What prompted you to move into fables? How do you see them utilizing, or even morphing, the genre? And what brought you back into poems?

A: The fables began gradually, insofar as I wrote one, something I called “Parable,” that appeared in Power Ballads as poem, and I do think of these as more allied with poetry than with contemporary fiction, which is why I’m resisting that label. I wrote a couple more before I finished Lovers of Today but I held them back this time, partly because I originally conceived Lovers as one of those sprawling, messy books that were fashionable in poetry prepandemic, but ultimately turned it into a tight volume just because I realized I don’t like being sprawling and messy in poetry (that’s for the rest of my life). So I held them back.

These newer ones coincided with reading some work by Kit Schluter, a poet and translator living in Mexico City right now. Kit’s been writing these things he calls “cartoons” for the same reason I’ve been using the word “fables,” because they’re allied with the poem. Kit’s a translator of Marcel Schwob, who was one of those prose writers who hung out exclusively with poets and whose work, generally classed as fiction, sits uneasily within that genre. Plus he’s been working on Latin American writers like Mario Levrero, and something about his Levrero translations opened up my mind a little bit in terms of how to make such a work. Between handing in my book to my publisher and its publication, extending to the end of 2021, I wrote very little poetry as such, but I wrote six more of these fables. They’re a lot more time consuming than an ordinary poem, so for me, that was a year of creativity spent on those six. And they pretty much stopped coming to me after the end of 2021, so I feel like I have a short book of them, when combined with the earlier three.

I suppose the main influences on this work have been Schwob, Villiers de l’Isle Adam, and other French symbolists, Latin American writers like Cesar Aira, Borges, and Bolano, and Oscar Wilde. A lot of different things. I don’t what their place is within the genre as such, but the fact that I’m almost incapable of not writing in the first-person surely affects the proceedings. The genre as a whole tends toward third-person writing.

What brought me back to the poem, as I suggested earlier, was working on Ted Berrigan’s prose. Due to all the supply chain issues affecting publishing, I had to do nothing but Ted for much of the first half of 2022 in order for it to be published in September. Reading that collected prose is an education. So around May, I started up on poems again with a renewed sense of their possibilities imparted by Ted. They’re nothing like his poems but they came out my encounter with him.

Q: Are you noticing a difference in the poems that are currently emerging, after having run through the gauntlet of both Berrigan’s prose and your work writing fables?

A: I don’t think the fables have had too much bearing on the poetry, only insofar as I have a separate, parallel practice going as a prose writer in general. What happened with the fables is that I finally achieved a sense of improvisation and non-drudgery in the writing of what I’ll broadly allow is fiction, even though I’ve been shirking that label for the aforementioned reasons. I’ve written fiction before and it’s always necessitated a certain amount of drudgery. If you have narrative ideas, you have to get from point A to point B, and anytime you have to follow a certain trajectory in writing, it becomes less creativity and more work. But somehow writing the fables was virtually all creative improvisation, like my poetry is. I can’t fully explain why or how this happened, but it’s another reason why I ally these pieces with poetry more than fiction.

As for the poems emerging now, they’re different but it’s maybe too early to tell what they are. I think Ted’s prose was more of a mental reorientation as opposed to a stylistic or formal influence. But no one would look at these poems and think “Ted Berrigan,” except that I ended up mentioning him in one of them. That poem is called “Moist Aches” and it’s online somewhere at Blazing Stadium if anyone is interested in look at it. That poem is all rhyme generated, so not very Ted at all, though the title came from an autocorrect on my phone when I was trying to type “moustaches.”

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: Philip Lamantia and André Breton are always the touchstones for me. Wittgenstein, except that I never read him anymore. (At a certain point you really do throw the ladder away.) But what I learned about language from reading him is something that’s never gone away and has enabled me to write the way I do. How’s that for an answer?!? What a jerk! But I swear to god it’s true.

Touch the Donkey : thirty-fifth issue,

The thirty-fifth issue is now available, with new poems by Chris Turnbull and Elee Kraljii Gardiner, Garrett Caples, Sheila Murphy, Stuart Ross and Brenda Coultas.

Eight dollars (includes shipping). It's the part I was born to play, baby!

TtD supplement #226 : seven questions for Katie Naughton

Katie Naughton is the author of the chapbook Study (above/ground press, 2021) and “a second singing” (forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press). Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Bennington Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Jubilat, and elsewhere and she is at work on two collections of poems, “Debt Ritual” and “The Real Ethereal.” She is the publicity editor for Essay Press, an editor at the HOW(ever) and How2 Digital Archive Project (launching in 2022), and founder of Etcetera, a web journal of reading recommendations from poets (www.etceterapoetry.com). She is currently living in Vancouver, BC, as a recipient of a Fulbright Canada student research grant at Simon Fraser University and is a doctoral candidate in English and a member of the Poetics program at SUNY Buffalo.
    
Her poems “exchange,” “exchange,” in place of money,” “in place of money,” “double coincidence of wants” and “double coincidence of wants” appear in the thirty-fourth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poems “exchange,” “exchange,” in place of money,” “in place of money,” “double coincidence of wants” and “double coincidence of wants.”

A: These poems are currently placed towards the end of a manuscript in progress, “Debt Ritual,” that I am close to having finished, and some of the later poems composed for that manuscript. I was reading David Graeber’s Debt while working on these poems and trying to learn a way to use his detailed anthropological accounts of the origin and use of debt to write poems. I found that the way I was interested in doing this was not, for the most part, to use language or pieces of information directly from the book but rather to take notes on what interested me and let those expand the range of options I had for thinking about my material. The section I was reading while writing these poems talked about the difficulty of exchange without a system of debt, that it would require a “double coincidence of wants” between exchangers, or elaborate chains of exchange. Rather than describing this idea, I tried to see what using form might tell me about it. These catalogues and their insistence on replacement as part of the act of accretion came out of that. In writing about this today, it is occurring to me that in my job as a paralegal before starting my doctoral program, I was responsible for preparing elaborate lists of ownership of fractional portions of corporate debt, a baroque and effortful human form of accounting not yet replaced by a technological solution like a blockchain. There might be something of that in these poems.

Q: How do these poems compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: Most recently, I have actually looped back to compose a long poem to complete (I hope) my first book-length manuscript, “The Real Ethereal.” That manuscript is much more directly preoccupied with questions of time, distance, family, and death, written mostly around the time two of my grandparents died within a week of each other. I had the opportunity to travel to Sweden in early June, a few weeks before I got married. As I was preparing to travel, my last living grandparent, my grandmother who was of Swedish ancestry and had been very active in researching her family history, became suddenly ill. I visited her in the hospital just before leaving and she died while I was flying to Sweden. The timing of all of this made it possible to return to the thinking of that earlier work, but with some distance and shifts that were productive. I owe the long, journal-like form of this poem to months of working intensively on Bernadette Mayer’s Memory, which offered a gentle invitation to open the form I was working in in “The Real Ethereal” up a bit more, to see what would happen when I strung a week or so of poems together day by day. I wrote every evening around sunset, which given that I was traveling in Scandinavia near the summer solstice, was an uncanny time of day.

