Réka Nyitrai is a spell, a sparrow, a
lioness's tongue — a bird nest in a pool of dusk. A Romanian-Hungarian poet,
she learned English (her primary language of writing) later in life, moving
fluently between prose poems, haiku, and free verse, often channeling the feminist
surrealist currents of Leonora Carrington, Aase Berg, and Aglaja Veteranyi. In
2020, she released a bilingual (Spanish and English) collection of haiku known
as While Dreaming Your Dreams (Mano Ya Mano Books) which received a
Touchstone Distinguished Books Award. She then released her debut full-length
poetry collection, Moon Flogged, in 2024 through Broken Sleep Books, and
recently released a chapbook through Ethel Zine called With a Swan's Nest on
Her Back. Her second full-length poetry collection Split / Game of Little Deaths will be out with Piżama Press in May 2026.
1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your
most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first book, While Dreaming
Your Dreams, is a collection of poems written in the haiku genre. A small
independent publishing house in Spain published it in 2020, when I was already
43 years old. Even though my life did not change in a material sense, this
debut proved I was resourceful and capable of turning abstract dreams into a
tangible reality. Winning the Touchstone Book Award validated my work, but it
also introduced an immense pressure: from that moment on, both publishers and
readers expected nothing less than exceptional poetry. While writing a haiku
seems deceptively simple, crafting a truly resonant one is a difficult feat. I
realized quickly that I might not surpass the specific quality of the poems in
my debut volume within that same form. Consequently, I put haiku on hold and
transitioned toward short, lyrical prose, first in collaboration with my good
friend Alan Peat, then independently. In essence, I have integrated a
fragmented narrative arc into the surrealism and lyricism of my haiku roots. In
comparing my recent work to my previous, I find that while the form has
expanded, the core remains unchanged. No matter how much I experiment with
structure, lyricism remains my second skin. Brevity and conciseness continue to
define the sinews of my style.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say,
fiction or non-fiction?
Poetry is an intrinsic
part of me. I wrote my first pieces —if I can even call them poems— while in
grade school, writing in Hungarian, my mother tongue. At the time, I found them
utterly silly, yet they must have possessed some merit as they were published
in a children’s magazine. However, following a single rejection letter, I
retreated from writing for a significant period. I briefly resumed during my
university years, still in Hungarian, but abandoned it again, sensing my work
lacked authenticity; I was merely attempting to mirror the voice of a
well-known Hungarian poet. For a long while, I set poetry aside to focus on
reading—interestingly, primarily novels rather than verse. Then, on a snowy day
in 2018, a fully formed haiku suddenly emerged in my mind, composed in English,
my third language. That moment solved my dual dilemma: it defined both the
genre I was meant to inhabit and the language in which I would finally find my
voice.
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 work in cycles. I do not
spend much time in a preparatory phase; rather, a project begins the moment an
obsession or a rhythm takes hold of me — it always starts entirely unexpectedly.
At the beginning of a new project, I write at an unbelievable speed; the poems
seem to come to me effortlessly, arriving almost fully formed. During this
manic phase, I can pen three or four poems in a row. This frenzy typically
lasts until the midpoint of the project —usually about two weeks— after which
the euphoria dissipates, things settle, and I increasingly face the terror of
the blank page. The final poems of a cycle must be extracted from me as if with
forceps, and these usually demand substantial editing. Once a project is
complete, I fall into a state of apathy, needing a considerable amount of time
to recover and feel the stirrings of inspiration once again.
4 - Where does a poem 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?
For me, a poem usually
begins with a specific image or a sonic rhythm that refuses to be ignored. My
approach to structure has evolved significantly over time. My earlier volumes,
such as my haiku debut and my first free verse collection, Moon Flogged, were
gradual compilations — poems written over the span of two years that were later
gathered into a cohesive whole. However, in my more recent work, such as “Split”
and “Game of Little Deaths”, my process has shifted. I now work on a
"book" from the very beginning. Once that initial spark ignites, I
immediately perceive the atmosphere and the boundaries of the entire project.
Even though these works are composed of brief, fragmented elements, they are
born out of a singular, overarching vision. I no longer gather fragments to see
what they might become; I start with the "whole" in mind and then
meticulously sculpt the individual pieces to inhabit that specific space.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative
process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
Public readings are not
part of my creative process; in fact, I find them rather counter to the
solitary and intimate nature of my work. I am not the type of writer who seeks
the stage or enjoys the performative aspect of literature. My only experience of
this kind was at the Discuția Secretă International Literature Festival in
Arad, where I read from my free verse debut, Moon Flogged. For me, the poem
is a private, quiet conversation between the page and the reader. I believe the
delicate tension and the brevity of my work are best experienced in silence.
When projected toward an audience, that resonance often dissipates, as if the "meat"
of the text is lost in the noise of the spectacle.
