A poet, Marc Perez is the author of Dayo (Brick Books) and Domus
(Anstruther Press).
1 - How did your
first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare
to your previous? How does it feel different?
I think having the
experience of writing, editing, and publishing the book gave me a better
understanding of my creative practice, as well as strengths and weaknesses in
my writing. Practically, though, I don’t think that publishing changed my life
in any way. I mean, I’m still broke. Affectively—to use the famous Alice Notley
quote on my social media feed—I still have my grief.
My current work
isn’t much different but a further exploration of themes and ideas I engaged
with in Dayo.
2 - How did you
come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
Ah, my earliest exposure
to poetry, if I remember correctly, were riddles, or bugtong in Filipino, which
were very common then. When I was in grade school, I usually bought cheap spiral
notebooks that featured random celebrities and, at times, public domain poems
on the cover. One such poem is “Don’t Quit” by Edgar Albert Guest. Sentimental,
sure, but for the kid-me, it was moving. Actually, I revisit that poem
sometimes and, in fact, read it to my wife not too long ago. Finally, or
course, there were love poems. My real introduction with contemporary lyric,
which influenced me henceforth, happened when I was attending Adult Ed here in
Vancouver and an instructor, a poet himself, had us read poems by the great
Wisława Szymborska. View with a Grain of Sand remains to be a revelation.
3 - How long does
it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially
come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to
their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
I think I’m an
instinctive writer; I mean, I try not to overthink it. Often, I write the draft
of a poem fairly quickly and spend a lot of time editing it. Sometimes, a poem
presents itself almost fully formed; other times, I lift from various
sources—notes (loose papers, word docs, app notes), unfinished poems, literary
quotes, etc. My strategy, always: reflect on what to write and how to write. When
the poem isn’t coming, I don’t force it. I wait until we’re both ready.
4 - Where does a
poem or work of fiction usually begin for you? Are you an author of short
pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a
"book" from the very beginning?
I like series
poems. I look at my poems in relation to each other and my work as whole in
general. With Dayo, I had an idea of
themes that I wanted to touch on, and the poems in the book relate to these
themes in one way or another.
5 - Are public
readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of
writer who enjoys doing readings?
I get incredibly
nervous whenever I read publicly. What saves me from vertigo, usually, is the
immediate reaction from the audience; I observe their expressions and
reciprocate. I don’t think of reading in terms of promotion or exposure, but
simply another form with which to share my work and connect with people. The
orality of public reading, with its own demands and approach, I think, is a
form distinct from the written word. In fact, I’ve found myself veering away
from my own text at times, adding and omitting some words while reading.
I recently had the
marvelous opportunity to read Dayo in
its entirety for the Whole Cloth Reading Series (thank you Elee and Bronwen!). I’m
not a performer or athlete, but I think it was the closest I’ve been to
something somatically sublime. I really hope such poetry reading format becomes
more common and accessible.
6 - Do you have any
theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you
trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions
are?
I don’t go about
writing a poem with theory in mind or try to answer theoretical questions. I’d
write an essay instead. That said, theories, of course, also inform my poetic
practice, and they figure, needless to say, in my poems. I’m concerned about
alienation; neocolonialism and migration; mental health in relation to our
current cultural and economic neoliberal hell-hole; revolutionary,
anti-imperialist movements; liberalism and its discontents; affect; among
others. Intentionally, though, my lyric poem’s emotional register is at the
forefront, and not the technical jargon that inform it. Primarily, I write, as
I often say, to move hearts, including mine.
7 – What do you see
the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one?
What do you think the role of the writer should be?
The poet’s role,
first and foremost, is to write poems.
The writer, like
any worker, is a political entity. What they produce, whether they believe it
or not, are artifacts embedded in particular histories, cultures, socioeconomics,
etc. Their words and actions have weight and consequences. In their scribbled
dreams, to borrow from Delmore Schwartz, begin responsibilities.
That said, I don’t
think there’s a homogenous role for writers, but like everyone else, they contribute
in shaping cultural discourses in our society. Their role, however, whatever it
may be, is only as good, valuable and progressive as the dictates of their
values, politics, and ethics. Fascists, needless to say, also write poems.