Q: You mention Bernadette Mayer’s Memory; are there other writers or works in the back of your head as you write?

A: Lisa Robertson’s ideas about the complex non-identity of selfhood, which acknowledge the ways in which other forces, like reading, civic engagement, and the unconscious physical life of the body shape our individual experience, have been formative to my work as a poet and to the “Debt Ritual” manuscript in particular, with its preoccupation with the public-privateness of debt directly indebted to Robertson’s thinking about the civic and domestic in her collection of essays Nilling.

Q: With a published chapbook and a handful of works-in-progress, how do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see your work headed?

A: I was very interested, when writing my first manuscript “The Real Ethereal,” in questions about syntax and its use in the poetic line, how breaking the sentence broke the sequence (to paraphrase Woolf) of a lyric poem about personal experience and opened up the possibilities of resonances that weren’t straightforwardly confessional, which invited swerves, misdirects, and multiplicities, at the direction of language, that I feel are truer to my lived experience than narrative is. This is still important to me, but in recent years I’ve been trying to expand my subject matter beyond my direct personal experience, or rather, to think about the ways in which what feels private and personal is interconnected with history, policy, the accidents of coincidence, other people, etc. I’m trying to wrap up this “Debt Ritual” manuscript, perhaps by highlighting a bit more directly the linguistic, to the ways in which language might also enact a ritual on its subject material in how it treats it. Maybe. Then I’m really not sure what is next, probably a new project, but I’m not sure yet. I’m interested in the title “Easy Listening” and thinking more directly about beauty in language but I don’t know if that’s a whole project or just something that sounds comforting when I’m exhausted. But after the past few years I’ve been thinking more about comfort and rest. I don’t know yet if there’s a way for me to write about that that doesn’t punt on what is political, too, about access to those states.

Q: I know of some writers who find it difficult to work on the next project until the first one is put to bed, which usually suggests published, or at least accepted for publication. How does the possibility of seeking a home for “The Real Ethereal” effect the way you move forward with your work, if at all?

A: At this point I’m thinking of “The Real Ethereal” as finished – about two years or so ago I put it into a form I was happy with and started submitting it for publication and haven’t changed it much since, though there was some slow tinkering over the course of the time. The new poem to end it from this summer was a surprise. There was some overlap between the composition of poems for “The Real Ethereal” and “Debt Ritual” and a section of poems that I think are kind of a shoulder between the two projects that are currently contained in “The Real Ethereal” that could maybe have gone in either manuscript. I’m not sure how it will go with my next project – I don’t yet have the sense of if something in “Debt Ritual” is going to open up into a new project or if it will be a totally different direction. I do think I have a sense of needing to finish “Debt Ritual,” as in finish getting it into a state I feel ready to start submitting it, before I will have space to think about what I will be writing next.

Q: How does a manuscript usually begin for you? Are you always thinking in terms of full-length, project-based manuscript, or is it a matter of feeling out individual poems until something begins to cohere?

A: The first two manuscripts I’ve worked on (my only examples to go by!) have had their direction begin to cohere out of individual poems, though a particular line of inquiry was a stronger organizing force in the “Debt Ritual” earlier on. I’m unsure what it will be like the third time around.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: I’m not sure that I have a great answer to this question. In some ways, turning away from poetry is how I turn back to it – taking time to pay attention to the physical world around me. Visual art can be helpful for me, nothing in particular, just going to museums or talking with or observing artists’ methods. I’m jealous of their relationship to tangible material, but watching the iterative process of physical making many artist’s go through often reminds me of the possibilities available to me, though somewhat more abstractly, with my language-material. If I’m out of ideas, I can turn to a more materials-based play or exploration and see what comes from there.

TtD supplement #225 : five questions for Barry McKinnon

Barry McKinnon was born in 1944 in Calgary Alberta, where he grew up.  In 1965, after two years at Mount Royal College, he went to Sir George Williams University in Montreal and took poetry courses with Irving Layton. He graduated in 1967 with a B.A. degree. In 1969, he graduated with an M.A. from the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, and was hired that same year to teach English at the College of New Caledonia in Prince George where he has lived and worked ever since. His chapbook, G o n e  S o u t h, his second from above/ground press, appeared not that long ago.

An excerpt of his poem “The Field” appears in the thirty-fourth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about “The Field.”

A: I wrote a version of from the field several years ago, designed and printed 2 copies with a photograph of the McKinnon field and farm house;  this is the view from the family farm-gate looking east.  



I gave a copy to my friend at the time, Ken Belford, and waited for a reply; we’d meet for coffee often to talk poetry and poetics, and swap stories abt the writers we knew.   He sd he was reading the poem slowly and carefully, but I heard no further comment from him.  I call this the Duke Ellington approach – to give neither criticism nor praise and to let said silence leave the writer (or musician) to make an awkward measure of their own skill and worth .  I decided that there was something wrong with the poem (scattered, obscure, drifting and meaningless in a bad way – and what Ezra Pound might call “ a work of second intensity”.  Years later I opened the file, re read the piece and decided that it was salvageable with much editing work ahead.  I decided the original opening line abt veering off a contemporary freeway & the sudden jump to my memories of growing up in the 1950’s, was a mistake. Removing that first line gave me reason to continue the hard slog into the memories and images that formed my early view of the world:  school detentions, 10  years old selling xmas cards in July, paper routes thru winter snow, tap dancing lessons, hauling and selling manure in high school,  trips to the farm in spring, the flooded fields, my grandparent’s rooming house, the care and wisdom of my mother, the drunk men on the farm “busted like Indians” etc etc.  The details and my reflections, unlike the literal list here, are given meaning by the gaps, and fragmentations - a boy’s raw and direct thought with sparse narrative detail.   The emotion comes from a sense of isolation, humiliation, and fear, and exaltations in that prairie landscape. I had, as Robert Creeley once wrote,  “a small boys notion of doing good” as a kind of prerequisite to be taken into the family fold.

relief was dirt/  sage & meadow lark
.
A note on typography:  I wrote some sections in italic as a visual/tonal/rhythmic shift - to set them apart as lyrical riffs in a quieter voice:

wheat gum, crocus, a  22 gun, - pussy willow, cat tail, in the east slough mud wading for ducks in bright wind and light had meaning  in a multiple compilation  & complex of  

 beauty

no word we had

when sensed in weakness that all was gone my mother said this happens to the strong -

hod carriers, paper boys selling Xmas cards in July – the family ledger of all
we did defined us in the backroads we had to take thru the impending field

Otherwise, the whole poem can be found under New Archives, at barrymckinnon.com.