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?
My "theoretical
concerns" are less about academic structures and more about the visceral
physics of the text. I am obsessed with the tension between what is spoken and
what is withheld — the "sculptural" balance of removing the surplus
to reveal the musculature of an emotion. My primary concern is how much can be
stripped away before a poem loses its heartbeat, yet keeping enough
"meat" on the bone to maintain its sensuality and tension. I am not
trying to provide answers; instead, I am exploring questions of absence,
memory, and the fragmented nature of the self. What does a body remember when
the mind chooses to forget? How can brevity contain a lifetime of domestic or
ancestral weight? To me, the "current questions" of literature are
not topical; they are timeless: how to remain authentic in a world of noise and
how to translate the silence of our most intimate traumas into a language that
others can finally hear.
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?
In a culture increasingly
dominated by noise and ephemeral content, the writer’s role has shifted from
being a public voice to becoming a guardian of silence and nuance. I often
wonder if we still have a role in the traditional sense, but I believe that if
one exists, it is to act as a counterweight to the superficial. The writer
should not necessarily be a moral guide or a political commentator, but rather
a witness to the invisible. Our role is to slow down the reader's pulse, to
reclaim the depth of language, and to remind people that beneath the
"noise," there are still profound, visceral truths that require
stillness to be understood. If the world is a constant scream, the writer’s
role is to offer the precision of a whisper — one that lingers long after the
shouting has stopped.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor
difficult or essential (or both)?
For me, working with an
editor is essential, primarily because English is my third language. When I
first began writing prose poems, a sense of insecurity led me to seek editorial
guidance. My dear friend Alan Peat was the first to support me, and we eventually
co-authored the haibun collection Barking at the Coming Rain. We co-edited
that work until every piece felt right, and to this day, I still seek his
perspective whenever I am hesitant about a poem. In fact, editors have always
been integral to my process. My haiku collection was curated by my publisher,
Danny Blackwell, who during the pandemic meticulously selected the best pieces
from over a hundred poems. More recently, Benjamin Niespodziany played a
crucial role in ordering the poems for my volume Split / Game of Little Deaths,
published by Piżama Press. I find that a trusted outside eye does not just
correct language; it helps reveal the "true form" of the work when
the author might be too close to it to see clearly.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not
necessarily given to you directly)?
The best advice I have
encountered —and the most difficult to consistently follow — is simply:
"Trust yourself." It sounds deceptively simple, but in the solitary
and often insecure process of writing, it is the only foundation that holds. Alongside
this, I live by the principle that the best time to start a project is right
now, not tomorrow. Procrastination often masquerades as "waiting for
inspiration," but I have learned that inspiration is a collaborator that
only shows up once you have already committed to the work.
10 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do
you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
I do not have a
traditional, disciplined writing routine; my process is far more organic and
tied to the cycles I mentioned earlier. I do not force myself to sit at a desk
every morning if the "rhythm" isn't there. Instead, my routine is a
state of constant alertness. A typical day for me begins quietly, usually with
tea and a period of observation. However, I am capable of intense discipline
when a project demands it. For instance, from November of last year until this
February, I worked on a trolley-commuting journal. During those months, I wrote
every single day, regardless of whether the commute felt inspiring or not.
Generally, when I am in the middle of a project, the writing happens
anywhere—it’s an obsession that follows me through my domestic life. My routine
isn't about when I write, but about being ready to respond the moment the
project speaks. When I’m in that "manic phase," the routine is simply
to not get in the way of the flow.
11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or
return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
When the flow stalls, I do
not try to force the writing; instead, I shift my focus to other forms of
sensory intake. Among all the visual arts, painting is my most profound source
of inspiration. It is a vital part of my creative life — for instance, the
haibun collection I co-authored with Alan Peat was directly inspired by
surrealist paintings. Observing how a painter handles light or how a surrealist
composition disrupts reality helps me understand where my own rhythm has lost
its tension. When I cannot find the words, I look at the "musculature"
of a painting. I also find inspiration in the mundane fragments of reality: a
snippet of a conversation overheard on the trolley or the specific way rain
hits a window. Nevertheless, most often, when I am truly stalled, I simply wait
in that state of "apathy," trusting that the next obsession is
already forming out of the blue, just beyond my current vision.
12 - What fragrance
reminds you of home?
Rain always reminds me of
home. Not because the roof is leaky, but because rain can be both a blessing
and a source of stress—much like the atmosphere within my own house. There is a
duality there; sometimes I am happy, but more often, I am not. I am currently
in a process of learning to accept and love myself, and part of that involves
offering myself small "treats" or comforts. Lately, these have taken
the form of aromatic oils. I have completely fallen for the scent of geranium;
I use it as often as I can to anchor myself. So, if home is a place of tension,
geranium has become my chosen fragrance of peace within it.
