The Best American Poetry

Green Mountains Review and 950 Other Journals To Submit Your Work to Now [by Nin Andrews]

Last week I received an email from Poets & Writers with the title 950 Literary Magazines to Submit Your Work to Now. "950?" I asked Maggie, my cynical poet-friend. "Who reads all those journals?" She shrugged, "No one. And who cares?" 

I've been thinking about that ever since, asking myself, "Do I care?" Isn't publishing a way of being read, of feeling heard? "Why do you want to be heard?" Maggie asked. She reminded me of a reading we participated in at a bar in Ohio with two accomplished poets and a young man who had just published his first chapbook. We readers were 50% of the audience. When the chapbook-author read, he climbed onto the table and shouted at the top of his lungs. In between poems, be belted out random lyrics from a Kenny Rogers song. He explained later that he just wanted to be heard, that Kenny was his muse.  "Who doesn't love Kenny?" he asked.

But I digress . . .

Back to the question, Who reads all those journals? I assume David Lehman and his guest editors have to plow through a lot of them as they edit the annual Best American Poetry. (Thank you, David, and all your guests!) I regularly read about 10 of the 950, which sounds like a pitifully small number, but Maggie assures me it's huge. I just finished the Poet Laureate edition of Green Mountains Review, which I loved, in part because I am curious about the poets laureate, those poetry ambassadors from different states. And I am grateful to them for promoting our cause, especially Maryland's poet laureate and Buddhist Badass, Grace Cavalieri, who also hosts the Library of Congress program, The Poet and the Poem. In this issue of Green Mountain Review, featuring 10 poets laureate, I particularly enjoyed the poet of Nebraska, Matt Mason's poem, "On Kansas 156," in which he alluded to Kenny Rogers. (And really, who doesn't love Kenny?)

On Kansas 156

All the radio has to say
is eighties rock

and Kenny Rogers.
You get behind

a horse trailer
and stay there

because you can't see
around it and,

oh man,
the radio seek stops

on "Right down the Line,"
Gerry Rafferty making love sound uncrappy

whether you're ten
with a fresh copy of City To City in your hands

or forty-five with your two daughters
bored in the backseat;

you feel helpless
as the station starts to slip

into static, last lines
of the song in and out,

oil pumps and grain towers,
cassettes you forgot

how they broke
after too many plays,

unspooling
deep

inside
your bones. 

Things I've Missed: Tim Seibles, Charles Simic & Peter Johnson [by Nin Andrews]

Maybe it's just my age, maybe it's the era we're living in, but these last few years have been tough, and I'm not even thinking of covid or politics--I'm not even going to mention them. (Okay, I just did.) But suffice it to say, I've had a hard time keeping my nose above water. I haven't kept up with poetry. But lately I've been wading back into reading and writing. There is so much I've missed.  I just wanted to mention a few things here.

Like Tim Seibles amazing collection, Voodoo Libretto: New and Selected Poems. And Terrance Hayes' stunning review published in The Yale Review in which Hayes analyzes Seibles' poetry as if it were a "bookbioboardgame."  If you haven't read either of these, you must!

Like Chard deNiord's last interview with Charles Simic, published in The Paris Review, which includes this delightful exchange:

INTERVIEWER

You’ve written so many memorable poems about poetry and about writing poetry, one of which includes this definition—“Poetry is always the cat concert under the window of the room in which the official version of reality is being written.” How exactly would you describe the cat concert?

SIMIC

Look at it this way: I have a cat that’s twenty-five years old. She’s a black cat. She complains. She comes in and she says to me, You’re still here? Poetry really is a comic scene where you, whoever you are, pretend to be in control, but really the speaker is at the mercy of things that are completely out of his hands. But he pretends that he is in control. We’re schmucks.

Like Cassandra Atherton's review in Plume of Peter Johnson's latest collection, While the Undertaker Sleeps: Collected and New Prose Poems, which is not only a review but also an illuminating essay on Peter Johnson's poetry as well as his contribution to the prose poem. The review begins:

Self-confessed “wise guy of the prose poem” and also its unofficial laureate, Peter Johnson is one of America’s foremost practitioners and critics of prose poetry. The publication of his While the Undertaker Sleeps: Collected and New Prose Poems provides an important opportunity to reflect on the reputation of a master of the form, who, according to poet and critic Chard deNiord, “almost singlehandedly revived the currency of the prose poem during the nineties and early oughts.” Indeed, Johnson has been a major force in the development of the American prose poem for more than three decades and has contributed significantly to its prominence on the world stage.

Happy Birthday, Boy George [by Nin Andrews]

I heard on NPR this morning that it’s Boy George's birthday today, which made me think of one of my favorite poems by Amy Gerstler from her collection, The True Bride, published in 1986. I can still remember reading this poem at the New Dominion bookshop in Charlottesville, Virginia, ages ago. I burst out laughing, and the owner of the shop came over and read the poem aloud. A few shoppers came over and listened. Afterwards, we all clapped.  

 

Dear Boy George

Only three things on earth seem useful or soothing to me.
One: wearing stolen shoes. Two: photos of exquisitely
dressed redheads. Three: your voice on the radio. Those songs
fall smack-dab into my range! Not to embarrass you with my
raw American awe, or let you think I’m the kinda girl who
bends over for any guy who plucks his eyebrows and can make
tight braids – but you’re the plump bisexual cherub of the
eighties: clusters of Rubens’ painted angels, plus a dollop of the
Pillsbury dough boy, all rolled into one! We could go skating,
or just lie around my house eating pineapple. I could pierce
your ears: I know how to freeze the lobes with ice so it doesn’t
hurt. When I misunderstand your lyrics, they get even better.
I thought the line I’M YOUR LOVER, NOT YOUR RIVAL, was I’M
ANOTHER, NOTHE BIBLE, or PRIME YOUR MOTHER, NOT A LIBEL,
or UNDERCOVER BOUGHT ARRIVAL. Great, huh? See, we’re of like
minds. I almost died when I read in the Times how you saved
that girl from drowning . . . dived down and pulled the blub-
bering sissy up. I’d give anything to be the limp, dripping
form you stumbled from the lake with, wrapped over your pale,
motherly arms, in a grateful faint, as your mascara ran and ran.

An Interview with Meg Pokrass and Jeff Friedman [by Nin Andrews]

Recently, I had the pleasure of reading a delightful collection of micro-fictions/prose poems: The House of Grana Padano by Meg Pokrass and Jeff Friedman. I have to confess that I was hesitant to open the book because I rarely enjoy reading collaborations. In my opinion they often read as inside jokes or private dialogs between two writers in which one riffs on the style and quirks of the other. But The House of Grana Padano proved to be an exception. It reads as if Meg and Jeff are one writer. Somehow, they composed seamlessly together. I wondered as I read it: are their sensibilities, artistry, and voices that similar?  I thought I’d ask them about the process that brought this book into being.

NA: How did the book come about?                         

JF: Meg and I came together initially at a YouTube reading for Lit Youngstown. We were both fans of each other’s writing but had never met in person. We had exchanged some emails before the reading, but then after the event, we began meeting every Tuesday on Zoom. The darkness and loneliness of the pandemic created a real need in both of us to reach out, and our Zoom sessions were so energetic and lively. The book idea emerged spontaneously from these sessions. Meg brought it up, but I jumped on it. We had already been doing prompts together, and then almost spontaneously and unconsciously, we stepped into a story and began riffing off each other as we had done in our conversations. From there, we came up with various methods and approaches for working on pieces. At some point, we realized we were on our way to a book with six or seven different thematic threads.

NA: What are the best and/or the hardest aspects of composing with another prose poet or writer of micro fiction?

MP: Our book emerged out of playfulness and the need for something joyful. Things seemed to come easily. It was as if Jeff, and I had known each other all our lives, and the more we talked, the more we had in common. We trusted each other almost immediately and while writing, we always said “yes” to whatever creative ideas or images emerged in the initial writing phase. We would just keep writing, building on what each of us wrote, trying to see where our poems or micros might go. Our two voices never merged, but instead created a dynamic tension in the pieces. We revised every piece together. The hardest part might have been cutting pieces we really loved from the book, because they just didn’t fit. There are still one or two pieces we wish we hadn’t had to cut.  Working with each other has been inspiring for our individual work as well. We were two strangers at the beginning, and now we’re brother and sister.

NA:  I’d love it if you each picked a prose poem and commented on its evolution.

JF:

The Salesman Gets a Suit

My father walks into a clothing store. “Sell me a suit,” he says to a thin bald-headed man. Without even looking, the bald-headed man pulls a blue silk suit off the rack. “This suit is made for you,” he says holding the hanger in his right hand and letting the pants legs drape over his arm. “Just feel it.” My father brushes it gently with his fingers as though smoothing out the curls of his own hair. “I’m a salesman too,” he says. “I knew it,” the bald-headed man says. “I could tell the minute you entered the store.” The suit is shiny like the lobby in a posh hotel, shiny like a brand new Cadillac parked in the car dealer’s window. My father takes it into the dressing room, and when he comes out, the suit swells with his plump belly. The sleeves of the jacket swallow his hands. The pants legs sweep the floor. He looks short and fat, lost in cloth. “This suit makes you look like a whole new man, like someone ready to make a killing,” the bald-headed man says and leads him to the mirror. In the mirror, the suit shapes itself to his body, fits him to a tee. In the mirror, he’s as graceful as a shadow, as light on his feet as a cool breeze rustling his pants legs. He leans forward as if telling the suit a secret. He smiles, and the suit smiles back.

From The House of Grana Padano

Initially published in On the Seawall

I wrote “The Salesman Gets a Suit” to accompany Meg’s “My Mother the Realtor.” We both had parents who were in sales. This piece, like so many in the book, weaves a line between prose poem and micro. In the “Salesman Gets a Suit,” the salesman and his son enter a store that sells men’s suits. The store salesman spots them and begins pitching the father on a very expensive suit, and the father, though the suit clearly doesn’t fit him, buys it because he’s charmed by the store salesman. I did witness something like this when I was fifteen. But my father was buying an overcoat, not a suit. He was a very good salesman, but an easy target for flattery. The experience is transformed through the lens of a tale. The store salesman is like a sorcerer weaving a spell over the father, and the mirror is a magic mirror in which the suit suddenly fits perfectly and in which the father looks years younger. He smiles into the mirror, “and the suit smiles back.” The piece is a lyricized narrative that derives its power from images, associations, and rhythmic intensity.