Added note:

Hod Carrier:  I remember my father calling us hod carriers.  My brother and I had a 1947 Fargo truck that we used to haul and sell manure. Later I found that Hod Carriers are laborers who haul bricks in a 3-sided box on their shoulders. We hauled manure – hod carriers of another sort.  

Q: How does this piece compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: This is an interesting question. I would usually suspect the term “other work” to mean “new work”, but since I’m again in a long silent stretch – i.e. no new work - my current project is to revise I Wanted to Say Something – a poem written in 1971  (51 years ago!) chronicling my grandparent’s migration from Michigan to the Alberta prairie in 1908.

My revisions are partly based on new detail in my deceased grandfather’s 1978 oral memoir when he was 90 years old in The Wheatland Lodge in Strathmore, Alberta.  I transcribed his account many years after I wrote the poem and found information that amplifies his original stories, and clarifies some of the queries I had at the time of writing. The project now is to add, delete, and expand details (including the addition of a few lost photographs not included in the 2 published versions).  How to get the story right when two memories are transcribing the past?  

I was making internal corrections at the time of writing in 1971, but purposely left them in the text; for instance, in one picture of my grandfather and a child standing in a field of oats  (I ask, is it my mother/ or  my aunt?).  Later in the poem, after finding out it was my aunt Dorothy, I write, “finally/here is your aunt”.  

                                             and here, is it my mother/or  my aunt ?
        hidden in the grass, the oats
brushing
              her shoulders

                                   (who gave this life to me ?

the legacy:  pictures/and ignorance  and love
to look back
                    upon:



I was also unsure of the cause death of my grandparent’s baby.  Was my original line, “a baby dies from bad milk” really the improbable cause as I remember it being told?  Not being sure, I changed the line to “a baby dies” in the revised 2nd edition (Red Deer College Press, 1990).  Here is my grandfather’s account that now indicates the change I have to make in the new web version of the poem. A version of “bad milk” goes back in. 

Our first boy Clare was born in 1910.  When he was 14 months old, Jessie was in     the hospital with a pregnancy.  I took him over the Philip’s but the Phillip’s cows     got out and were gone two or three days.

Their first milk when they came back didn’t agree with Clare and he was soon a very     sick boy.  Dr. Salmon said he would have to get to the hospital immediately, so I     took him on the train carrying him on a pillow.  We took a taxi from the station to     the hospital.  The hospital wasn’t able to save him and the next morning he died.

I might place some of this new material in footnotes or an addendum where I can expand his experiences: i.e. his 5 year court case and loss to the J.I. Case company, his orphan and work experience as a child labourer, family survival during the flu epidemic in 1917, and his other remembrances re. the 30’s drought etc. etc. 

Either way, I’m trying not to alter the poem’s overall balance by over-filling these gaps and therefore, lapsing into a longer prose narrative that risks losing the energy of what’s implied / what’s unsaid.  
   
And yes, there is a direct comparison between from The Field and I Wanted to Say Something. Both poems share subject matter and the memory of growing up in the late 40’s and 1950’s in Calgary and the prairie farm at Strangmure 40 miles east.  I’m still going back to those roots /that particular space and time.     

Added note:  My friend Brian Fawcett, who recently died, was an intelligent, harsh and great editor.  When he first read I Wanted to Say Something his one comment that sticks with we was that he was interested in how I as writer was “struggling with sentimentality” – that risk a writer takes when writing about complex family issues that might end in euphemism or cliché. As Wallace Stevens sd, to this effect:  sentimentality is the failure of emotion. This truth should be a consideration of any writing that is generated by what otherwise is deeply felt but shallowly described.

Only emotion endures

Ezra Pound

Q: Given the length and breadth of your publishing history, how do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see your work headed?

A: In the long run that gets shorter at this point in my life – I have to guess where the work will go.  Where it came from is easier to determine.  In my writing, each poem informs and projects a way to the next.  In between, however, there is the continual need and necessary study of poetry and its various approaches - and to keep learning from the influential poets I’ve been attracted to.

To go back, my early work in the 1960’s - as is the case for most poets of my generation - comes from a lyric urge.  Young writers don’t tend to write epics, though their lives might seem large and dramatic enough to make the brash W.C. William’s pronouncement: I am a poet, I am a poet!  I stand reaffirmed!. The shame comes later. 

In 1970 I wrote my first long poem, I Wanted to Say Something – a poem that more or less set the form for work to come.  The poem opened a large space to write in - my grandparent’s pioneer history on the prairie – 61 pages with old photos, transcribed stories, and the early family memories of growing up in an urban and rural landscape of the late 40’s early 50’s. 

Moving to Prince George in 1969 was a crucial move in terms of developing a poetic to match the harsh and often abrasive industrial context I found myself in.  So much for the lyric poet, as Brian Fawcett might say, “moonily looking into space” while the house you’re in (as happened in the Giscombe mill town in the early 70’s) gets literally bulldozed over- night.  Prince George became one of my muses and opened a new range to include politics, economics, geography – a complex mixed landscape of dark and light.  My inspirators at this point were Brian Fawcett who preceded me in Prince George, my friend and colleague John Harris, and the visiting American poet Paul “Red” Shuttleworth (also one of the great characters in my life - pro baseball player, college teacher, play write, and now at the age of 77, started a boxing career with two wins in his two first fights).  

The long poems that followed went in several directions generated by various subjects/conditions:  Arrhythmia (heart fibrillations), a sex series written every 7 years, various “traumatic monologues” (as one woman called them) dealing with authoritarian management systems during stormy teaching years, love and the threat of its loss, drinking in down and out dives, the students who fed me many lines in Pulp Log:  I am writing this so Barry McKinnon will understand ...  I wasn’t talking, only moving lips.

Other aspects, as I look back, are the long poems I wrote when I was a foreigner in foreign places. I didn’t travel a lot, but when I did, new measures of the world, if lucky, appeared.  I remember Al Purdy saying that he had to travel in order to keep writing.  Thus we get his North of Summer poems and many poems that refer to places he’s been.  Likewise, my initial banal/quotidian notebook entries while in Bolivia and Peru, became the long poem Bolivia/Peru after we were mugged in Lima.  I had to assess this traumatic experience in terms of what a young Peruvian waiter said to us:  In life there is good. In life there is bad. Overall, you end up being glad for these experiences and what they teach - and the writing they might produce.

Likewise, I spent long stretches in California and Arizona and over 5 years wrote the series Gone South recently published as a chap book in rob mclennan’s above/ground press series.  

Always, the prompts of place and circumstance.

Where is it all headed?  I go long stretches not writing and cannot predict the situations that produce it.  One of Robert Creeley’s last books Life & Death gives the most generalized sense of subject and condition at this point in my life.  Then there is W.B. Yeats:

Horseman pass by, cast a cold eye ...

until something more can be said.  

