Please tell us about the making of “Monotheism.”
I had been reading about the experiences of the first Europeans to see the pyramids of Egypt and the other ruins of that era and place. That led me to think about all the different Egyptian gods and the story of the one oddball pharaoh, Amenhotep IV, who changed his name to Akhenaten, and practiced a monotheistic religion among other interesting facts. So the poem plays around with that concept somewhat. Along the way I added some thoughts from a private conversation I had with someone — the details of which I blurred by leaving out almost everything except the few statements that made it into the poem. As I was writing it and immediately after, I got the sense I was channeling Freemason imagery and that what I was saying was purely symbolic, but that could’ve just been a delirium induced by the process.
What are you working on now?
I guess I’m working on putting a second collection of poems together. By my estimate I have about twenty keepers at this point. From that base, I’ve started sending things out to see what people think. This poem is the first of the new material to be picked up, so that’s exciting.
What other art forms most influence your writing?
Film and painting, which is obvious and common, but nonetheless, it’s a vital interaction that occurs throughout poetry, very much highlighted by many writers, as most of us know. I’ve often daydreamed about writing a book-length poem based on Andrei Rublev by Andrei Tarkovsky. A couple of years ago at the Met, I stood for a long time in front of a large painting by Cézanne of his wife sitting in a red armchair — nothing came of it writing-wise, though I have written about Cézanne, but being transfixed by it stoked my sensibilities to a good end, giving me feelings I could bank and use later on.
When you are feeling uninspired, what poet might you read to restore your faith in writing?
For me, this question can take me in many obvious directions but also some less obvious ones. I think I’ll go with the latter. There’s a French writer, Pierre Martory, whom John Ashbery has translated wonderfully into English and I’ve been raving about to anyone that’ll listen. When I read evocative lines such as “a body languishing on its dreams / don’t touch it it has stiffened” or “I can start my prayer in petto / And end by receiving / A lump of sugar on my tongue.” I can barely finish reading the whole poem before my mind starts churning the blood of my hand.
On any given day, how do you begin writing?
Writing is a continuous process. It’s just a matter of when can I sit down and try and harness the endless stream. This is a method that produces a lot of noise, by-products, or garbage. It’s a challenge that I get through with the help of friends and editors to find the things that seem cohesive or whole. I’ve been working to identify these perceived successes on my own — you can only torture people so much with this kind of thing. So to me it’s not a matter of how do I begin but how do I find the writing of any given day.
I had been reading about the experiences of the first Europeans to see the pyramids of Egypt and the other ruins of that era and place. That led me to think about all the different Egyptian gods and the story of the one oddball pharaoh, Amenhotep IV, who changed his name to Akhenaten, and practiced a monotheistic religion among other interesting facts. So the poem plays around with that concept somewhat. Along the way I added some thoughts from a private conversation I had with someone — the details of which I blurred by leaving out almost everything except the few statements that made it into the poem. As I was writing it and immediately after, I got the sense I was channeling Freemason imagery and that what I was saying was purely symbolic, but that could’ve just been a delirium induced by the process.
What are you working on now?
I guess I’m working on putting a second collection of poems together. By my estimate I have about twenty keepers at this point. From that base, I’ve started sending things out to see what people think. This poem is the first of the new material to be picked up, so that’s exciting.
What other art forms most influence your writing?
Film and painting, which is obvious and common, but nonetheless, it’s a vital interaction that occurs throughout poetry, very much highlighted by many writers, as most of us know. I’ve often daydreamed about writing a book-length poem based on Andrei Rublev by Andrei Tarkovsky. A couple of years ago at the Met, I stood for a long time in front of a large painting by Cézanne of his wife sitting in a red armchair — nothing came of it writing-wise, though I have written about Cézanne, but being transfixed by it stoked my sensibilities to a good end, giving me feelings I could bank and use later on.
When you are feeling uninspired, what poet might you read to restore your faith in writing?
For me, this question can take me in many obvious directions but also some less obvious ones. I think I’ll go with the latter. There’s a French writer, Pierre Martory, whom John Ashbery has translated wonderfully into English and I’ve been raving about to anyone that’ll listen. When I read evocative lines such as “a body languishing on its dreams / don’t touch it it has stiffened” or “I can start my prayer in petto / And end by receiving / A lump of sugar on my tongue.” I can barely finish reading the whole poem before my mind starts churning the blood of my hand.
On any given day, how do you begin writing?
Writing is a continuous process. It’s just a matter of when can I sit down and try and harness the endless stream. This is a method that produces a lot of noise, by-products, or garbage. It’s a challenge that I get through with the help of friends and editors to find the things that seem cohesive or whole. I’ve been working to identify these perceived successes on my own — you can only torture people so much with this kind of thing. So to me it’s not a matter of how do I begin but how do I find the writing of any given day.