MP: 

Fatherless Daughters  

In Springtime, abandoned daughters burst like myopic butterflies with binoculars attached to their faces while they try to identify their absent fathers, who zip through the clouds like geese, but they’re not geese, and they have no sense of direction.  “Can you see me down here, Dad?” one abandoned daughter trills, while one father zigzags ever closer to the sun. “It’s hurting my eyes,” he yells waving his pale wings like flags. Another abandoned daughter spots a cloud in the shape of her father. “He wasn’t much of a father,” she says. “He’s better as a cloud.” Another daughter shouts, “Heads up!” as her father falls from the sky headlong into the crowd of abandoned daughters. The other fathers cringe and avoid looking down. “They’re out to get us,” they say. “They want money or hugs or something.” The daughters, tired of treading air, fling themselves toward their fathers, eager to bring one home, even if he’s someone else’s father, even if he never earns another dime, even if he sheds all his feathers—but the fathers prove illusive, no longer really fathers.

From The House of Grana Padano

Initially published in Plume

I grew up without a father and write about it a lot. Working with Jeff got me very excited about writing poems and stories informed by tales and fables. I wrote “Fatherless Daughters” in response to one of his pieces. I saw it almost like a painting in my mind with fathers floating in the sky and abandoned daughters below hoping to catch one. The piece creates an emotional landscape, a metaphorical reality that is somehow true to my own experience. It is darkly funny and perversely sad. Jeff and I share that sensibility, so it was easy for him to contribute. “Fatherless Daughters” is driven by images. The daughters in the piece are bereft. They want to know why the fathers have abandoned them, and though the fathers prove to be illusive, each of them is still hoping that one will fall to earth so she can claim him. I was trying to get a different angle on a story that is actually quite commonplace. The daughters are alert to finding their fathers, while simultaneously aware that the fathers aren’t real. 

JEFF FRIEDMAN is the author of ten books of poems and mini stories, including The House of Grana Padano cowritten with Meg Pokrass (Pelekinesis, 2022); The Marksman (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2020); and Floating Tales (Plume Editions/Madhat Press, 2017); Friedman’s work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Poetry, Poetry International, New England Review, The Antioch Review, and The New Republic. He has also been published in Alcatraz: An International Anthology of the Short Form (fall 2022), Awake: New Prose Poetry From the US, UK, and Australia (fall 2022), Cast-Iron Aeroplanes That Can Actually Fly: Commentaries from 80 American Poets on their Prose Poetry, The Bloomsbury Anthology of Jewish Poets, Flash Fiction Funny, Best Microfiction 2021 and 2022 and many other anthologies. Friedman has received numerous awards and prizes including a National Endowment Literature Translation Fellowship in 2016 and two individual Artist Grants from New Hampshire Arts Council.  https://poetjefffriedman.com

 

 

 

MEG POKRASS is the author of 10 flash fiction books, including The House of Grana Padano (co-written with Jeff Friedman, Pelekinesis 2022), Spinning to Mars (2021) and The Dog Looks Happy Upside Down (Etruscan Press, 2016). Her work has appeared in over 1,000 literary journals including Electric Literature, American Journal of Poetry, McSweeney’s, Smokelong, Five Points. She has been anthologized in 3 Norton flash fiction anthologies: Flash Fiction International (2015), New Micro: Exceptionally Short Fiction (2018), and the forthcoming Flash Fiction America. Meg’s flash fiction has been widely anthologized, appearing in The Best Small Fictions 2018, 2019, and 2022, Wigleaf Top 50, and the forthcoming Alcatraz: An International Anthology of the Short Form (Gazebo Books). She is the Founding Editor of Best Microfiction and New Flash Fiction Review. She has won the Blue Light Book award in 2021 and 2016. She lives in Inverness Scotland and wears too many hats. http://www.megpokrass.com

A Conversation with Dante Di Stefano, Part 4 [by Nin Andrews and Amanda Rabaduex]

AR: How did you become a poet? What is your process?

DD: First, of course, I was named after a poet. The Commedia played an important role in my family history. My great grandfather brought a copy of it with him when he came to America from Sicily. Poetry was a constant, if muted, presence throughout my childhood. My grandmother loved Frost and Sandberg and Millay. I she would occasionally recite the poems she’d memorized in grade school (“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” “Fog,” “First Fig”). My father, who was a postal worker, loved Emily Dickinson, so her books were always around, and I read her at an early age. We also had The Iliad, The Odyssey, Don Quixote (I remember reading the poems in the preface to the novel at an early age), The Aeneid, El Cid. My mother, who was a stay-at-home mom and then a secretary when I was growing up, was a great reader too. Both of my parents were extremely religious Roman Catholics (my mother converted from Southern Baptist to Catholic), so there was the poetry of the Bible as well, especially The Book of Job, The Psalms, The Book of Proverbs, The Song of Songs. 

I’ve always loved reading, and from grade school on I kept a journal. When I was eighteen, I read Allen Ginsberg, Rainer Maria Rilke, and Gerard Manley Hopkins for the first time. That trio of poets made me want to write poetry. I continued to write because I fell so in love with poetry in all its varied forms, and writing it helped me (continues to help me) to be a better reader of it. My writing life will always be subordinate to my reading life.

My process varies from poem to poem, but for the most part now, I come up with an idea, a phrase, a title for
a poem and when I have time, I sit down and write a draft. For most poems, a draft will take about two hours to write and I’m reading aloud and revising as I write. Sometimes, I might begin a poem during my lunch break (I work as a high school English teacher) and then finish it after the last bell rings and before I pick up my daughter from daycare. Then, I might go back to it after the children are asleep or in the morning before work. Usually, I take a poem as far as I can within a few days, reading it aloud and revising it as necessary. Then, I set it aside, and either send it out to magazines or just let it breathe in a word document (I mostly write on the computer). Sometimes, there might be minor revisions from that point until it is published in a book. And even after that, there are lingering questions. For example, in the poem that starts this interview, I’m not happy with the rhythm of the line: “my dear little one. Teach me what the fire.” I think it might be better to change the sentence structure of the poem so that the line reads: “Teach me, my dear little one, what the fire…” If I’m ever lucky enough to have a Selected or Collected poems, I might make that change, but I’m also aware of many poets (Auden comes to mind) who tinkered too much with old poems. I’m no Auden, of course, but I understand the impulse toward endless refinement, and how corrosive that impulse can be.

AR: Your poems take on various forms. Which forms are you most comfortable working with? Do you choose form before writing the poem, or does the poem dictate the form?

DD: Like many contemporary American poets, I write countless sonnets. I’ve written much of my poetry in ten-syllable lines, sometimes in a kind of Miltonic blank verse, but often just letting the rhythms ride (and writhe) against the syllabic constraints. I’ve written prose poetry consistently throughout the years, inspired by David Lehman’s Great American Prose Poems: From Poe to the Present, which has been one of the most important, and most often revisited, anthologies in my reading life. Nin, I’d argue, is the greatest living practitioner of the American prose poem. It’s a form I love to read and think about. For about a year, I’ve been writing in a stanzaic nonce pattern I’m calling “stepped septasyllabic cinquains.”

DD: Like many contemporary American poets, I write countless sonnets. I’ve written much of my poetry in ten-syllable lines, sometimes in a kind of Miltonic blank verse, but often just letting the rhythms ride (and writhe) against the syllabic constraints. I’ve written prose poetry consistently throughout the years, inspired by David Lehman’s Great American Prose Poems: From Poe to the Present, which has been one of the most important, and most often revisited, anthologies in my reading life. Nin, I’d argue, is the greatest living practitioner of the American prose poem. It’s a form I love to read and think about. For about a year, I’ve been writing in a stanzaic nonce pattern I’m calling “stepped septasyllabic cinquains.”

NA: Thanks for your kind words! I am blushing! Can you give an example of your stanzaic nonce pattern poems?

DD: It’s a fancy way of describing seven syllable per line, five line stanzas, written in a recurring zigzag pattern. Here’s a few stanza from MIDWHISTLE, where I’m invoking William Heyen and ruminating on his Whitmanian and Dickinsonian pedigree:

Sing for us, the dragonfly
            in the arc of an anthem,
the bumblebee zigzagging
                         the sidelines of an empire.
            I praise your Lord Dragonfly,

Bill, & praise the ambition
            it must take to un-Amherst
a clover & a bee from
                       the funerals in a brain,
            from the prairie and its yawp.

NA: I am so impressed. You are a master of many forms!

DD: I don’t think I’ve mastered many forms, but I have certainly tried to (with varying degrees of success). I’ve written hundreds of failed villanelles, thousands of botched haiku, fifty or so unremarkable sestinas, and a rusty old red wheelbarrow  full of ballads, triolets, rondeaus, bops, kwansabas, pantoums, haibun, ghazals, abecedarians, and so on. I have one sestina in Lullaby, and one kwansaba suite and one abecedarian in my second book, but I haven’t mastered any of those forms. Nevertheless, I enjoy working in those forms, especially when I’m thinking about a poem that I love written in that form. It’s so impressive to me when a contemporary poet writes in one of these inherited forms in a way that expands the structure and strengthens the tradition. I think with wonder and admiration of how a poem like Tim Seibles’s “All the Time Blues Villanelle” can go toe to toe with “The Waking” and “One Art” and “Mad Girl’s Love Song” and “Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night.”

Sometimes, I choose the form before writing the poem. That approach doesn’t often result in a poem I’m willing to send out into the world. I’ll write a sestina, but it will feel forced or academic or less immediately resonant than I want it to be or it’s just not making sense in the way I’d like it to make sense, so I’ll set it aside and never think of it again. Most often though, the form will suggest itself organically as I’m writing. At some point, maybe even within the first few words, I’ll see that this poem wants to effloresce into a sonnet, or this is a prose poem, or this demands quatrains. Then, I will work toward the form by accretion and improvisation and revision-in-the-moment.

My three books of poetry also use form as an organizing principle. Sonnets thread through the books as do prose poems and other poetic structures in much the same way that themes and tropes thread the collections, providing order amid a species of repetition.