Q: What particular works can’t you help but return to?  

A: Here’s a paragraph from my essay did you real all these books:

Anyone with a working library (writers, teachers, scholars and researchers) develops diverse ways to read depending on immediate requirements.  Some books I need as reference sources, some I skimmed or partially read and then shelved for later reading, some I knew would take a lifetime to read and reread and that I’d have to return to for both work, knowledge and pleasure (William Carlos Williams, Ezra Pound, Charles Olson, Robert Creeley, Emily Dickenson, et. al.), some I had to read for exams and term papers in college and because of that pressure didn’t really absorb their total weight, beauty or importance.  In the last three years, however, I began a project to reread every word of the books I earlier found long, intimidating and difficult: Joyce’s Ulysses, The Canterbury Tales, Beowulf, The Inferno, Moby Dick and Louis Zukosvsky’s epic “A” - and a stack of others also sit on the “to read” list.  

As I grow older I sometimes think of culling the whole thing down to one six-foot shelf.  On other days to grab only those few to fill a hobo’s knapsack.  But given my habit, it’s more so, that for now - I’ll keep em all! –  these friends, and measures as source for inspiration.

What thou lovest well remains/ the rest is dross.  

(Ezra Pound, Canto 81)

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: This is a photo of one book shelf of 5 in my study.  It contains biographies, poetry anthologies, 2 shelves of Canadian poetry, and 2 shelves of American poetry.
 


Early on I was reading the City Lights Books from San Francisco: Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti et.al. – and various other books I’d get from Evelyn De Mille’s independent bookshop in the centre of downtown on First Street and 7th Avenue, I was also inspired to write after hearing T.S. Eliot read on CBC radio.  I had no clue about what he was saying, but the rhythm and seriousness captured me and I brashly thought: I can do this too! Apropos of Eliot’s formal and religious tone, I was reading Norman Mailer’s Deaths for the Ladies (and Other Disasters) – quick, quirky, funny poems as reactions pricking at the social world. I can do this too!  My other important reading source was the Safeway Dictionary that came in cheap installments with grocery purchases (a dollar a section, I think). My mom would bring the various sections (grouped ABC...DEF...etc) home with our groceries, and I would then slot them into its huge fake leather covered three ring binder that would grow and expand over the months – finally to XYZ and its full bulk of six or eight inches. I would open the dictionary randomly, read daily with fascination - this world of words defined to become a prime source for reference and energy in one’s writing. 

My first year college English teacher, Bill Wilson, commented that the poems I submitted to him were Byronesque, whereupon I signed out every book by Lord Byron, including the biographies and stories of Mad Jack, gun running in Greece, and other salacious accounts of the wild and dangerous life of being a poet.  I learned much in Byron’s’ rush of couplets but, in this case, the galloping form was not for me: I went back to read more from the open-verse Beats.

I think it’s interesting that you use the word “reenergize” which assumes work in a kind of stasis that requires outside literary prompts.  I remember brash young poets announcing that they would not read other poets for fear of infecting their “personal style” or endangering some kind of ontological integrity. Once I suggested to one young poet that she should read Charles Olson apropos of something she sd about her own work.  Her response:  “nobody can tell me what to fucking read!” That was the end of that! So many geniuses so easily forgotten.  For the serious others who enter the threshold and open door to that place where there are no half measures or compromises – there is only the real work of writing, reading and infinite study ahead.

In Montréal I met the painter, poet, Roy Kiyooka via Milly Risdevedt, an aspiring young painter who posed nude for Roy’s evening classes.  Milly invited me to the class to meet Roy, and as a young curious poet, I happily and expectantly went.  Roy was a sage, a small and skinny man with a Fu Manchu moustache and long pointed beard. Initially, his tacit demeanor scared me a bit as he quietly roamed the room to watch the students painting landscapes or sketching Milly in her stationary pose. I followed Roy from easel to easel; what initially interested me most was a tape of Robert Creeley reading that filled the studio background while Roy voiced insightful, laconic comments with his occasional and indescribable high cosmic laugh.  

One student was working on a painting of a man on a wharf watching a passing steam ship. To give a lesson on perspective Roy stroked his beard and said,” Thaaat booaat is going to hiiit his heead”!  So it is that whatever hours that student spent on the wharf, they were now for naught.  I think the sketches of nude Milly got either little praise or comment, or worse: complete silence.  For me, it was an auspicious beginning – the privilege to hear abt Roy’s friend Robert Creeley, and to read Roy’s copy of For Love as evidence of great poetry by a writer I would begin to follow for a lifetime.

My poetry professor at the time, Irving Layton, also knew Robert Creeley; they had an extensive correspondence and friendship; Creeley published one of Layton’s books, In the Midst of My Fever, via his Divers Press in Majorca.  I was now entering an interesting firing range as a young poet:  Kiyooka’s praise for Creeley and Layton’s too-easy dismissal of his old friend as a “paranoid mumbler”.  This was a big lesson in how poets reveal their personal judgments and aesthetic measures for a young poet to consider. 

Over the years I came to Creeley’s defense more than once by quoting his poems and essays.    For instance, my friend Al Purdy did not like Creeley’s poetry, Olson and the Black Mountain poets and was very suspicious of their influence on Canadian writing (i.e. particularly the Tish group in Vancouver).  After Al read to a sluggish class of afternoon high school students in Prince George, we went downtown for thrift –book shopping and beer.  Al was quiet and surly.  I asked him what was wrong.  He sd that his reading was awful; the students didn’t like him – and for a great Canadian poet, he was experiencing, what I thought, a big silent ego let down.    I sd Al: “whenever I know what others think of me, I’m plunged into loneliness”.  Al’s scowl disappeared and he bellowed out, “ did you just say that?  Who the hell sd that? Robert Creeley! I said.  Goddamn! Do you have his address? I want to write him a letter - a letter, I assumed, to compliment the depth of Creeley’s accuracy in describing a complex personal event in a very short poem.   

I’ve been mostly happy in this kind of personal contact with many poets who share some sense of the wonder, the beauty and the surrounding political miasma:  we’ve seen and yakked for hours about the Vancouver wars, the Prince George poetry wars, those suspect in their career moves, the politics and controversies of writers who get grants and residencies, gender, age and race issues with ideological agendas, the fights between street poets and university academics, and the proclamations of the new to supplant the old - AND in all of this, to recognize the poets for clinging to their paddles and who have thus, survived.

