How does a poem begin?
I do a lot of research, looking for things that make me feel a certain way. But when I write a poem, it’s because I feel something. It’ll be an overwhelming essence of something ephemeral—like the purplish tint of a twilight, or the grey feeling inside of a haunted house, a spell, a song, or a voice in my mind.
What other poetry books have you been reading lately?
Sara Tantlinger’s Cradleland of Parasites, Cynthia Pelayo’s Into the Forest and All the Way Through, Claire C. Holland’s Not Your Final Girl, Juliette van der Molen’s Confess: The Untold Story of Dorothy Good, Jessica McHugh’s A Complex Accident of Life, Ray Ball’s Lararium.
What do you feel poetry can accomplish that other forms can’t?
Poetry is the abstract art of writing. There’s really no limit on what it can or can’t accomplish. It depends on what the poet would like to express. Poetry is all about finding new ways of expression. The limit does not exist, in short. I really love the work that’s being done in the dark poetry genre right now. Lots of interesting risks are being taken and turning out in surprising ways.
Has your consideration of poetry changed since you began?
When I was younger, I thought poetry was a closed loop, one where you’d have to be lucky to get invited in. But, I’ve grown to think of it as a table, one where we can pull up another chair, and add in another leaf to make room for anyone who has something constructive to say. It’s a conversation among writers and readers. Academics would call it a discourse.
How do you know when a poem is finished?
When the poem surprises me. There’s always a turn that appears in the piece when a poem is ready, when it says something more than I originally intended. It almost transcends its original form, in a way.