Dante Di Stefano is the author of three poetry collections: Love Is a Stone Endlessly in Flight (Brighthorse Books, 2016), Ill Angels (Etruscan Press, 2019), and Lullaby with Incendiary Device, published in a three-in-one volume titled Generations (Etruscan Press, 2022), also featuring work by William Heyen and H.L. Hix. His book-length poem, MIDWHISTLE, is forthcoming from University of Wisconsin Press in Spring 2023.

Amanda Rabaduex is a poet, writer, educator and Air Force veteran. She is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Wilkes University. She is a graduate assistant for Etruscan Press, and the current editor of River and South Review. Originally from Ohio, she now lives in the Smoky Mountains.

Nin Andrews’ lucky numbers are nine and seven. Nine, she says, is navy blue. Seven is red, Victory Red, like her mother’s lipstick when she was a child.

A Conversation with Dante Di Stefano, Part 3 [by Nin Andrews and Amanda Rabaduex]

NA: You said in the first part of this interview series that you collaborate with your wife on community poetry projects through the Tioga Arts Council in upstate New York, which she runs. And that you two have curated ekphrastic and reverse ekphrastic exhibits. I’d love to see a sample of what that exhibit looks like?

DD: In our most recent exhibit, which was funded by a grant from the Poetry Foundation, we gave poems to
local artists and had the artists paint, sculpt, or collage a response to the poetry. The poets featured were you, David Lehman, Richard Blanco, Eloisa Amezcua, Christine Kitano, Nicole Santalucia, H.L. Hix, William Heyen, María Isabel Álvarez, Faisal Mohyuddin, Christian Teresi, Leah Umansky, Nicole Santalucia, Maria Mazziotti Gillan, Joe Weil, and a few others. My wife also made broadsides of the poem and artwork. We had local elementary school children respond to lines from the poems, as well, and we hung their crayoned responses in the children’s gallery, which is attached to the main gallery at Tioga Arts Council. Posted on the right is Richard Blanco’s “Cloud Anthem” from his most recent collection. The collage/painting was done by the artist, Andrea Kelleher. 

 

NA: You collaborate with other poets, recently with Nicole Santalucia on a collection of Ashbery poems. And I heard that this book, Generations, inspired you to write a long poem in response to William Heyen. I wondered if you could talk a little about those projects and/or poems?

DD: Nicole and I have been collaborating on our Ashbery book for over two years now; the book is a series of epistolary prose poems addressed to John Ashbery. The poems began as letters to each other mediated by the figure of John Ashbery. I’m not sure what the final shape of this project will be, but I’ve enjoyed working on it with Nicole, who is such a dear friend and such a wonderful poet. I feel that I’m always learning from her, and she’s so funny, in her work and in real life. I’m so lucky to have her as a friend (and her wife Deanna Dorangrichia, who is an amazing artist). These friendships were given to me by poetry.

I also wrote a long poem titled MIDWHISTLE, written in stepped septasyllabic cinquains and addressed to Bill Heyen and to my son, Dante Jr., who was unborn when I wrote it. I think it’s safe to say this is the first long poem written simultaneously to an octogenarian and to a fetus.

I’ve always wanted to write a long poem. As an undergraduate I read and admired A.R. Ammons’s Garbage and Tape for the Turn of the Year, Williams’s Paterson, and Galway Kinnell’s The Book of Nightmares. I’ve tried on many occasions to write my way into a book-length poem, but I could never find a way. Then, I read David Lehman’s Playlist (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2019) and reading that book started me thinking of the long poem again. Reading Bill Heyen’s long poem, To William Merwin (Mammoth Books, 2007), along with the impending birth of my son and my deep engagement with Heyen’s oeuvre, precipitated the initial outpouring, which became MIDWHISTLE.  

Thanks to Sean Bishop and Ron Wallace, the University of Wisconsin Press picked up MIDWHISTLE and it will come out in spring 2023 as part of the Wisconsin Poetry Series. I’m excited to see this book come into the world along with the other collections that will be published in the series during 2022-2023: American Sex Tape by Jameka Williams, Shopping or The End of Time by Emily Bludworth de Barrios, Betsy Sholl’s As if a Song Could Save You, Joshua Burton’s Grace Engine, and Celeste Lipkes’s Radium Girl.

 

NA: A lot of poets have a favorite poem to read from their books. Maybe I should call it—their favorite read-aloud poem. Do you have one from this book? Or maybe just a poem to close with here? With a short opening commentary on how it came to be?

DD: I like this one. The title is a gentle half-parody of those long expository James Wright titles that I love (and that he modelled on Li Bai’s titles). The title does describe the genesis of the poem. I had been reading the Merwin translations and watching a television show about the arctic expedition and this poem came from there. The diastole and systole of this poem expresses everything I want to say, and keep trying to say, and haven’t quite figured out how to say, in all my poems.

Poem for My Two-Year-Old Daughter After Reading W.S. Merwin’s Translations of Musō Soseki and Spending a Few Hours Meditating on the Ill-Fated 1845 British Arctic Expedition of the HMS Erebus and the HMS Terror

I’ve also made friends with wisteria
and the cattail light of morning. Come sleep
inside a bottled ship’s rigging. Be glad
you’re loved without longitude, forever.

Dante Di Stefano is the author of three poetry collections: Love Is a Stone Endlessly in Flight (Brighthorse Books, 2016), Ill Angels (Etruscan Press, 2019), and Lullaby with Incendiary Device, published in a three-in-one volume titled Generations (Etruscan Press, 2022), also featuring work by William Heyen and H.L. Hix. His book-length poem, MIDWHISTLE, is forthcoming from University of Wisconsin Press in Spring 2023.

Nicole Santalucia is the author of Because I Did Not Die and Driving Yourself to Jail in July. She teaches poetry at Shippensburg University in Pennsylvania and brings poetry workshops into the Cumberland County Prison.

A Conversation with Dante Di Stefano Part 2 [by Nin Andrews and Amanda Rabaduex]

NA: Your recent book, Lullaby with Incendiary Device, is part of a triptych, or one of three books under one cover.  How do you like being published alongside Harvey Hix and William Heyen?  

DD: I love it. Etruscan Press does such high-quality publishing work. Their books are beautifully made and thoughtfully chosen. The support of Phil Brady and Bob Mooney has meant more to me than I can properly articulate. The dedicated staff at the press are paragons of professionalism, especially Pamela Turchin and Bill Schneider, who organize and run much of the daily operations. 

It’s an honor to have my book joined to the books of Harvey Hix and William Heyen. I hope that more publishers follow this tripartite publishing model. Heyen and Hix are poets I deeply admire, both for their bodies of work and for how they have constructed their lives in poetry. Both men embody a poetic stance I aspire to emulate: engaged, attentive, protean, ambitious, empathetic, and endlessly curious.

Harvey’s book How It Is that We continues his interrogation and deconstruction of the sonnet form, while nimbly moving among the detritus of 21^st century discourses, texts, and personae. Reading it is like looking at starlight through a field of orbiting wreckage. I feel adrift and then suddenly I’m jolted into a new way of seeing.

Bill Heyen’s The Nazi Patrol continues his project of bearing witness to the Shoah through the poison orchards of the present. Here, he employs his single-line couplets to great effect. There’s something so compulsively readable in this collection, a raw velocity that feels like a kind of falling.

Harvey and Bill have written enough for five or six lifetimes between the two of them. The amazing thing to me about the prodigious output of both men is the exceedingly high quality of the work.

If you are reading this conversation and you haven’t read Hix, I’d suggest my favorite books by him: Rain Inscription (Etuscan Press, 2017) and Perfect Hell (Gibbs Smith, 1996). I’d also suggest his remarkable translation of the Gospels and Christian apocrypha, The Gospel according to H.L. Hix (Broadstone Books, 2020).

I’d recommend Heyen’s Shoah Train (Etruscan Press, 2003) and The Cabin: Journal 1968-1984 (H_NGM_N BKS, 2012). Heyen’s journals are an incredible document. I think Phil Brady described them as the work of a 20^th century Samuel Pepys. In one entry, Heyen will be having a martini with Anne Sexton. In the next, he’ll be wondering if the garbagemen took his golfclubs. He chronicles all the important events of his family life, and of his life in poetry, against the backdrop of the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr., the moon landing, the Vietnam War, and on and on.   

AR: I recently listened to your conversation with Dr. Philip Brady about the collaborative project Sign and Breath. You read an incredible poem, “My Favorite Things,” which you had just written the day before. It made me curious to know where you find your inspiration? Do you strike proverbial gold with most of the poems you write?

DD: I find inspiration from my daily life, from my family, from my friends, from my memories, from things that I see when I’m walking the dog, from my job, from music, from movies and television, from art, and, most of all, from my reading life.

I’ve spent many years writing and reading poetry daily. Now, I write now when the mood strikes me and when circumstances permit. Like most poets, I have left years and years and thousands and thousands of bad poems in my wake. I think of all the marble composition notebooks, floppy disks, and old laptops full of my embarrassingly bad poems gone to rest in some landfill somewhere. I am grateful for all those years of woodshedding that brought me to where I am today. Still, I go through periods where nothing that I write works out the way I’d hoped, but I never feel frustrated. Writing is always a joy and a pleasure and a privilege that I don’t take for granted. I am ambitious with my poetry. I want to write great poetry, but for me it’s not so much about striking gold. It’s more about living a life of poetry. At the end of the preface for Generations, Phil Brady quotes a letter from Harvey Hix that reads: “To live by poetry. Which of course I want to read in more than one sense: live robustly and fully by means of poetry; order one’s life according to values derived from poetry; live in proximity to poetry.” To live by poetry. That’s all I want.

 

Dante Di Stefano is the author of three poetry collections: Love Is a Stone Endlessly in Flight (Brighthorse Books, 2016), Ill Angels (Etruscan Press, 2019), and Lullaby with Incendiary Device, published in a three-in-one volume titled Generations (Etruscan Press, 2022), also featuring work by William Heyen and H.L. Hix. His book-length poem, MIDWHISTLE, is forthcoming from University of Wisconsin Press in Spring 2023.

Amanda Rabaduex is a poet, writer, educator and Air Force veteran. She is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Wilkes University. She is a graduate assistant for Etruscan Press, and the current editor of River and South Review. Originally from Ohio, she now lives in the Smoky Mountains.

Nin Andrews grew up in a cardboard box, painted red and white to look like a typical brick house in Charlottesville, Virginia.