TtD supplement #224 : seven questions for Monica Mody

Monica Mody is the author of Kala Pani (1913 Press), the forthcoming Bright Parallel (Copper Coin), and three chapbooks including Ordinary Annals (above/ground). Her poems have appeared in anthologies including The Penguin Book of Indian Poets, Future Library: Contemporary Indian Writing, The Red River Book of Poetry of Dissent, and &Now Awards 2: The Best Innovative Writing. Her poetry also appears in Poetry International, Indian Quarterly, Almost Island, Boston Review, and other lit magazines. She has been a recipient of the Sparks Prize Fellowship (Notre Dame), the Zora Neale Hurston Award (Naropa), and a Toto Award for Creative Writing. Monica was born in Ranchi, India, and currently lives in San Francisco—Ohlone territory.

Her poems “Mouthfuls,” “Spirit of Regeneration,” “Alchemy” and “In Situ” appear in the thirty-fourth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the “Mouthfuls,” “Spirit of Regeneration,” “Alchemy” and “In Situ.”

A: I happened upon “Mouthfuls” when I opened an old fellowship application packet earlier this year. I didn’t remember receiving it, revising it. I have a habit of putting away poem drafts in a folder to come back to later, and when I go back to those drafts, they sometimes surprise me—but this was not a draft. It felt like it had arrived almost fully. This made “Mouthfuls” a gift.

“Spirit of Regeneration” was written as an invocatory poem for the summer solstice ritual marking Earth Activist Training’s 20th anniversary and the 70th birthday of its founder, permaculture teacher Starhawk, in June 2021.

I wrote “Alchemy” in January 2022 when I was asked to write a haiku about ‘myself’ in a non-literary community.

“In Situ” is one of the poems in an emergent series steered by my inquiry as an immigrant in the United States.

Q: How do these poems compare to some of the other work you’ve been doing lately?

A: Some of my other recent poems have been interested in remythologizing South Asian mythic figures such as the yoginis or the river/goddess Sarasvati, who governs speech and music, among other things. (You can watch/listen to the poem “Sarasvati” here.) There are somewhat different concerns at play in that series of poems—decolonial feminine concerns, stemming from the particular South Asian histories of colonial modernity and nationalist patriarchy. And, the four poems in Touch the Donkey—with their interest in language and its music, belonging/not belonging, the confluence of earth-based spirituality and nondual ethic—certainly traverse and play on similar ground.  

Q: You say you put drafts away in folders to return to later. Does that suggest you work on multiple pieces simultaneously, setting some poems aside when you get stuck, and returning to prior drafts to see if fresh eyes make the difference?

A: It’s more about separating the generative phase from the revision phase. I often generate much more than I take to completion—but it’s nice to have the ‘raw material.’ As a transdisciplinary practitioner, I don’t work only on poems—when I do, and yes, if I get stuck, it often helps to set aside the poem for a few hours or few days—sometimes longer—so that the poem can find the breathing space and resolution it needs.  

Q: I’m curious about your interdisciplinary approach: how separate are the various practices through which you work? Do you see your practice as a series of discrete, or even interconnected, threads, or all part of a single, ongoing, singular practice? And how does your work in one form impact upon your work in another?

A: These practices are indeed interconnected—even though each of them emerged at different points and out of different imperatives in my evolutionary trajectory. More and more, I see my work as listening to the pulse of the sacred and bringing it into form. “The sacred”—for me, comprises the earth and kin networks she anchors; breath and womb and body; beginnings and endings; the small and the vast and the dark and the light; ancestral and spirit-realms; pilgrimages across waters or dimensional spaces; laughter and grief; communal and personal sovereignty; restorying pasts and patterns that exclude or extract; continuity of wisdom and the process of change. I don’t see living as being outside the purview of art—living is a practice of the sacred too. Out of chaos into form.

Q: With one collection published and one that will be published soon, and three chapbooks, how do you feel your work has progressed? Where do you see your work headed?

A: I’d say the books variously track my engagement with formations of identity, explorations in language and genre and embodied consciousness, reclamation of ancestral and motherline memories, contouring of the intersections of earth/spirit/dissolution.

I hope my work continues to take up and grow more capable in the task of reshaping reality!

Q: Do you have any models for the kinds of work you’ve been attempting? Are there any particular writers or works in the back of your head as you write?

A: Hmm, I have a resistance to the idea of “models” at this juncture in my writing/life. I don’t have other writers or works at the back of my head as I attempt to write. I have urgings and intensities. These could be ideas. Images. Visions. Emergent knowings that arrive as language.

I wonder, on this literary map we are etching as I/we write, what is the song that will guide us to the precipice, and then invite us to take another step? What comes after we take that step? What could source and shape my/our writing that has not come before—at least not a past that traps us in pre-existing models.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: Poets who come to writing as frequency, sound, language of bedazzlement & revelation. To name just a few: Lal Ded, Kabir, Joy Harjo, Cecilia Vicuña, Raul Zurita, Emily Dickinson, Federico Garcia Lorca, Diane di Prima, Agha Shahid Ali. The spirit of their writing leaps across the printed word.

TtD supplement #223 : seven questions for Jade Wallace

Jade Wallace’s poetry and fiction have appeared in journals including Canadian Literature, This Magazine, The Stockholm Review, and Hermine. Wallace is the reviews editor for CAROUSEL and co-founder of the collaborative writing entity MA|DE, and has a debut full-length poetry collection, Love Is A Place But You Cannot Live There, forthcoming from Guernica Editions in 2023. Stay in touch: jadewallace.ca

Their poems “Everywhere Else,” “Fun City,” “The Population of Caput Mundi,” “Taking the Greatest City in the World,” “Leaving Gotham,” and “Epistemology after New York” appear in the thirty-fourth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poems “Everywhere Else,” “Fun City,” “The Population of Caput Mundi,” “Taking the Greatest City in the World,” “Leaving Gotham,” and “Epistemology after New York.”

A: These six are, for me, old poems, written in spring 2016, after my mother and I actually did take a train trip to New York City. It was the first time either of us had been there. Unlike the poems I write now, these are very much autobiographical, and they are very honest, possibly too honest, because someone who read them recently suggested they have a certain ‘meanness’ about them. Maybe they do; maybe I do. But I will say in my defense: I love my mother, and New York is probably a fine city, it’s just overall too big and slick of a city for me. (Though, as you can probably tell from the titles of poems, I did have fun with New York’s lively nicknames.)

These six poems are part of a longer sequence of poems about the trip my mother and I took to New York, “Cynic’s Guidebook,” which is a section of my debut poetry collection, Love Is a Place but You Cannot Live There, forthcoming from Guernica Editions in 2023. Like other poems from the section and the book as a whole, these poems play with psychogeography, which, not to go on too long a tangent, is an artistic and sometimes academic mode of exploration that tries to see locales through the lenses of defamiliarization and desire, rather than familiarity and capital. Psychogeography is an approach that obviously has its limitations, and I try to navigate both the possibilities and constraints of psychogeography in these poems.

