Canisia Lubrin : part two

What do you feel poetry can accomplish that other forms can’t?

Perhaps what poetry does best is draw language out of mystery and vice-versa into illumination as distilled, compact moments of clarity. And since language is important to us, a large part of who we are remains ever possible and worthy in poetry. In poetry, in those impulses to disassemble our days into shapes, features, categories, knowledges that can help us make sense of things--we are alive and mysterious. And the difficulties of confessing our longing to translate such things, feelings, the meagre pacificity of our dreams--are not mere vanity or luxury. Poetry isn’t a thing that will just capitulate to some reductive utility or meaninglessness. Perhaps we can’t know fully how poetry does what only poetry can do. It is important for us to have ambiguity in our lives, that we can achieve more possibility with the generosities and troubles that have come before us. But poetry reminds us that for our sake, things remain possible. Through specificity, the ever-shifting contours of our own lives invite poetry, which is a kind of joy in life--to remain ours. That is, we are held in something outside of what is monetizable. We escape a kind of material destruction daily. Because it cannot be commercialized, poetry invites us to hold possibility as part (and simultaneously apart) of the cosmic-scale complexities that compose our individual lives. That we are able to daily encounter--even momentarily--such things in poetry means that we exceed the bounds of their temporality. And we triumph in these moments. The best in us triumphs. That is the microcosmic potentiality of poetry.

Shaindel Beers : part four

What poets changed the way you thought about writing?

I think Anne Sexton really changed the way I think about writing because she wrote EVERYTHING no matter how raw. I once spent a summer reading her complete works, and it was all there. Every little bit of life that happened to her turned into poetry. I think Transformations made a huge impact on me because it showed me that you can use fairy tales (or other widely known works) to rewrite the personal. It’s a safe way of distancing the subjects that are too close to write well about directly.

Jessica Morey-Collins : part thirteen

How does a poem begin? Most of mine begin with a fragment of language that snags on something in my brain and bothers me until I fasten it to other words. Some begin as a rhetorical scaffold, and I have to find the images and phrases to complete the structure. 

Raina K. Puels : part two

What do you find most difficult about writing poetry?

Translating my brainchildren into wordchildren proves quite difficult. How can I possibly convey the lust I feel for my lover’s armpit that drives me to stick my nose into his sweet musk? I must first build a replica human suit of myself for you to slip into (complete with temperature controls so maybe you can feel more comfortable in my skin than I do). But even then, I can’t recreate his pheromones or create synapses from my nose to your brain. My mother once told me about this man she knew who wore a special cologne. Every time he walked by her head involuntarily turned his direction. Something about the pheremones in the spray connected to her on a corporeal level. I suppose that’s the most difficult thing about writing poetry—translating my intangible thoughts into something physical that has the power to sway a stranger’s body.   

Mugabi Byenkya : part one

Mugabi Byenkya was born in Nigeria to Ugandan/Rwandan parents and is currently based between Kampala and Toronto. He spent his life across Africa, Asia and North America. Mugabi was longlisted for the Babishai Niwe Poetry Award in 2015, has been featured on Brittle Paper, The Good Men Project, African Writer, Arts and Africa and The Kalahari Review amongst others. His writing is used to teach international high school English reading comprehension. Mugabi’s debut novel, Dear Philomena, was published in 2017 and he recently concluded a 30 city North America/East Africa tour in support of this. An advocate for the intersection of arts, chronic illness, social justice, and literacy, Mugabi leads workshops in effective writing, poetry, performance, vulnerability, mental and chronic illness for youth and adults.

Photo credit: Tom Mirga

How does a poem begin?

Stevie Wonder was once asked the same question about his music and I wholeheartedly concur with his answer, when it comes to my poems. To paraphrase, Stevie said the music does not come from him. In a similar way, my poems do not begin with me, my mind or my writing practice. I am merely a vessel. I tap into something greater than myself, call it what you want, whether: deities, ancestors or imagination. I tap into it and channel the poetry through my particular lens.

Michael Dennis : part five

What other poetry books have you been reading lately?

Because of my blog I read a waft of poetry titles, every week, at least twenty.  Here’s a quick list of the last ten books I wrote about at Today’s book of poetry:

Salsa Nights at Hilo Town Tavern – Kristofer Collins (Hyacinth Girl Press)

Headline News – John Deming (Indolent Books)

The Art of Dying – Sarah Tolmie (McGill-Queens University Press)

Pressed Against All That Nothing – Cody Deitz (Yak Press)

Bociany (Storks) – Jonathan Garfinkel (Knife|Fork|Book)

Sinner’s Dance – Darrell Epp (Mosiac Press)

Burning The Evidence – Todd Cirillo (Epic Rites Press)

Sick and I – Katie Fewster-Yan (Desert Pet Press)

The Price of Scarlet – Brianna Noll (University Press of Kentucky)

Particles – New Selected Poems – Dan Gerber (Copper Canyon Press)

Peter Norman : part two

How does your work first enter the world? Do you have a social group or writers group that you work ideas and poems with?

In my teens and twenties, I’d share stuff with friends, family, and teachers, and occasionally I slammed, which is one way to get an instant reaction (via score cards held aloft by randomly selected audience members). In the early 2000s, my wife and I spent four years in Ottawa, which proved to be a vital period for my poetry’s development; most of the material that made up my first three books was written there. We regularly attended the Tree Reading Series, hosted at the time by the novelist James Moran, and I would try out new poems at the open mic. That’s a decent initial editing technique: if the passage you’re reading is flat, you can feel the energy drain from the room; if a line is unwieldy, you’ll struggle to deliver it. These days, though, I don’t generally release a new poem into the world until it’s published. I figure if an editor wants it in a book or journal on their watch, it must be working somehow; if it finds no love there, I’ll retire it or haul back to the drawing board.