A Conversation with Dante Di Stefano, Part 1 [by Nin Andrews and Amanda Rabaduex]

NA: Your latest book, Lullaby with Incendiary Device, is part of a mini-anthology, featuring three books under one cover, called Generations, and published by Etruscan Press.

I thought we should start with the title poem, which I love.

DD: Thank you Nin and Amanda. I’m grateful to be able to have this conversation with you both. Generations also features The Nazi Patrol by William Heyen and How It Is that We by H.L. Hix. Here’s my title poem, which is the last poem in Lullaby with Incendiary Device:

Lullaby with Incendiary Device, Breached Hull, & Oil Slick

Before you were born, I dreamed you
into each cadence I would ever hear.
You board a paper boat and cross the sea.
One note of bluebird’s orison endures.
I love you so much the schooners inside
my heart keep crashing into each other
and capsizing, but, at least, they aren’t
all sunk yet, and no sailors have drowned
so far. What I mean by this is simple:
stay close always. Teach me to crayon fire.
Better yet, teach me the crazy hairstyles
of fire burning on the water’s surface,
my dear little one. Teach me what the fire
looks like from the underside of a wave.

AR: Many poems in Lullaby with Incendiary Device are about your children. Did becoming a parent change your poetry? If so, how?

DD: I have a four-year-old daughter (Luciana, who we call “Chi Chi”) and a seven-month-old son (Dante Jr.). Lullaby was written in the first two years of my daughter’s life. It’s really her book.

Becoming a father changed me and changed my life in innumerable subtle and immense ways; inevitably, then, parenthood changed my poetry. Parenthood, like poetry, reorients, intensifies, and recalibrates one’s attention. Parenthood turns you toward another, in much the same way that poetry does, or ideally, should. For me, poetry has always involved an interiority turned to face the world, an act of opening up, which involves a shedding of ego (breaking the mind forged manacles of Blake’s Urizen, echoing E.M. Forster’s injunction: “Only Connect”). Poetry and parenthood both involve what Seamus Heaney called a kind of “earned communion.” Both involve attention directed outward. There’s the shared duende of poetry and parenthood too: the knowledge of our own mortality in every diaper change and volta and skinned knee and spondee and snuggle and heroic couplet rocking you from blue hour to blue hour.

On a more practical level, parenthood changed the way my life was organized. My life now revolves around the schedules, needs, and wants of our little ones. I’ve had to dial back some of the poetry-related things I love doing like writing book reviews, but I still find time to read and to write and to engage with other poets living and dead.

My daughter and I have begun writing poetry together and my wife and I read the children poetry in addition to books like The Runaway Bunny and The Giving Tree and Dragons Love Tacos. My wife and I also collaborate on community poetry projects through the Tioga Arts Council in upstate New York, which she runs. We have curated ekphrastic and reverse ekphrastic exhibits. I run a reading series. We are developing community workshops and we’re working on a poetry trail (a series of signposts with poetry displayed on them throughout the county). My children are a part of all these endeavors from planning stages to execution; they’ve both attended many local poetry-related events since the time they were in utero.

For me, the goal is that poetry be a constant part of my daily, ordinary, unromantic, middle class, suburban life, and that that life be a constant part of my poetry. The older I get, the less difference I feel between the poems I read and reread and memorize and dwell in, and my actual, seemingly boring, quotidian life.

Also, on a practical level, parenthood gave me a new set of experiences to write about. You don’t really know what fatherhood is until you live it yourself, what it’s like to be in the room when your child is born, what you feel when you hold your son or daughter for the first time, what it’s like to see them take their first steps, how they acquire language and relate to the world, what it’s like to be sleep-deprived and wakened in the middle of the night to clean up vomit off a beanbag chair and yet to feel happy about it, what it’s like to live daily in close proximity to the mind of a toddler. These are such intense, piquant, inestimably valuable experiences. And these experiences connect you, more deeply, to the great round of the human condition as it has unfolded for millennia.

Lastly, I’ve come to see my writing as a bequest for my children. I hope that my poetry means something to them when they grow up: that they have this series of artifacts from my time on earth, that they might see my work as a chronicle of the joys, pains, enthusiasms, struggles, desires, and perplexities of a lifetime. Ultimately, I pray that having access to these records of my interior life will help them through their own difficulties. If nothing else, I hope they see repeated over and over and over again, in every line, how much I love them and their mother, and how grateful I am for this life. 

Dante Di Stefano is the author of three poetry collections: Love Is a Stone Endlessly in Flight (Brighthorse Books, 2016), Ill Angels (Etruscan Press, 2019), and Lullaby with Incendiary Device, published in a three-in-one volume titled Generations (Etruscan Press, 2022), also featuring work by William Heyen and H.L. Hix. His book-length poem, MIDWHISTLE, is forthcoming from University of Wisconsin Press in Spring 2023.

Amanda Rabaduex is a poet, writer, educator and Air Force veteran. She is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Wilkes University. She is a graduate assistant for Etruscan Press, and the current editor of River and South Review. Originally from Ohio, she now lives in the Smoky Mountains.

Nin Andrews is harvesting the winter lettuce in her garden today. 

Elizabeth A.I. Powell on Rituals and Spells so Nothing Heinous Happens [by Nin Andrews]

It’s Easter Sunday, and I'm remembering how my father used to equate religion and superstition. He practiced both, just in case. He made me practice them, too, insisting that I go to church, understand the basic tenets of the faith,  pray on my knees before bed, and also, that I never pass the salt shaker hand-to-hand, and if I spilled salt, I tossed it right hand over left shoulder. I was instructed to hold my breath when we drove into a tunnel or under a bridge or past a graveyard. I still find myself touching wood, crossing my fingers, my toes, myself, and I can still hear my father’s voice advising me on how each superstition is best performed. Maybe it’s no surprise then that I was completely taken with Elizabeth A. I. Powell’s series of prose poems that were published in the recent issue of the Seneca Review titled Rituals and Spells so Nothing Heinous Happens. There was quite a buzz about one that also appeared in Pleiades and Poetry Daily. I decided to ask Elizabeth to say a few words about these poems and to let me post a poem from the series.

Elizabeth A.I. Powell:

These poems use the ritual and spell-like qualities of poetry to try and discern and examine the liminal space between rituals and spells on the one hand and madness on the other. Rituals live in our mythologies and religions, but when a ritual goes off kilter it turns on a person. I’ve tried to reflect on the space where that yin and yang meet, the between thing between the two. Samuel Coleridge famously said poems are the best words in the best order, which is similar in definition of what a spell is, giving letters in the right order, or a state of enchantment enacted by words.  Spells are more like content in poetry, and rituals are more like poetic form in that they observe a set of forms to enact a kind of worship.  Indeed, many of us have written ourselves out of the mental abyss through poems. Where ritual becomes pathological or a mental illness is interesting because on the one hand you can pray and it's lovely, but when it is obsessive, compulsive, and superstitious it begins to be a most egregious interrogation.

Touch Wood


Everyone agrees since I’m the prettiest, I’m the stupidest. Our grandfather sips scotch, loosens his tie we picked out for him to wear to MC our Miss America Pageant. This year’s real pick for Miss America was from Wisconsin: in ten years she’ll host the 700 club that fuels the Moral Majority that will upset me. You don’t even know where Wisconsin is, my sister says. I will remember this moment forever, and when I’m nineteen, I’ll go to the University of Wisconsin, where I will be incredibly miserable just to prove that I know where Wisconsin is.

I’m touching wood, wearing an evening dress. In reality, we are all wearing our grandmother’s silk nightgowns, hitched up. What are you doing? my cousin asks.
I am touching this wood, I say.
That’s not wood, she says.
Yes, it is! Grandpa this is wood, right? I say. It’s Formica, Josephine, he says. He calls all us girls Josephine. Maybe its because Josephine is Hebrew for God’s increase, and he has lots of granddaughters. We don’t yet know the name for flirt. We love him fiercely. Bet you don’t even know what Formica is anyway, my older cousin says. It’s melamine, a laminate, right Grandpa?

Our grandfather announces: No Miss America if you can’t get along. Also, Formica is made of melamine. Wood is from trees, Josephines. We are the e pluribus Unum of Josephine, he is the king of midcentury modern office furniture. He’s a long way from Vilnius. If we can’t be Miss America, we want to work in the family office furniture business as his secretary, have a mahogany desk and a credenza. Now that I know it is Formica I have touched instead of wood,
I am anxious to proceed. We are getting ready to walk down the stairs with books on our head to show poise, but we have to wait for our grandfather to announce
us to our audience, which is the rest of the family. Our cousins are behaving perfectly, so they might win.

I hobble in my grandmother’s gold lame 1940’s shoes, I love them more than the 1972 Democratic National Convention passes my grandfather got us because he supplied chairs. I sleep with mine under my pillow. To me, wood is the brain of God, but I touch the bannister made of brass, which means, jinxed, I will lose, which will make me sad and itchy. I balance two books on my head.

 

Elizabeth A.I. Powell is the author of three books of poems, most recently “Atomizer” (LSU Press). Her second book of poems, “Willy Loman’s Reckless Daughter: Living Truthfully Under Imaginary Circumstances” was a “Books We Love 2016” by The New Yorker.  The Boston Globe has called her recent work “wry and fervent” and “awash in synesthesiastic revelation.” Her novel, “Concerning the Holy Ghost's Interpretation of JCrew Catalogues” was published in 2019 in the U.K. 

Recent poems appear or are forthcoming in The New Republic, American Poetry Review, Women’s Review of Books, among others. She is Editor of Green Mountains Review, and Professor of Creative Writing at Northern Vermont University. Find her at www.elizabethaipowell.com

Part II: A Conversation with Poet and the Editor of Etruscan Press, Philip Brady [by Nin Andrews and Amanda Rabaduex]

NA: As an Etruscan poet, I have been asked many times: What are the markings of an Etruscan poet? Do you think I should submit to Etruscan? How should I answer?  In other words, people want to know what Philip Brady looks for in a manuscript.