Q: I’m curious about this, as you suggest, rare foray into the autobiographical. Is this a direction you see yourself working further in, or was this simply a specific burst, prompted by this particular trip?

A: The autobiographical is a mode that used to be my default for many years and has now become a rarity. I used it most during my adolescence and my twenties when my interior landscape and my place in the world often felt mysterious and uncertain to me. Writing autobiographical poetry was a way for me to both investigate and start to establish myself. Implicitly, my autobiographical writing was answering questions like: What are the narratives I use for myself when I sit alone and assess my life? How do they compare to the narratives others have ascribed to me? You’ll see this mode at work throughout Love Is a Place but You Cannot Live There, when it comes out. The poems in the book often manifest a persistent dialogic tension between the speaker (me) and other people I interact with. I don’t mean tension here in a negative way; it’s simply an observation. Recognizing tension can lead to insight, I find, if you can then parse the forces that are creating the feeling of tension.

Then my life quieted down a lot around the age of thirty. Home, partner, career. I’d picked my purple figs, as Plath might say. It was the most stability I’d had since leaving my childhood home. (Of course, such stability is always in part illusory, but prior to that I couldn’t even sustain the illusion.) I suppose my life became pleasantly routine, which meant that I no longer felt compelled to endlessly interrogate my perceptions, and instead increasingly turned outside of myself. My second poetry manuscript, for example, which is now substantially complete, is about how we define and value labour. Inevitably there’s a lot of me in it, but the poems are not about me. I don’t think that such a move toward the external is inherently either good or bad, it’s simply what's more interesting to me now.

Q: I’m curious about your referencing Sylvia Plath. Her work was obviously autobiographical, pushing deep into the confessional. Do you see this strain of your work as confessional? What other poets or writing do you feel influenced this particular direction?

A: When I reflect back on it, my poetry was probably guided by the autofiction I was reading at the time, which accounts for the autobiographical and narrative impulses. (It also probably explains why I wasn’t overly invested in having my poetry look or sound like PoetryTM; I was more interested in the content of the ideas than the form they took.) Whether my work from that period counts as confessional is a question I can only answer ambivalently. I suppose it was partly confessional, in the sense that the work, even now, feels personal and intimate, and often tinged by a blush of shame, like any good confession. But at the same time, the version of me that appears in the poems of Love Is a Place but You Cannot Live There spends an awful lot of time asking questions of, or observing, other people in the poems, which is rather the opposite of confession. This inclination toward a more social and dialogic mode of poetry was influenced by a couple of writers who, like me, grew up among the orchards of Niagara: James Millhaven and Terry Trowbridge. I’m still affected by their approaches to poetry, even if, on a superficial level, our poetry looks more dissimilar these days than it used to.

Q: With your full-length debut forthcoming, and your current works-in-progress, how do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see your work heading?

A: The honest answer is that I’m not sure. Right now, I’m at or near completion on several projects that occupied me for the past few years: The Work Is Done When We Are Dead, my sophomore poetry manuscript; Anomia, my debut novel manuscript; and ZZOO, my debut collaborative poetry manuscript with MA|DE. While I was working on those projects, I had a quite clear sense of what I was doing and what I needed to occupy myself with to see the projects through. Once they are, hopefully, off in the world, I’ll still be at home, sitting with Echo Phenomena, a debut short fiction manuscript that I have a lot of drafted material for, but only a hazy vision of what the collection ought to be, and Petal Cipher, a third poetry manuscript that is, literally, nothing more than a title and three large envelopes full of paper scraps. So I suppose what I’ll be doing is making blueprints, looking at maps, sculpting clay, fumbling in the dark.

Q: I’m curious about your explorations through collaboration. What do you feel you are able to achieve through collaboration that might not have been possible otherwise?

A: I’ll speak to MA|DE specifically, as that’s been my longest-term collaboration, and the only collaborative partnership I’ve been in where the collaboration is treated as its own entity. MA|DE, as we like to say, has a ‘third voice.’ It’s something other, something more, than just a combination of my voice and my collaborator Mark Laliberte’s. We’ve been working steadily that way as MA|DE since 2018. Thus far we’ve published three chapbooks, written one full-length manuscript, and have started drafting two other full-length books as well. So we’ve done quite a bit of writing together, and we’re always testing out new approaches, and in that sense I see collaboration as an end in itself. It’s a mode of writing, like how fiction is a mode of writing; it has its own possibilities and challenges and it forces you to do particular kinds of problem-solving and develop certain skills as writer you might not have otherwise. That alone is worthwhile.

For me particularly, one of my limitations as a writer is that I can be quite narrow-minded. I need all the lines I write to make sense. I need to be able to explain them, at least to myself. I need to see a discernible flow of thought across the page. Mark is much more intuitive and, frankly, creative, than I am. He writes like he’s a wild vine, and I write like I’m a gardener. When we’re writing as MA|DE, we’re constantly navigating a space somewhere between those two tendencies. I have to become more expansive, he has to become more orderly. Our taste in poetry, likewise, often diverges, which is good. There are many influences and styles we each bring to bear on any individual poem, and it forces us to come up with unexpected workarounds to create a harmonious poem that we’re both satisfied with.

Q: I’m curious about the work of your second manuscript, speaking to how “we define and value labour.” When I think of “labour” articulated through poetry, I think of the strains of “work” poetry that manifested in those early days of the Kootenay School of Writing, through poets such as Tom Wayman, Phil Hall, Kate Braid, Peter Culley and Jeff Derksen, etcetera, or even some of more recent poets in the Philadelphia area, such as ryan eckes. How is this element presenting itself in your work?

A: When I was doing preliminary research about the poetry of work, these were some of the names that came up frequently! What I’ve noticed is that a lot of poetry collections about work focus on activities that are easily recognized as work. Consider for instance Braid’s Turning Left to the Ladies, which looks at construction work and carpentry done for pay, or the anthology Wayman edited, A Government Job at Last: An Anthology of Working Poems, which also explicitly focuses on paid work. Paid work is of course an important subject, but I wanted to consider it alongside other forms of work we do: identity construction, community-building, relationship maintenance. How do these forms of work compare? What lessons do we learn in one sphere of labour that we might bring to bear upon the others? I suppose what fascinates me is the rather sharp divide between the work we are forced to do to make a living, and the work we willingly undertake because we find it necessary, meaningful, fulfilling, even delightful, for its own sake. Could all our work one day be elevated, and made to transcend mere drudgery? These are the issues I’m tackling in The Work Is Done When We Are Dead and, as the title suggests, the urgency of the questions for me is related to the fact that labour of one kind or another is a lifelong requiement, pervading all of our days until we die.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: There are definitely certain texts that continue to preoccupy me for years. Tennessee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie, Nella Larsen’s Passing, Sue Goyette’s The Brief Reincarnation of a Girl, and Hiromi Goto’s The Kappa Child would be good examples.

