Please tell us about the making of “Shot” and “Kiss.”
Shifting out of the mostly longer, longer-lined, and more conversationally-toned poems that populate my most recent book, Late Empire, in “Shot” and “Kiss” I wanted to work with shorter poems, in shorter lines, looking for faster movement within a more contained thematic and sonic space. Both are rueful and at the same time playful, at least I hope, as that’s the energy I felt them spiraling out of and into.
How has your creative process evolved since you first started writing?
Process is ever changing. For me, some periods are more prolific or bring poems that are more separate — one by one by one — whereas others are slower or bring poems more obviously connected by theme, form, or narrative. I never really know where I’m going or what I’ll find when I meander around. The feeling, though, a certain kind of alacrity that awakes the brain and ear, a certain kind of resonant attention that translates itself into language — that’s almost always the same. It’s at the center of my process but it’s something that feels kind of independent from me; certainly it’s not in my conscious control, but I try to encourage it, cultivate it, make room for it, be patient while waiting.
When do you admit to yourself that you are working on a new book? Do you decide at the outset or realize it after a certain number of pages?
So far it’s depended on the book and the nature of the poems. With three of my four books, it was important for me to keep my head down and write each poem as it suggested itself one at a time, sometimes in sequences or connected series, but essentially without thinking about a “book,” which is a public translation of a very private process. I prefer, probably need, to keep those spheres as separate as possible. Then, once a decent number of poems have accumulated, I take a fearful peep at them in a more holistic way: how many, how do they relate? If it feels as if there’s enough material, and the right mix, for a collection, I begin experimenting with sequence and other book-type concerns. I’m actually really fascinated by how poems begin to speak to one another when gathered in groups: I love it when thematic or formal preoccupations reveal themselves to me, and even more when they inform each other, when one poem deepens another through echo or related angle. One of my books operates more as a narrative whole — it’s a series of connected prose poems in the form of a naturalist’s notebook — and for this work, although the writing was similar in many ways, at about thirty pages, I did have to make a conscious decision that I was going to try for a book-length sequence.
Name some influences on your writing that are not literary.
I mean, everything. But to narrow it down: music (listening, not playing) has always been a big part of my life and, on top of making an embodied life more worth living, I know it informs my ear, my sense of form, my desire for transport. I’m also fascinated and provoked by perception-based art such as certain works by James Turrell, Donald Judd, Robert Irwin, Maya Lin; by visual art, in general, and by good theater, and film, too. I recently saw Hannah Gadsby’s one woman show Nanette* and in addition to being one of the most insightful, searing, and compassionate commentaries on questions we’re struggling with culture-wide (misogyny, homophobia, cultural divides, violence), it was one of the most exquisitely crafted pieces of work I’ve ever taken in. I’m an omnivore, I guess: fascinated by form and content, aesthetics and ethics, most moved and motivated by instances when they palpably reveal and shape each other. (*It’s coming to Netflix in mid June; everyone should see it!)
To get an MFA or not to get an MFA?
I think people get a little too tied up in knots about this. MFA programs can (should) be a great opportunity for those inclined to find support, community, time, collective endeavoring, and hopefully some useful mentoring or at least encouragement and exposure and experience. Personally, I don’t think anyone should go into debt getting one, but otherwise, they can be a way — not The Only or Best Way — for artists to organize around and devote themselves to their art for a few years. That doesn’t mean a writer should or must, just that they can, if they’re so inclined, which is good: anything that helps artists devote themselves to their work is to the good. Artistically, I think it’s silly, or at least very outdated, to draw lines and take sides: there are great writers working inside and outside the academy, and there’s weak work coming from inside and outside, as well. I do think that it’s incumbent on those within MFA programs to take responsibility for the communities of which they’re a part, working against the kinds of harm and bias that can occur in them as in the culture at large.
Shifting out of the mostly longer, longer-lined, and more conversationally-toned poems that populate my most recent book, Late Empire, in “Shot” and “Kiss” I wanted to work with shorter poems, in shorter lines, looking for faster movement within a more contained thematic and sonic space. Both are rueful and at the same time playful, at least I hope, as that’s the energy I felt them spiraling out of and into.
How has your creative process evolved since you first started writing?
Process is ever changing. For me, some periods are more prolific or bring poems that are more separate — one by one by one — whereas others are slower or bring poems more obviously connected by theme, form, or narrative. I never really know where I’m going or what I’ll find when I meander around. The feeling, though, a certain kind of alacrity that awakes the brain and ear, a certain kind of resonant attention that translates itself into language — that’s almost always the same. It’s at the center of my process but it’s something that feels kind of independent from me; certainly it’s not in my conscious control, but I try to encourage it, cultivate it, make room for it, be patient while waiting.
When do you admit to yourself that you are working on a new book? Do you decide at the outset or realize it after a certain number of pages?
So far it’s depended on the book and the nature of the poems. With three of my four books, it was important for me to keep my head down and write each poem as it suggested itself one at a time, sometimes in sequences or connected series, but essentially without thinking about a “book,” which is a public translation of a very private process. I prefer, probably need, to keep those spheres as separate as possible. Then, once a decent number of poems have accumulated, I take a fearful peep at them in a more holistic way: how many, how do they relate? If it feels as if there’s enough material, and the right mix, for a collection, I begin experimenting with sequence and other book-type concerns. I’m actually really fascinated by how poems begin to speak to one another when gathered in groups: I love it when thematic or formal preoccupations reveal themselves to me, and even more when they inform each other, when one poem deepens another through echo or related angle. One of my books operates more as a narrative whole — it’s a series of connected prose poems in the form of a naturalist’s notebook — and for this work, although the writing was similar in many ways, at about thirty pages, I did have to make a conscious decision that I was going to try for a book-length sequence.
Name some influences on your writing that are not literary.
I mean, everything. But to narrow it down: music (listening, not playing) has always been a big part of my life and, on top of making an embodied life more worth living, I know it informs my ear, my sense of form, my desire for transport. I’m also fascinated and provoked by perception-based art such as certain works by James Turrell, Donald Judd, Robert Irwin, Maya Lin; by visual art, in general, and by good theater, and film, too. I recently saw Hannah Gadsby’s one woman show Nanette* and in addition to being one of the most insightful, searing, and compassionate commentaries on questions we’re struggling with culture-wide (misogyny, homophobia, cultural divides, violence), it was one of the most exquisitely crafted pieces of work I’ve ever taken in. I’m an omnivore, I guess: fascinated by form and content, aesthetics and ethics, most moved and motivated by instances when they palpably reveal and shape each other. (*It’s coming to Netflix in mid June; everyone should see it!)
To get an MFA or not to get an MFA?
I think people get a little too tied up in knots about this. MFA programs can (should) be a great opportunity for those inclined to find support, community, time, collective endeavoring, and hopefully some useful mentoring or at least encouragement and exposure and experience. Personally, I don’t think anyone should go into debt getting one, but otherwise, they can be a way — not The Only or Best Way — for artists to organize around and devote themselves to their art for a few years. That doesn’t mean a writer should or must, just that they can, if they’re so inclined, which is good: anything that helps artists devote themselves to their work is to the good. Artistically, I think it’s silly, or at least very outdated, to draw lines and take sides: there are great writers working inside and outside the academy, and there’s weak work coming from inside and outside, as well. I do think that it’s incumbent on those within MFA programs to take responsibility for the communities of which they’re a part, working against the kinds of harm and bias that can occur in them as in the culture at large.