I'm grateful for and humbled by the number and quality of the manuscripts I see. While I may not be able to publish them, I still profit from having a birds-eye view of the literary landscape.
I've learned a lot from the experience. I've learned for instance, that I don't belong to a school. I respond to neo-formalist and post-structuralist poetry, non-narrative and plot-driven prose.   Something indefinable in the diction, syntax, voice, structure, authority or tone of a work gets my attention. The response is visceral. I'm drawn in, and soon I've shifted from the posture of editor, pencil twitching in the corner of my mouth, to reader, delighting in the next surprise. You can feel it in the first lines or sentences. It's a pulse, an electric charge—an awareness of form and dimension, perhaps; an awareness of play. No matter how serious and dark the subject matter, certain works emit light: "gaiety" in the old sense of the word. As Yeats has it, "All things fall and are built again/ And those that build them again are gay."

We want to provide a platform for that kind of writing across traditional genres, writing with heart and seasoning.   We feature work which emerges out of a sense that genre isn’t bound by a set of conventions but is instead a manifestation of a human impulse. There is an impulse to sing, an impulse to regale, an impulse to explain. Yes, genre solidifies into tradition. But the best work—the most new and most ancient—still thrums with that primal impulse. "Form in dread of power," as Emerson puts it. We look for work that carries the tradition but emerges from the source.

So, as the conductor says tapping his baton, "More brilliance, please."

AR: What is your favorite part of the editing process?   

Making the phone call to tell a new author we’ve accepted their manuscript.  

AR: And the best part of being an editor?

I just got off the phone with Laurie Jean, author of Crave: Sojourn of a Hungry Soul, and Laurie told me she had accepted a position as Dean of Studies at Susquehanna University. Her book (along with her experience, charisma, and leadership) was part of what made that possible. I want to receive more phone calls like that.

AR: What are the most inspiring, interesting, or remarkable situations you've experienced since starting Etruscan? 

 When Bob Mooney and I conceived Etruscan, we thought we would begin with a small book of poems and grow as we learned. Then 9/11 happened. Bill Heyen, eminent poet and towering anthologist, proposed a book called “September 11, 2001: American Writers Respond.” He wanted to capture America’s first reaction to the tragedy. But Etruscan didn’t, so to speak, exist. We had no distributor or designer or marketers or deal-cutters or editors. We knew about publishing the way foodies know about restaurants: we knew what we liked. But we told Bill OK and he buttonholed 127 writers including John Updike and Erica Jong and Lucille Clifton and Robert Pinsky and he even made up a few writers like Edwina Seaver and Rose Carmine Smith with a wink to Joyce Carol Oates.

            Then we contacted a pro named Tom Woll who had made his bones at Vanguard with Dr. Seuss back in the days of three martini lunches, and I met Tom halfway between Yonkers and Providence at a bagel shop on Rte 17 and Tom hooked us up with Mortimer Mint, a Dickensian refugee who made his fortune distributing the Guinness Book of World Records, and Morty sold ten thousand copies and we thought publishing was a cinch and then 8000 copies came back—we didn’t know about returns. That was our baptism into publishing.

NA: Lately you have been publishing books that are triptychs, or three poets under one cover. Could you talk about that?

The idea for Tribus was partly an aesthetic choice, and partly a logistical one. 

Aesthetically, Etruscan is committed to a dialogue among genres, and Tribus has given us a chance to see poetry in a new, dialogic, light. In Tribus, authorship is shared; we are reminded of the communal origins of poetry; and we are given a new lens through which to see the connectedness of verse. Readers approach the text in a new way — it’s not just a beginning and ending, but three connected narratives. Readers are invited to browse, compare and contrast.

As for logistics — as years pass, Etruscan has acquired more and more authors, but we continue to publish only six titles a year, of which only three to four are volumes of poetry.

The hardest thing I have to do as an editor is turn down work by poets I love whom we’ve previously published. Yet, it has become more and more common. Doing three books in one volume is enormously helpful in publishing great work and showing continued commitment to authors we love. And we hope that the audiences for each poet will be introduced to the other poets in the Tribus, boosting sales and increasing circulation.

The first Tribus, Triptych, came about because I had submissions from two Etruscan authors, Peter Grandbois and James McCorkle. Then another book came along Robert Miltner, a colleague from the (Ohio) NEOMFA program. The more I thought about it, the more connections I saw among the three manuscripts. Fortunately, all three authors enthusiastically agreed, and the result is Triptych.

But I could see that this might be a way to address the chronic problem described above. So now I was looking for connections among submissions from Etruscan veterans. And sure enough, I found that the manuscripts submitted over a five-month period by Karen Donovan, Diane Raptosh, and Daneen Wardrop shared tonality and motifs, while being wildly different in settings and themes. Karen, Diane and Daneen all agreed to join in Trio, and they took the collaboration a step further, fashioning “centos” from one another’s work to weave between the volumes, and doing a post-Trio interview included in the book.

So, the next step was to actually solicit a tribus. Our two flagship authors, National Book Award finalists William Heyen and H. L. Hix, are both wildly prolific and produce far more work than Etruscan could ever publish, even though we’ve done 13 Hix and five Heyen titles. Meanwhile, an up-and-coming Etruscan, Dante Di Stefano, recently submitted a book to Etruscan. So, I thought that a new kind of connection might be made here — one more consciously wrought. Heyen is 81 years old; Hix is 60, and Dante is 42: so, Etruscan Generations.

The latest is a collection including one Etruscan poet and two poets who aren’t previously published by Etruscan, but whose work seems to be connected in some way. Ann Pedone’s Medea, Katherine Soniat’s Starfish Wash-up, and D.M Spitzer’s Overflow of An Unknown Self  all came to us, with very different modalities—yet each renews the connection between contemporary and antiquity. 

A Conversation with Poet and Editor, Philip Brady [by Nin Andrews and Amanda Rabaduex]

Philip Brady is a poet, professor, and editor whom I've had the good fortune to know in all three of these capacities, and he is someone I always learn from, whether by reading his works or by listening to him talk. In the last two years, while dealing with a very ill son, spending weeks in hospitals, I found myself falling out of love with poetry. But there were a few important exceptions. Philip Brady is one of them--his work is both personal and mysterious, lyrical and beautiful crafted. And his poems speak to me. So, when I began chatting and emailing with the poet and Etruscan intern, Amanda Rabaduex, and discovered we share an admiration for Dr. Brady's work and a curiosity about his practice and process, I decided to put together this two-part interview. 

Carmel 
       by Philip Brady 

Why do we turn away from the eternal?
Robinson Jeffers asked. The Pacific surf,
crashing against the inscape of his skull,
washed off brine and starfish, and left,
turn from the eternal. Frail vowels
spiral into the cerulean sky
so vast it seems almost believable
there is no other we. No turning away.
I am in thrall to the inhuman voice
chanting the mantra beyond silence:
turn eternal. Drown your secret loss.
Let every moment achieve utterance.
Even the stones of Tor House mark the seconds
between the rasping slant rhymes of the ocean. 

AR: Why poetry?

We could talk about the only art that has no native means of apprehension (reading is breathless; listening cannot scan). We could talk about the yaw between lines inviting the unutterable. We could cite political and cultural revolution or say that poetry is the only art where what’s inside gets said, unmediated. We could talk about transgressing against capitalist values: so much genius and effort lavished on artifacts which have so little commerce.

But I want to share something H.L Hix has written—not about what poetry expresses but how it  emerges from a source which warms and illumines.

To live by poetry. Which of course I want to read in more than one sense; live robustly and fully by means of poetry; order one’s life according to values derived from poetry; live in proximity to poetry.

 AR:  Is there a form you feel most comfortable writing? Do you like to experiment?

Writing is not, for me, a comfortable activity. It’s based on a paradox. A. Writing is hard. B. It’s supposed to look easy. As Yeats says, “A line will take us hours maybe / But if it does not seem a moment’s thought / Our stitching and unstitching have been nought.” For this paradoxical state of affairs (A & B) I blame Homer. Before he started to “articulate sweet sounds together” on the page, bards rocked and chanted, feeding the voice, and the voice fed the utterance. Or that’s the way I dream it. But I write crouched over a screen with my eyes watering and sudden beeps from Facebook and my right foot going numb, and everything has to be constructed and verified and revised down to the nub.

As for experimentation, often we think of modes of writing as expressive of a belief system: movements such as post-modernist vs. neo-formalist. They harden into postures, emerging, we assume, from conviction or temperament. But in my life prosody has shifted with age. The young man I was yearned to break out of his body, off the page. Lines jumped and high-stepped and enjambed. Now I am old, I want to hold things together, not “withering into the truth” but gyrating inward, with crazed balance, like a slinky on the fritz.

AR: What was the best advice you were ever given about writing?

I love what Jerome Rothenberg says about writing, “I write those poems which I have not found elsewhere, and for whose existence I feel a deep need.” Rothenberg connects his composition and reading, which makes him a great writer and a great editor.

NA: Did you have any idea what you were getting into when you became an editor?

Before I became an editor, I was a teacher and a reader. But reading manuscripts as an editor is very different from receiving them as a teacher, where your job is to nurture and instruct, or as a reader, where you can appreciate and be instructed. Readers can screen. We peruse the codex: the colophon, the pedigree, the blurbs that confirm value with words like “luminous” and “sublime,” the mysterious or catchy titles: Return to a Room Lit By a Glass of Milk, Preface to a Twenty-Volume Suicide Note, Autonecrophilia, The Book of Orgasms, or What Narcissism Means to Me. By the time we open the book and scan the creamy page with its noble Garamond, we are prepared to give each poem what William Stafford called “a certain kind of attention.”

            These conditions do not prevail in the editor’s office. Editors receive only a brief cover and we must address the draft of the internationally unknown poet without the benefit of context. No book, no reviews, and certainly no rarity. There are thousands. They have no reticence. They come, as Philip Dacey says, “so encumbered.”

            Reading unsolicited manuscripts mars editors. Print is limitless. If you are not an editor, you may have no idea of how many serviceable poems are making their doleful rounds. At conferences or bars or beaches or subway platforms, we editors pass one another and nod in silence, recognizing the vampiric gaze and slow shamble of the endless scroll.

NA: What are you working on now? Could we see a short poem or an excerpt of your new or recent work?  

I have two on-going projects. The first is an anthology, co-edited with Shanta Lee Gander. It’s called Sign & Breath: Voice & the Literary Tradition and will be published by Etruscan in 2023, and I’m delighted that you are contributing, Nin.

Here’s a description:

What is Poetry? If the question brings a sigh or cringe, it may be because myriad attempts at definition all have one thing in common: they divide. If poetry is one thing, it is not another. If it is formal, it is not free; if prophetic, not quotidian; if lineated, not sentenced. And so on.