But for me, energy typically comes from reading new material, reading widely, and reading whatever interests me at a given time. Sometimes that’s a news article, sometimes it’s philosophy, sometimes it’s a cookbook. It doesn’t matter, really, whether it’s relevant to what I’m working on. Sometimes it’s better if it’s irrelevant, so the mind starts drawing unusual connections. What inspires me is surprising language and new information—in fact it needn’t even come in the form written material specifically (though that's my preferred medium). The radio, podcasts, TV shows, a line I overheard when walking past someone on the sidewalk, it all gets stored somewhere in memory and comes back later in unexpected ways. As long as I stay curious and stay informed so I have a full well to draw from, I can write.

TtD supplement #222 : seven questions for Nathan Austin

Nathan Austin is the author of (glost), Tie an O, and Survey Says!, as well as the recent chapbooks, in very Variant (Greying Ghost) and a in e’er (Hiding Press). His work has recently appeared, or is forthcoming, in petrichor, P-Queue, Babel Tower Notice Board, Speculative Nonfiction, The Believer, ToCall, and Translation: a Halophyte Collective exhibition. He lives in Los Angeles.

His poems “& every waterfall, the surge and tremble of its own mouth” and “Love is a bird-like mouth that kisses,” as well as two untitled poems, appear in the thirty-fourth issue of Touch the Donkey.

Q: Tell me about the poems “& every waterfall, the surge and tremble of its own mouth” and “Love is a bird-like mouth that kisses,” as well as two untitled poems included in the issue.

A: These days, most of my writing begins with Google Books searches: I’m fascinated by the strange distortions that show up when the archive misreads its own contents. Scanning errors or passages of text that depart from printing conventions are often transformed into gibberish or read into the wrong language; texts laid out on the page in vertical columns are often read across divisions, which produces strange turns of phrase.

Some of what my searches turn up feels like it’s been worn down by digital erosion until it’s no longer language. Forms like illloriler and bbllue (the clearest evidence in these four poems of this part of my process) remind me of something the tide’s coughed up onto the beach. My eye’s drawn to these misshapen and unsayable lumps; my mouth cannot hold them.

Lately, I’ve been feeding the weathered words and twists of phrase that I find into predictive text generators. That was really central to the process of writing these four poems, in fact. I should say that I don’t have a coding background, so my understanding of how these things work isn’t very sophisticated; I treat tools like these (or Adjunct Travesty) essentially as black boxes: I put something in, and something else comes out. What comes back to me can feel as mysterious and ancient as an echo. It’s often often a fascinatingly-distorted near-imitation, but in particularly delightful moments, it can feel like an uncanny and wholly other response calling out from the electronic beyond.

I should say, too, that I don’t intend to mystify the tools that I use (even as I invoke similarities between my writing process and various “practices of outside”). Of course, neither Google Books nor AI can be disentangled from the economic, social and political contexts that produced them. And, to be honest, I don’t really know what it means to “acknowledge” these things the way I am here--the matter of how to navigate my relationship to these technologies is something I’m still trying to think through and interrogate.

Q: How do these pieces compare with some of the other work you’ve been doing?

A: Like these pieces, most of the poetry I’ve published lately uses some combination of errors from Google Books scans and the output from predictive text generators. In terms of both process and the overall “feel” of the poems that emerged from that process, the ones in Touch the Donkey are probably most similar to my Hiding Press chapbook, a in e’er.

But the longer answer to your question is that I’ve always worked with found material and procedures and sometimes-absurdly-elaborate processes: for Survey Says! I transcribed contestants’ answers from a hundred or so episodes of that old game show Family Feud; for my Greying Ghost chapbook, in very variant, I wrote by using a loosely defined “system” to erase the dictionary definitions of variant word pairs from a few of Emily Dickinson’s poems.

Dictionaries have always been important to my work, and much of the material I used in writing the poems in Touch the Donkey comes from dictionary usage examples and pronunciation guides. And I’m always really interested in the tension between intelligibility and its opposite, and in the ways that writing draws the visual and auditory into sometimes-uneasy contact with one another, as well as the various roles language plays in the relationships between self and world.

Q: I like the idea of the tension between, as you say, “intelligibility and its opposite.” What brought you to this particular consideration? Were there particular writers or works that pointed you in this direction?

A: On some level, I think of engagement with the unintelligible as an inherent part of poetry’s work, whether that takes the form of “expressing the inexpressible” or aiming to reach Louis Zukofsky’s “upper limit music.” I think that poetry’s capacity to dwell in the unintelligible is an extension of its mythic ties to the underworld.

(At some point, I’ll need to interrupt myself to qualify all of this: I’m using the words “intelligible” and “unintelligible” in what’s probably a very imprecise way here. For the moment, I’m thinking of “unintelligible” as covering a range that includes silence, erasure, sound/noise, nonsense, etc. or that creates dysfluent encounters with [one’s “own”] language.)

I’ve been fortunate to learn a great deal from other poets whose writing engages with what I think of as the unintelligible. As a college student relatively new to poetry, I envied pop music’s ability to bury vocals and lyrics in the mix; I was drawn to writing that showed me how to do something similar. Poems for the Millennium (which was new then, and very exciting) pointed me in several directions I’d never considered before—the blues lyrics whose vocal performance Eric Sackheim visualizes as text, or Jerome Rothenberg’s similar “total translations” of Frank Mitchell’s horse songs.

Through that anthology, I started reading Schwitters’ Ursonate and Hugo Ball’s sound poetry—as well as Aleksei Krychenykh’s explorations into the possibility of a transrational language, which I think of as one way of dreaming up a perfect intersection of intelligibility and unintelligibility, signal and noise. From there, I found my way to Susan Howe, whose emphasis on text’s material stuff—the archaic spellings she plucks from the archive and lines scattered across the page—confounded my fluency and allowed me to feel her words as they tumbled around in my mouth, even when I was reading silently. P Inman’s poems felt like gnawing on hard candy; alongside some of Clark Coolidge’s books, they showed me just how noisy poetry can get. And of course Gertrude Stein!

I could go on listing formative influences for a long time…. Instead, I’d rather mention some writers and books I’ve encountered much more recently that have given me a lot to think about when it comes to both the nature of intelligibility / unintelligibility, and the techniques poetry can use to call intelligibility’s limits into the space of poem. Among them are several works that have offered me a lot of food for thought, particularly when it comes to thinking through various ways that unintelligibility intersects with race and gender, as well as performance: M. NourbeSe Philip’s Zong!, Nora Collen Fulton’s Thee Display, Amanda Hurtado’s S ACE P, and JJJJJerome Ellis’ The Clearing, as well as recent reprints of Norman H. Pritchard’s EECCHHOOEESS and The Matrix.

