Interview

We were intrigued by the apparent allusions to classic poems in your Touchstone poems: Rilke’s Archaic Torso and Pound’s “In the Station of the Metro” in “On Being Unimpressed. . . .” and Yeats’s “Second Coming” in the “center folds” of the “Blue Hills”. How do you see the way your poems are in conversation with tradition and poetry before you? How does your reading and study of poetry inform your writing practice?

I think for me poetry is primarily a process of osmosis. I read a lot. What I read gets absorbed into my experience of the world and the language of my mind and comes out as allusions, sometimes intentional and sometimes involuntary. (The reference to Pound’s “In the Station of the Metro,” for example, wasn’t at all conscious). It’s always fun to look back after some time has passed and remember what or who was influencing me when a certain poem took shape.

I often wonder, when I read poems like “On Being Unimpressed. . . .” that have so many lovely lines and beautiful turns of phrase, whether they all arrived at once in one draft or if they were the result of revisions and collection over time. What kind of revision or journaling practice do you use? Do you have advice about process for young writers?

I wish I could say it all arrived at once! The general shape of it did, but most of the individual phrases have been heavily edited since the first draft. I tend to be a grump about revision, so I try not to go at it alone. I have a good friend who is an excellent poet and kind enough to trade work with me frequently for feedback. Getting a second set of eyes on your work is so helpful and I really don’t think there’s a good substitute for that.

We were intrigued by the ending of “The Blue Hills”. It is such a masterpiece of productive ambiguity: is the tongue a long remembered lover or tongues of the fire of autumn? Is the “it” the tongue or the hand? The last line hits so hard, partly because of the coming together of all these meanings. Could you say a few words about the poem for us? How do you feel about the process of interpretation of poems? Do you mind picking a poem apart, or trying to explain it? Or do you prefer to let it speak for itself?

It’s funny that you mention this, because I actually have another version of this poem in my Google Drive with a different ending because of feedback I got that the last line came too much out of left field. But I’m glad I submitted this one the way it is. 

I think the ambiguity helps to capture a sense of anchorlessness, but beyond that I generally like to trust the reader to do a lot of the meaning-making for themselves. The images and phrases in this poem were compiled based on resonance and sound much more so than on logic. It doesn’t particularly matter to me whether the “tongue” in the last line is the tongue of the copperhead, the tongue of the fire of autumn, or something else. What matters to me is that it makes a kind of experiential sense in the sonic and visual world of the poem.

Both of the poems in this issue have such music in them. Do you write poems in meter? How do you feel about the relationship of rhythm to meaning in poetry? Do you tend to write for the page or for the voice? 

I don’t write in strict meter much, but I do think rhythm is absolutely essential. If a poem doesn’t sound right, it isn’t right. I’m one of those people who can’t read without hearing a little voice in their head, so for me writing for the page is always writing for the voice, too.

Rhythm controls so much about a poem – its pace, the emphasis, where pauses fall. When I’m writing, I often find that the rhythm is the first thing that comes. Then the trick is getting words and phrases to actually fit that rhythm.

How did you start writing poetry? What types of books, classes, teachers, workshops, etc. have been most important in your development as a poet? How has your poetry changed as you developed and where do you see it going in future projects?

I started writing poetry when I learned how to write in elementary school. Most of the credit for my writing has to go to my mother, who not only taught me to write but also allowed me to spend many, many hours writing.

My high school English teacher, Richard McCarthy, introduced me to W.S. Merwin. That’s when I began to understand what poetry could really do. I was intimidated by all that poetry could be and has been, but his and other teachers’ belief in me as a writer continues to buoy me as I dare to try to contribute something to the world of poetry.

In college, I was lucky to study under Jane Zwart and L.S. Klatt, who are both accomplished poets. They helped me to approach poetry for the first time as a serious craft.

I’ve also been very lucky to have writerly friends who provide much needed feedback.