This new critical anthology, Sign & Breath, takes a different approach. Rather than define poetry as a genre with conventions, traditions, codes, and modalities, this book regards poetry as a faculty that thrums in all written and spoken art. That faculty precedes any genre, as utterance precedes the alphabet. It striates all verbal and literary art. It is sound beneath text; its rhythms curve time and striate narrative. Its signature is that undefinable quality we call “voice.”

 Sign & Breath is an anthology of artists giving voice. 50 contemporary artists each offer one page that sings in any genre. Contributors represent diverse traditions, from Page and Spoken Word Poetry, to Rap, to prose fiction and memoir, to song lyrics. Following each entry is a discussion by the author about the role of voice in composition and presentation. In addition, the text will link to a virtual platform featuring performance videos and author interviews, to be hosted here.

 This book will contribute to a dialogue among genres which will reframe understanding of poetry as an aesthetic experience of language. With one page that sings in any genre, Sign & Breath presents a new, inclusive perspective: poetry as voice.

My other project in progress is a sequence of poems, called Jamb, which uses seven syllable lines to play with the notion that enjambment is a central technique in modern poetry—resisting connection, syntax, and narrative, and opening a place “where lines quaver to appear/ less incomplete and fracture/ assures nothing happens—not/that no thing takes place but that/ Nothing is actually/enacted…”

And here’s a link to recent work.

Philip Brady’s newest book is The Elsewhere: Poems & Poetics (Broadstone, 2021). He is the author of two essay collections, Phantom Signs and By Heart from the University of Tennessee Press; a book-length poem, To Banquet with the Ethiopians, a memoir, To Prove My Blood, and three previous books of poetry. He has edited a critical book on James Joyce and an anthology of contemporary poetry. 

Brady’s work has received the Snyder Prize from Ashland Poetry Press; a ForeWord Magazine Gold Medal; an Ohioana Poetry Award; the Ohio Governor’s Award; six Individual Artist Fellowships from the Ohio Arts Council; and Thayer and Newhouse Fellowships from New York State.

Brady has taught at University College Cork, on Semester at Sea, at the University of Ibadan, and as a Peace Corps Volunteer at the National University of Zaire (DRC). Currently, he is a Distinguished Professor at Youngstown State University and Executive Director of Etruscan Press. He also serves on the MFA faculty of Wilkes University. For more information please visit www.philipbrady.com

Amanda Rabaduex is a poet, writer, educator, and Air Force veteran. She is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Wilkes University. She is a graduate assistant for Etruscan Press, and the current poetry editor of River and South Review. Originally from Ohio, she now lives in the Smoky Mountains. 

A Conversation with Australian Prose Poet, Cassandra Atherton (by Nin Andrews)

NA: Why prose poetry?

CA: I love prose poetry’s compression and the allied sense of breathlessness it so often conveys. Where lineated poems tease the right margin, the prose poem embraces it. I also adore prose poetry’s celebration of the quotidian—those daily engagements at the heart of so much experience. It’s a form of poetry that always looks so approachable, largely because it’s composed of sentences and paragraphs, and it is able to exploit the illusion that that a reader may be about to encounter prose fiction or nonfiction rather than a piece of writing focused on the figurative possibilities of language. I like to think that once you have started reading a prose poem, you are compelled to finish it because you are inside a block of text that just keeps going—until the final full stop. It’s hard to resist the beguilements of a rectangular block of poetic text that floats beautifully in the space of the page or on the screen.

NA: You co-authored Prose Poetry: An Introduction. In writing it, did you come away with a new appreciation for the form? Were there any surprises?

CA: Prose poetry always surprises me. Its protean nature is the reason I never tire of it. Co-writing Prose Poetry: An Introduction was such a joy because I lived in a prose poetry world for three years—and in that world, almost all I did was think, write, eat, and breathe prose poetry. I have a wonderful collection of contemporary prose poetry, too. I especially enjoy some contemporary prose poetry that plays with a kind of ghosting of lineation. Some prose poets use slashes or spaces between words or phrases in the prose poem, and others use different forms of punctuation—such writing can be extraordinarily suggestive and playful.

NA: You are also working on an anthology of Australian prose poets. Is there a difference between American and Australian prose poetry? 

CA: American prose poetry is part of a longer tradition than Australian prose poetry, which has only begun to flourish in the last three decades or so. Where American prose poetry has a wonderful relationship with neo-surrealism, Australian prose poetry is often connected to its colonial history and to re-imaginings of the suburban. However, the American and Australian traditions are often connected via their humor, which is often dark and uncanny, invoking aspects of the enigmatic or mysterious.

NA: How about between male and female prose poetry? Do you think women are doing anything unique with the form?

CA: Both women and men are writing powerful prose poetry in the twenty-first century. Women are at the forefront of some of the current developments and innovations in the form. For example, I’ve always adored Holly Iglesias’s book, Boxing Inside the Box: Women’s Prose Poetry, which asks pertinent questions about the prose poetry form and its traditions. In the various prose poetry projects in which I’ve been involved, I have always given priority to exploring the way women are able to politicize the rectangular prose poetry box. They often do this by playing with the prose poem’s use of the conflicting tropes of confinement and freedom. Words are squeezed vice-like inside the block of prose poetry until they explode into the space around it.

NA: What are you currently working on?

CA: I like to keep busy, so I have lots of projects. I was thrilled when Peter Johnson asked me to co-edit an anthology of US, English and Australian prose poetry with him. The prose poetry anthology is all new work and it’s electrifying! It’s coming out later in the year with MatHat Press. I’m also working on a collection of prose poetry, Saving Face, which is about the Hiroshima Maidens. They were Japanese women disfigured by the atomic bomb dropped and were taken to New York for plastic surgery. I’m very fortunate to have received an Australia Council grant to fund this project.

NA: I’d like to close with one of your prose poems:

Hiroshima is for Lovers

You must forget that I kissed you in Hiroshima. Leave behind our hot silences and the way your shoulder pressed against mine on the blue streetcar circling the city. It is all a cliché. It has happened many times before. Remember that your body is marked by others’ narratives and their stories don’t belong on my lips. Nothing happened. Your wife is waiting at the hotel bar with a bottle of cold, white wine and an empty glass. Everything happened. In your hotel room, you stretched my arms above my head and placed my palms on the window. From behind, you pressed me against the glass, like a specimen. I saw the steel skeleton of the A-bomb dome against the blue sky. I tried to speak but my words slipped down the Ōta River and into the Seto Inland Sea. We stand on the Aioi bridge and I imagine its T shape is a ventricle, and you are its beating heart.

Cassandra Atherton is a widely anthologised and award-winning prose poet and scholar of prose poetry. Her prose poems have been translated into Japanese, Korean.  Cassandra co-authored Prose Poetry: An Introduction (Princeton UP, 2020) and co-edited the Anthology of Australian Prose Poetry (Melbourne UP, 2020) with Paul Hetherington. She is a commissioning editor for Westerly magazine, senior editor at Spineless Wonders and associate editor for MadHat Press. Cassandra is Professor of Writing and Literature at Deakin University, Australia.

 

Love Most of You Too by Dustin Brookshire [by Nin Andrews]

I have a particular weakness for what I call gossip poems--poems that make me feel as if I’m eavesdropping on a juicy conversation. They remind me of my father, a talented gossip, though he preferred to call himself a raconteur. He gave me lessons in storytelling when I was a girl, asking how my school day was in the evenings. If I said it was fine, that everyone was nice, he would sigh, “If you have something ‘nice’ or ‘fine’ to say, please don’t bore me.” He wasn’t asking me to say mean things. He wanted to know what I was secretly mulling in my mind. And to shorten the distance between what I said and what I thought. 

Dustin Brookshire, whose second chapbook, Love Most Of You Too  is due out from Harbor Editions today, is a master at the gossip poem. The man, I think, really could write soap operas. Witty, smart, entertaining, he knows exactly how our thoughts twist and turn between reality and fantasy, and on and off-topic, as well as in and out of the present moment. His poems create a sense of intimacy and personal drama in a blink. Reading his poem, “I Should Write Soap Operas,” I feel as if he’s confiding in me, only me, that I am his new best friend. How can I resist? How can I not laugh out loud? I especially love his ending, “I’m only saying/ it’s OK not to accept what’s in front of you at face value.” 

I Should Write Soap Operas

My neighbor, well technically she isn’t my neighbor
since she lives on the other side of the building, two floors below,
appeared with a baby a few weeks ago.
I’ve been meaning to tell Paul about the baby
but the daily hum drum of life — work, rest, write —
has blocked my thoughts, but today,
we were walking Daisy and turned a corner
and there she was — baby strapped to chest
with its legs swinging. I think it might be a boy,
but I’m not sure. All the other times I’ve seen it,
it has been covered in a red blanket, which is no help
since red is like yellow when babies are concerned.
Anyway, I’m losing track of my point.
I think the baby is stolen. Paul tells me she is probably babysitting.
I say, She probably stole it. Then add,
But not from another country, as if this legitimizes
my comment. Paul rolls his eyes and tells me she can steal
the baby in one of my poems, but this is not
why I am writing this poem. I’ll admit
I’m the kind of guy who enjoys a giggle
when I hear of someone objecting at a wedding.
I’ll admit I’ve watched Soap Operas since I was eight
and rooted for the villain most of the time.
I adored Vivian and Sami on Days of Our Lives.
My mother threatened to quit taping episodes
when I would cheer for them. You might not know,
Sami stole her baby sister. Well, she stole her half baby sister,
but only she and her cheating mother Marlena
knew about the half part. I’m not saying this is the case
with the mystery baby in my building. I’m only saying
it’s OK not to accept what’s in front of you at face value.

About Love Most Of You Too, Beth Gylys writes: “His poems explore the vicissitudes, limitations and foibles of life and love, sometimes hilariously, sometimes subtly, sometimes with the force of a razor blade to a wrist. The book both pays tribute to his poetic idol, Denise Duhamel, and solidly establishes Brookshire’s singularly sassy, incisive confessional voice. From the more serious poems that address homophobia to the politically charged poems to the hilarious “Rule #3 of Sexual Relations” (a delightful romp, impossible to summarize), emotional acuity, ferocity, and facility with form are on full display in this page-turning gem.”