Q: It reminds me of a quote I recall from Meredith Quartermain, how words can’t help but mean. In certain ways, meaning can’t be helped, and even jwcurry once spoke of the difficulty of discussing the simultaneousness of visual poetry: any conversation forces itself into a particular, and therefore arbitrary, order. How much are you working against or even with the possibilities of any potential reader attempting to assemble the pieces of your work together into meaning?

A: “Meaning can’t be helped.” I love that way of putting it: meaning is always there, like it or not; maybe we’re powerless against it. I don’t know that I’d thought of it quite that way before, but the idea resonates with my own experience. Words draw meanings in; I’m interested in the ways they interact once they’re in a space.

I think of meaning in my poetry as emergent and experiential.

Taking procedural approaches to writing allows me the luxury of pretending I’m at least partially outside of the meanings that circulate within a particular poem. That is to say, I don’t begin from a space of “I have something to say,” nor do I aim to arrive at a unified, cohesive message. Instead, I try to listen closely to what the fragments that I’ve collected or generated might have to say when they’ve been set alongside one another, and try to create spaces in which they’ll echo off of one another in such a way that something else—some other uncanny voice perhaps—might be able to find its way in. (Is that what meaning is?)

But I feel like I’m painting myself into a corner here, by focusing too much on signification and semantic meaning; because poetry engages with the materiality of language and text, it invites us to attend to the ways that words engage with our bodies. Every word is a set of instructions dictating what the body must go through in order to call it and its meanings into the world. These fleshy points of contact between body and text are on the hither side of intelligibility; they’re also the stuff of which intelligibility is made. The poems that I like most are the ones that remind me that language’s interaction with the body is (also) meaningful, even if it isn’t the sort of meaning that can easily be parsed.

I think that’s part of why I’m so fascinated by the kinds of things I find in Google Books search results. The nearly-words and digitally eroded text that are sometimes produced by its “reading practice” don’t just pose problems for interpretation; they also confound reading itself and often leave me unsure of how to sound out some of my lines. Nevertheless, they feel haunted by the meanings that their shapes and syllables call out to.

Q: With a small handful of published books and chapbooks under your belt, how do you feel your work has developed? Where do you see your work headed?

A: Like pretty much everyone else on the internet, I’ve spent the past week playing around with DALL-E, inputting various scraps of text that I’ve gathered or generated or written over the past few years. I’m not exactly sure what I’ll do with the beautifully unnerving AI-generated visual output, but I’m undoubtedly going to do something. At the very least, I'll use them as writing prompts for myself. Beyond that…

I tend to write pretty slowly—or at least, I’m slow to decide that things are “finished.” So I have a few of these sprawling, prose-ish pieces that have been hovering in a “nearly-ready” state for a while now; they’ve been giving me opportunities to extend some of the ideas that circulate through and around my writing practice.

One of them explores ideas of echo and loss in part by looking at various kinds of transcription between different media; it bounces from YouTube’s automated captions to Jean-Luc Godard’s adaptation of King Lear to the flight paths of bats to human vocalizations of radio static. There’s another one that grew out of the movies and books I used to distract myself from a particularly severe and long-lasting flareup of dyshidrotic eczema on the palms of my hands. As you’d expect, there’s a lot of body horror and a whole array of goops in it; there’s also some digressions into Stan Brakhage’s closed-eye vision, as well. I think I’ve been working on each of those off and on for well over a year (neither is nearly as long as that timeline implies!).

When I moved out to Los Angeles from Brooklyn, I had the idea of writing something in a documentary vein, focused around a few specific central California sites near my childhood home in Bakersfield. That project hasn’t come easily — I’m having a hard time figuring out what shape it wants to take. The few parts of it that have come together have appeared in recent issues of Lune and petrichor. I hope I’ll be able to get more of it onto the page!

Q: What is it about the documentary form that appeals? What do you feel it would allow that might not be possible otherwise?

A: Maybe if I knew what I felt it would allow, I’d have an easier time figuring out how to bring this particular project to fruition!

The idea for the project began in psychoanalysis as part of an attempt to rethink the place where I grew up—to reimagine it as something more than simply the place I’d fled as soon as I was able, and I suppose to make sense of myself. Digging into the ideas of “hometown” and “origin” enabled me to see a strangeness that’s inherent to central California, and that I’d never given my full attention before. On a personal level, I suspect that the book—if it ever coalesces into one—is at once an attempt to make sense of myself and an effort to avoid making sense of myself by displacing that effort. The landscape is particularly rich with the stuff of poetry: I’m focusing on a paleontological site just east of town, Shark Tooth Hill. Twenty million years ago, California’s Central Valley was the not-yet-uplifted floor of a warm sea; the site where Bakersfield (my “hometown”) is now was then just offshore. Much of the fossil bed is on federal land, and protected, but some of it is privately owned, and you can arrange a visit through the local natural history museum. The ground is just littered with the teeth and bones of sea creatures. The soil’s surface is home to a fungus whose spores, when inhaled by mammals, can grow inside the body to devastating effect; below the surface, the geology harbors enormous oil reserves, themselves the fossil traces of the sea that once was there.

My research led me to understand the site as a nexus of settler colonialism, climate disaster, geological change, and interspecies contact—and perhaps as a way to articulate grief in the face of the ongoing disasters that increasingly define our lives. But the procedures and practices that I use in much of my poetry tend towards abstraction, so they don’t really seem up to the task of addressing the particular weave of memory and history and mourning that I’m trying to effect here. The documentary form seems like the sensible choice: while it’s not exactly “non-fiction,” it enables me to work with research materials—and to extend the engagements with archive and textual materiality that are always present in my writing practice.

At the same time, the challenges it poses are real, and I’m not sure how to deal with them. But I think the fact of that challenge is a huge part of what attracts me to the project, too.

Q: Finally, who do you read to reenergize your own work? What particular works can’t you help but return to?

A: In addition to the writers I’ve already mentioned, the following have been my guides / sources of inspiration for many many years: Stein’s Tender Buttons. Susan Howe’s “Thirteen Ways of Looking at Chris Marker” especially, but all of her work. Jackson Mac Low’s Pronouns. Georges Perec’s “Think / Classify.” John Taggart’s Loop. Alfred Starr Hamilton. Caroline Bergvall’s “VIA.” Tina Darragh’s on the corner to off the corner.

More recently—and, again, in addition to everything I’ve already listed—Lillian-Yvonne Bertram’s Travesty Generator, Ian Dreiblatt’s Forget Thee, Dani Spinosa’s OO: Typewriter Poems, and Joey Yearous-Algozin’s A Feeling Called Heaven have been on whatever the literary equivalent of “heavy rotation” is.

Beyond the written word: Godard’s Lear, Feldman’s Three Voices, Cage’s 44 Harmonies, Eno’s Discreet Music, Basinski’s Disintegration Loops, Cronenberg, Brakhage.