13 - 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?
While it is true that
books speak to other books, my work is perhaps more deeply rooted in visual art
and the rhythms of the mundane. As a direct proof of this influence, my volume “Split”
contains prose poems written as fictionalized short letters from the
perspective of Francesca Woodman, Unica Zürn, and Hans Bellmer. Their
exploration of the body and the subconscious has been vital to my own creative
language. I often find that a brushstroke, a photograph, or a specific use of
light can solve a structural problem in a poem more effectively than another
text could. Nature, too, plays a crucial role through its atmospheric
shifts—the way rain changes the weight of the air or how light fluctuates. My
work is a constant attempt to translate the visual and atmospheric tension I
find in art and the world into the "musculature" of language.
14 - What other writers or writings are important for your
work, or simply your life outside of your work?
My literary landscape is
shaped by those who master the art of brevity and the weight of silence. While
the classic forms are my foundation, I am most deeply drawn to contemporary
voices that explore the visceral and the surreal with uncompromising intensity.
Writers like Aase Berg, Ann Jäderlund, and Kim Hyesoon are vital to me; their
ability to navigate the grotesque, the domestic, and the bodily has provided a
language for my own explorations of tension and fragment. Additionally, the
haibun of my dear friend and collaborator Alan Peat is a constant source of
inspiration. His work resonates with me deeply, and our creative dialogue often
helps me recalibrate my own rhythm when I am searching for the "true
form" of a poem.
15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I want to move beyond the
stillness of the page and explore the physical and visual dimensions of
creativity. One of my main goals is to start dancing—specifically, to
experiment with Gabrielle Roth’s 5Rhythms: Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical,
and Stillness. I feel a deep connection between these rhythms and the way I
structure my text; moving my body through these states feels like a natural extension
of "sculpting" a poem. I also want to dedicate myself to painting. I
have already taken the first step by enrolling in a painting course. After
years of being inspired by surrealist art and using it as a catalyst for my
writing, I feel the need to engage with color and form directly. It is as if I
have been describing the "musculature" of the world for so long that
now I finally want to touch the clay and the canvas with my own hands.
16 - 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?
In my childhood, I dreamed
of becoming an actress. However, when the moment came to actually defend that
dream or take the steps to fulfill it, fear took over and I abandoned it.
Today, looking back, I am not entirely convinced I would have been a good actress,
but I have also come to believe that it is never too late for a new beginning. Writing
has been my way of performing and exploring different "lives," but
that original spark for acting remains a part of my history. Even if I did not
follow that path then, the realization that I can still start something
new—whether it’s the painting I’ve begun or the dancing I want to attempt—gives
me a sense of freedom. I have learned that a dream deferred isn't necessarily a
dream lost; it just transforms into a different kind of courage.
17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I began writing poetry in
primary school, and although I have abandoned it several times throughout my
life, I have always returned to it. It is an inseparable part of who I am. For
me, poetry isn't just a craft or a hobby; it is a lifestyle, a way of existing
in the world. I write because it is a biological necessity—I need poetry as
much as I need air to breathe. No matter how long the intervals of silence or
"apathy" might last, the return to writing is inevitable because it
is the only way I can truly process reality and maintain my equilibrium. It is
the thread that connects all the different versions of myself, from that young
girl in school to the woman I am today.
18 - What was the last
great book you read? What was the last great film?
The last great book I read
was Thirst (Soif) by Amélie Nothomb. I was deeply moved by its
lyricism and the incredible brevity and conciseness of her prose. It takes
immense courage to approach a theme as monumental and sensitive as the
crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, yet she does it with such precision. It
resonates with my own belief that the most profound truths are often found in
the most stripped-back forms. Regarding film or television, I’ve recently been
watching The Good Doctor on Netflix. I don't necessarily watch it for
its "high artistic value," but rather for its ability to help me
unwind. Sometimes, after the intensity of "sculpting" my own work, I
need a space that offers a different kind of focus and clarity—a way to detach
and simply let a story flow without the pressure of artistic deconstruction.
19 - What are you currently working on?
I am currently in a very
prolific and transformative phase. For the first time, I have started writing
in Romanian, my second language, which has opened up new emotional landscapes
for me. I am in the early stages of a lyrical novel, exploring a longer, more
fluid narrative form than I have attempted before. Simultaneously, I am working
on a "marathon poem" in Romanian—a single piece intended to stretch
to the length of a full volume. It’s a challenge of endurance and rhythm that
fascinates me. On the professional side, I am currently approaching publishers
for two completed manuscripts: my trolley-commuting journal and a new poetry
collection. It feels as though all the "sculpting" I have done in
shorter forms is now giving me the strength to tackle these larger, more
ambitious structures.
12 or 20 (second series) questions;