Dustin Brookshire, a finalist for the 2021 Scotti Merrill Award, is the founder/editor of Limp Wrist and curator of the Wild & Precious Life Series, a Zoom-based poetry reading series. He is the author of the chapbooks Love Most Of You Too (Harbor Editions, 2021) and To The One Who Raped Me (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2012).  Dustin’s work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has been published in or is forthcoming in Assaracus, Whiskey Island, Mollyhouse, The West Review, Oddball, Gulf Stream Magazine, Redheaded Stepchild, and other publications.  He has been anthologized in Divining Divas: 100 Gay Men on their Muses (Lethe Press, 2012) and The Queer South: LGBTQ Writes on the American South (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2014). Visit him online at www.dustinbrookshire.com. 

An Interview with Elizabeth A. I. Powell [by Nin Andrews]

I met Elizabeth A. I. Powell years ago when we were both students in the MFA program at Vermont College. A young mother with three small children and another one in her future, she was studying fiction back then. I lost touch with her until years later when I saw she had won the 2015 Robert Dana-Anhinga prize for her fabulous collection, Willy Loman’s Reckless Daughter or Living Truthfully under Imaginary Circumstances. I thought, Wait. Is that the same Liz?  I was reminded of Nickole Brown, another Vermont college graduate, who studied fiction and who also became a prize-winning poet. 

NA: How/why did you transition from fiction to poetry? Can you say a few words about your evolution as a writer? 

EP: My evolution as a writer follows the trajectory of my evolution as a woman. I had to learn to listen to my own voice, not the voice and criticisms of others, and it took a long time deciphering what was valid criticism and what was someone holding forth opinions in the moment. I had to learn to trust myself.  I gave up on my first love, poetry, in my senior year when told it wasn’t very good at all by my classic nemesis---my stepmonster-- when I returned from the Bennington College July program. 

So, I changed to fiction. When we were in grad school I had a prof there say,” Oh no, not another damn women’s story!” It was a lyric essay, really, about childbirth. From then on I tried to turn every story into some other kind of form. Writing fiction in third person was too much like moving heavy furniture around a room.  There was no discussion of hybridity, especially at VC. Here’s the deal, I had to make it matter only for myself.  I was buying whatever anyone wanted to sell me. Then one day I realized the truth in the Dylan song, “Everything passes, everything changes, just do what you think you should do.”

NA: You are a master of the lyric essay as well. I love the poem (or is it an essay?), “Summer Undid Me: Guerlain Imperiale (Bedroom), 1853.” 

EP: Oh, Nin, thank you! It is a kind of detoxification from too much summer sun, reading books about Napoleon and Baudelaire, spritzing too much Guerlain, and a narcissist lover gaslighting me into another dimension! It is an argument about how we use our senses and how easily we can be fooled by history, marketing, artifice. Ultimately, it’s how can we tell the dancer from the dance. It’s creative inquiry, which belongs to essay and poetry and becoming. It is a kind of poetic journalism, which is to say, a sister to documentary poetics. 

NA: I am a fan of all your books, but I especially love Atomizer. I admire its humor, intensity, and lush sensuality. I'd love to hear you talk about the experience of writing this collection. Maybe say a few words about the difference between writing the personal and the persona poem? 

EP: I don’t think we can write something until we have really lived it and leaned into the question of it. When I’m stuck on a poem it is usually because I haven’t lived the needed experience to finish the poem. With a persona poem the same is true for the writer. One can try on masks, but ultimately one must have the empathy of understanding the narrative arc of the poetic problem. I love what method acting’s Sanford Meisner has to say (about taking on personas), that we must behave truthfully under imaginary circumstances.

I started “Atomizer”  with my concerns about the intersections of technology and biology, and capitalism’s influence on how we find love and attachment. I was heavily influenced by French philosopher Alain Badiou’s work, In Praise of Love, which depicts contemporary love as a mutual truth refinement, one that can’t be calculated through marketing and technology, but by saying YES at every turn. I, in turn, turned to my own five senses as a way to interpret romantic love (as well as agape love) and how it all plays out.  

NA: Who are your influences? And what are your guilty pleasures?  

EP: Always, Paul Celan. Sylvia Plath and Robert Lowell. Gwendolyn Brooks and Lucille Clifton. Sam Shepard, Don DeLillio, and Raymond Carver. Reading Maggie Nelson’s Bluets  gave me a freedom back I didn’t know I’d lost. For the sounds of sense and the sounds of a rural life, Frost has meant a lot. Comedy and comedic timing, voice and satire has kept me good company, especially through Jewish humor. I learned so much from my mentor at UNH, Charlie Simic. But it all started sitting in my room as a seven year old listening to JFK’s famous speeches album on my little record player. Listening to Joni Mitchell has been important, speaking of records. My guilty pleasure is to engage with pleasure without guilt, and when that is not possible, to eat as much high quality chocolate as possible in my most comfortable pajamas. 

NA: What are you working on now?

EP:  I’m working on a manuscript of poems and lyric essays called, Into the Mistake, about reproductive trauma as an epigenetic and environmental conversation through time and texts; how our lives live in us and grow like rings in a tree. It also features growing up in NYC in the 80s and the idea that maybe mistakes are more mystical than we sometimes think. The book pretty much believes in process theology.

NA: Could we have a poem from the book? Maybe "The Ordinary Odor of Reality"? And some commentary along the lines of how the poem came about? 

This poem came about when I visited OVR (Olfactory Virtual Reality) in Burlington, VT where they are doing critical work on using olfactory technology to treat veterans and trauma survivors with PTSD. When I was there they had bottles and bottles of scents like: gas fire, baby powder, coolant, match strike, hot sand.

THE ORDINARY ODOR OF REALITY 

Is as strong as our bones
steeped in our bodies
like Red Rose Tea.
Outer space smells like rum,
so says spectral analysis, 
but all my trauma reeks of
baby powder and chlorine.
We breathe 86,400 times a day.
We ingest each other through 
our nostrils straight into 
our amygdala like 80s cocaine or salt
water over our heads. I have inhaled 
my worldview from the sterility 
of Brutalist architecture, schoolrooms 
I have sat in. I am having a smell dialogue 
with mold and wet earth and sand 
that resides in the woods and playground 
inside my memory. What are 
your odor threat cues? Coolant? Match 
strike? Summer day? All arranged
in form, a story? I put on 
the Olfactory Virtual Reality
Headset that looks like space goggles
with a scent-o-graph that changes 
with each virtual image, in order
to confront the Aqua Velva, polyester 
bedspread, peppermint schnapps, 
urine and semen and tobacco,
the capture and pillage 
of my seventh year. Now 
in warrior headdress I combat
the reality of the moment
that launched my career
in PTSD. Cyber psychological
treatment, imaginal exposure
therapy to locate the past
so, I can crash back through,
on a treadmill with my space goggles 
and therapist, and relive it
to master it, and take a shovel 
to rebury it in that wet earth, 
but without me. 

Elizabeth A.I. Powell is the author of three books of poems, most recently “Atomizer” (LSU Press). Her second book of poems, Willy Loman’s Reckless Daughter: Living Truthfully Under Imaginary Circumstances was a Small Press Bestseller and named a “Books We Love 2016” byThe New Yorker.  Her novel, Concerning the Holy Ghost's Interpretation of JCrew Catalogues, was published in 2019 in the U.K.  Recent poems appear or are forthcoming in The New Republic, Stand (UK), and American Poetry Review. Find her at www.elizabethaipowell.com

"The Last Orgasm" [by Nin Andrews]

Preface     

If anyone reads this book, they will think they know what kind of person I am. They will, I am certain, imagine me as someone else, someone I can never be—simply because I have written this book of orgasms, and this book will do that to them, and to me. It will make me appear to be the kind of person who is in the position to write about orgasms, who knows all about orgasms: their songs and dances and secret languages. They might go so far as to compare me to Noah Webster, claiming that just as he compiled an entire opus of words, carefully defining and distinguishing each one’s particular origin, pronunciation, spelling, and proper usage, so I have collected an opus of orgasms. And I will have to admit, with surprise, that even if I don’t imagine myself to be that sort of person, even if I don’t consider myself an author anymore, much less an author of an opus of orgasms, even if I no longer converse with orgasms in my daily life, the orgasms continue to seek me out, as orgasms will, as if they need my blessing, as if I and only I can hear their pleas, their wishes, their last breaths.

>>>>

When asked to describe her writing life, Nin Andrews once wrote: "I have always felt a little apologetic about my poetry. Because I am not sure that I am the person who writes it. Rather, some other mystery woman sits in front of my computer, typing happily away. This other is bold and loud, and my father, who met her on occasion, described her as unbecoming, uncouth, and socially unacceptable. When she was a girl, he threatened to wash her mouth out with soap and water, as was done in those days. Ivory soap—it made her vomit. But all the soap in the world could not clean or shut her up. It is she who gives voice to orgasms (or is it vice versa?), and who has not a worry in the world about what others think. Me, an inhibited wisp of woman, I can only watch her and sigh."

Ed. note: Nin Andrews's book "The Last Orgasm" (2020) is available from Etruscan Press. The "orgasms" collected here are in the manner of such writers as James Tate, Lydia Davis, Vallejo, Lorca, Henri Michaux, Frank O'Hara, Kafka, and Rilke.

David Lehman, Denise Duhamel & Nin Andrews: Reading at the KGB Tonight 4/12/21

 

<<
I am so excited to be reading with David Lehman and Denise Duhamel tonight for the KGB series, I can barely breathe. I am thinking of this as my ten minutes in the presence of fame—as well as in the presence of two of my all-time favorite poets.  I can’t wait to hear Denise read from her new collection, Second Story, which includes a long poem in the form of Terza rima about her terrifying experience with hurricane Irma, as well as her equally terrifying poems about the last few years, under the influence of Donald Trump. And I am so excited to hear from David Lehman whom I expect to surprise us by reading from his forthcoming collection, The Morning Line, due out in the fall of 2021 from the University of Pittsburgh Press.  I owe so much to both of these poets. David was my first real poetry professor. I would never have pursued poetry if it were not for him. And it was Denise who taught me how to read an orgasm poem aloud.  -- Nin Andrews >>

 

The reading starts at 7 pm.