8 - Do you find the
process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Editors are
definitely essential, regardless of the difficulty of the process. With Dayo, I entered the poet-editor relationships
from the idea that they want the best for me and my work. That was definitely
true in my experience with Brick Books, and I greatly admire the attention and
care they provided.
9 - What is the
best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
There’s my usual
answer of writing poems in a series. When I was attending a creative writing
program, an instructor, I don’t remember exactly who, told me something I found
interesting: protect your voice. It is helpful because I became much more
discerning of feedback and advice, whether good or bad. If voice, simply put,
means the combination one’s use of language and one’s vision, then I, who
writes in English as a Second Language, must ensure, for instance, the
preservation of even the tiniest inflections in my style against the hegemonic
power (that is, requiring consent and coercion i.e. grading, publication,
marketability) of institutionalized and normative writing conventions.
10 - How easy has
it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction)? What do you see as
the appeal?
I recently read We Do Not Part, by Han Kang and Vancouver
for Beginners, by Alex Leslie
(incredible work, by the way), so I’m kind of questioning if there’s an actual
distinction between poetry and fiction, or if such distinction is even
necessary. To me, writing in multiple genres means having more vessels to carry
the content I wish to write. If a topic isn’t working as a poem, I can try
writing it as a short fiction or personal essay. It broadens the possibilities.
11 - What kind of
writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a
typical day (for you) begin?
My writing routine
is akin to Vancouver spring weather—irregular and indecisive Right now, though,
my kids attend preschool and kindergarten, so I get to have a few hours in the
morning until around noon to do my thing—write, edit, read, develop and scan
negatives, and so on. I used to stay up late to write; now, I’m typically
asleep by midnight.
12 - When your
writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better
word) inspiration?
I read poetry
collections and novels that I love and read multiples times. I go meandering walks
and create a brain-space for both randomness and concentration.
13 - What fragrance
reminds you of home?
Adobo.
14 - David W.
McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms
that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
I’m a firm believer
in the dialogic nature of writing. It’s an antidote to the peerless, creative
genius. I like drawing from various sources, forms that seem divergent or
disparate. It’s like a random conversation with a stranger, who, I later learn,
isn’t a stranger at all. I welcome serendipity and chance encounters.
15 - What other
writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of
your work?
Since my late
teens, I’ve gravitated toward revolutionary and socialist texts—theoretical and
literary—from Marx to Ho Chi Minh to Jose Maria Sison and various things in
between and beyond. They are important in the way I view the world and how I
see myself in it.
16 - What would you
like to do that you haven't yet done?
I would like to
become a strong swimmer; but first, quit smoking cigarettes—permanently.
17 - If you could
pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what
do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
I like the smell of
wood. I would like to be a woodworker for sure. I’ve often imagined shaving,
chiseling, or hammering wood to make a table and chair. Never tried it though!
18 - What made you
write, as opposed to doing something else?
I write—or make art
in general—because like water or math, it is an essential, basic part of life.
I don’t need any justification on why to do it. It just is. As with paid work,
photography, activism, and parenting, however, writing is only one aspect of
myself. I don’t feel any pressure choosing one thing over another. They
coexist. The main contradiction, I think, arises from the lack of time; to
resolve it, I give by best at getting better with essential skills like scheduling
and time management.
19 - What was the
last great book you read? What was the last great film?
We Do Not Part, by Han Kang, definitely. I was
literally holding my breath while reading sections of the book. For poetry, I
recently revisited The Selected Poems of
Wang Wei, translated by David Hinton. I’ve read it multiple times yet don’t
remember much of it, only a general feeling of longing and surrender. For film,
it has to be Perfect Days, directed
by Wim Wenders.
20 - What are you
currently working on?
I’m working on a full-length
collection of poems. I’ve also started a hybrid chapbook, composed of
photographs and poetry. Mainly, I’m trying to write a collection of short
stories.
12 or 20 (second series) questions;