 

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/86561522512?pwd=UW1BRXU0dVZHZ2ZWM0xHWUtjWWNkQT09

 

Meeting ID: 865 6152 2512 Passcode: 799004

<<
I'm grateful to David Lehman for giving me the chance to say a few words about his April 12 KGB Bar reading with Nin Andrews and Denise Duhamel, because it was David who introduced me to their work. Back when the reading series was new, in the late 1990s, with Star Black and David in charge, he gave me a copy of "The Book of Orgasms" by Nin Andrews, and I was blown away by the sheer happy lusty sexiness of the concept and the individual poems illustrating the poet's orgasmic "quest," which is a never-ending one inasmuch as the "last" in any series is the first in a new series. I also recall a night at the bar when, drinking Tanqueray martinis, Lehman insisted that feminism and fun were not incompatible, and won the bet with Duhamel's Barbie poems in her book "Kinky." As for Lehman himself, will he read daily poems, poems "in the manner of" his favorite dead poets, or a Baudelaire translation? What this virtuoso trio has in common is authenticity, humor, wit, daring, and sensibility, which is just about everything. >>  -- Fred Chervil 

 

The How-To Poem with Rebecca Morgan Frank [by Nin Andrews]

I had all these great ideas for a blog post last night as I was drifting off to sleep, feeling thrilled to have just received my second vaccine, and dreaming of life after Covid—dinners out, coffee shops, friends. But this morning, when I woke, I felt done in. Overnight, my brain seems to have turned into Jello. I’m not sure if there’s a coherent thought in there, thanks to Moderna. Usually when I lack inspiration or brain power of my own, I pick up a poetry book at random, and it helps get the juices flowing. Or at least, I have an enjoyable moment with someone else’s poetry. But today, those poetry books are staying on the shelf.  No way can I focus on poetry.

Instead, I’m reaching for my guilty pleasure—self-help books.  Because there isn’t a subject I don’t need a how-to book for. Or a book for dummies. Whenever I walk into a bookstore, I am amazed to find a whole shelf of books, written just for me. So far, I have read Walking for Dummies--I mean how does anyone put one foot in front of the other? Daily Sex for Dummies. Daily, seriously? Tying Shoes for Dummies—it’s true, I don’t even tie my shoes correctly. And The Dummies’ Guide to Love and Happiness.  

What can I say? I love instruction manuals, precisely because I can never follow directions. I remember, many years ago, in a college poetry class, one student said, “Nin never does the assignment. She just goes off into her our own world.” “Yep,” the teacher said. “But at least she has another world to go to.” I am not sure if that’s a good thing. But I try to do what I am told. Well, more or less.

I also love instruction manual-poems like Ashbery’s “The Instruction Manual,” and Rebecca Morgan Frank’s “How to Make Your Own Automaton,” which she reads in this video below. And then offers advice on how to write your own how-to poem. Frank is brilliant. And she gives great advice.  Now, if only I can follow it. 

 

Writing Prompts for April's Poem-a-Day Challenge (by Nin Andrews)

It’s April, the cruelest month, and here in Virginia the rain has been falling so steadily, I am worried it will never dry out again. I feel soaked to the bone. Brain-foggy, too. Socked in. But, in spite of that, I’ve signed up for one of those write-a-poem-a-day groups. Now, I know a lot of you BAP readers are naturals at writing daily poems. Maybe you follow William Stafford’s advice of lowering your standards, and just keep writing no matter what. Or you’re a regular Emily Dickinson or Frank O'Hara--scribbling brilliant lines every other second. Or you’re like David Lehman who wrote a poem a day for two years (gulp) and then published his lovely book, The Daily Mirror.  Me? I don’t write a poem in a day, or even in a week. Ever.    

But, I have decided to give it a try. After all, it's what poets do in April, right? And I want to say, I'll be relying on all those poets who so graciously offered up video prompts for Lit Youngstown's Lit by the Imagination project, poets like Denise Duhamel, Stephanie Strickland, Peter Johnson, Jeff Friedman, Dante Di Stefano, and others. So many others. Every day there’s a new poet and a new prompt here. 

I want to post a few examples here, just to give a taste of what's ahead. Like this one by Nicole Santalucia:

And this one by Lauren K. Alleyne:

And this one by Leona Sevick:

 

Overcoming Writer’s Block with Jessica Jacobs and Nickole Brown (by Nin Andrews)

Many years ago, my shy teenage son came home from high school and said he had almost spoken in class that day. “But the words got stuck right here," he said gesturing at the base of his throat. “Maybe tomorrow, they will actually come out of my mouth.”

I thought of him a lot over the last year when I developed a serious writer’s block. I had ideas, the desire to write, even the urgency, but the words would not come. I kept thinking, Maybe tomorrow I will be able to write again. But there was a little space in my office where ideas fluttered around like uncaged birds and never landed. Even when I did put something down on paper, there was a distance between what I meant and what I said. I thought of William Stafford’s advice to lower your standards in order to keep writing. But how low? 

And how does one deal with the feeling that the muse is simply absent? Day after day I would wake up hopeful, only to find she was still on vacation. Maybe she moved to another town, or a beach resort—she knows how much I hate those brightly lit vacation spots with tourists and palm trees and so much sun, my skin fries, and my soul, too. But it’s not just she who left me. My dreams were missing, too. Even my daydreams. It was as if my mind were a blank page, or maybe a whole book of blank pages. I blamed my writer’s block on the news, the weather the pandemic, a family crisis, loneliness, old age, even my pajamas.

Yes, my pajamas. Because my entire wardrobe for the last year could pass for pajamas. There’s no reason to worry about appearances during a pandemic, of course. But every poem I wrote (if I could call it a poem) seemed to be wearing pajamas too, or joggers with elastic waist bands—nothing I'd want to present to the world.

I have tried so many things to overcome my writer’s block. First I listened to hours of poetry podcasts by the amazing poets, Pádraig Ó Tuama  and Tracy K Smith.  Although I love the podcasts, they didn’t make me want to go to my study and compose my own work. They did make me wonder if I’d ever be able to write a poem as beautiful as the ones they featured. 

Next, I watched poetry reading after poetry reading on ZOOM. I paid attention to some of them. I love the convenience of listening to a performance in the comfort of my home. But I am not the best audience when I am too relaxed. My mind wanders. I begin to wonder, “Is this poetry reading ever going to end?” Or, “What is that thing on the wall behind the poet’s head?” Or, “I wonder what that paint color is — Farrow & Ball Blue Ground? Benjamin Moore Aegean Teal?” But there were notable exceptions—poets I wish I could listen to forever including  Major Jackson, Tim Seibles, Shara McCallum, Leona Sevick, Denise Duhamel.

Next, I signed up for a class with Natalie Goldberg, whom I have always loved. But the classes were pre-recorded, and after I listened to a few of them, I lost interest. I do like the prompts she gives. It occurred to me after watching her that I’d love shorter classes. Maybe five to fifteen minute videos. Something to appeal to my limited attention span. I would really like to have poets offer prompts and/or short teachings online. So I started a project with LitYoungstown for which I am collecting videos of poets reading a poem and offering a prompt—the series is called Lit by the Imagination, and will be posted in April on Lit Youngstown’s Facebook page. Who knows? Maybe I’ll start writing again soon.

Finally, I read Write It, Jessica Jacobs’ and Nickole Brown’s book of uniquely inspired prompts, and was so
impressed, I started taking free classes (free but you do need to pre-register for them) with the authors. What brilliant teachers and poets they are!  They call them “generative classes” because they hope to help us generate our own work. They teach and read between offering prompts, and the two are fascinating to listen to—their insights, the poems they select, the way they think about poetry and writing.  In addition, they chat easily with their audience and create a sense of community, something I have missed during the pandemic. I feel as if a little touch of heaven is offered in each class.  I’ve become a bit of a groupie. I am already looking forward to Sunday, March 28th, their next session. 

Here’s a prompt from their book, and two video prompts:

“The poet Jack Gilbert wrote, We die and are put into the earth forever, / We should insist while there is still time. If you only had one week to live, is there something you would insist on doing? Is there something that keeps you from doing that thing now?"

And so, with National Poetry Month just around the corner, I insist on returning to writing. With a little help from my poet friends, I think and hope this will happen. 

 

 

 

English Flavors by Laure-Anne Bosselaar [by Nin Andrews]

 

            I love to lick English the way I licked the hard

round licorice sticks the Belgian nuns gave me for six

good conduct points on Sundays after mass. 

            Love it when ‘plethora’, ‘indolence’, ‘damask’, 

or my new word: ‘lasciviousness,’ stain my tongue,

thicken my saliva, sweet as those sticks — black

            and slick with every lick it took to make daggers

out of them: sticky spikes I brandished straight up

to the ebony crucifix in the dorm, with the pride

            of a child more often punished than praised.

‘Amuck,’ ‘awkward,’ or ‘knuckles,’ have jaw-

breaker flavors; there’s honey in ‘hunter’s moon,’

            hot pepper in ‘hunk,’ and ‘mellifluous’ has aromas

of almonds and milk.  Those tastes of recompense

still bitter-sweet today as I roll, bend and shape

            English in my mouth, repeating its syllables

like acts of contrition, then sticking out my new tongue —

flavored and sharp — to the ambiguities of meaning.

 

 

I love this poem, which Laure-Anne Bosselair so graciously agreed to record for Lit Youngstown’s forthcoming series of poetry videos. I love the idea of tasting the words, relishing them, not as Mark Strand does in his famous poem, “Eating Poetry,” when ink runs from the corners of his mouth, but as a savorer of flavors and textures and sounds.  I especially love how she closes the poem with an image of herself sticking out her tongue as a Catholic receiving the sacrament in order to take in “the ambiguities of meaning.”  

Listening to her read in her beautiful Belgian accent, I am reminded of my childhood friend’s Belgian mother who used to call me mon petit chou. When she said chou, her lips pursed as if in a kiss, I felt so loved. I was certain mon petit chou meant something sweet like my little treasure. Or poppet.  Years later, when I was a French student, I discovered she had been calling me her little cauliflower. Apparently, it’s a French term of endearment. I assume it’s the sound of the word, chou, that makes it so. Or perhaps there is a reference or meaning that I am missing. But then again, maybe the French appreciate cauliflower a lot more than I do. As Bosselaar puts it, when learning a language, one must stick out one’s tongue “to the ambiguities of meaning.”