Showing posts with label Lavender Ink. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lavender Ink. Show all posts

Sunday, November 23, 2025

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Marc Vincenz

Marc Vincenz [image credit: Jake Quatt] is a poet, fiction writer, translator, editor, musician, and artist. He has published over 50 books of poetry, fiction, and translation. His recent poetry collections include The Pearl Diver of Irunmani, A Splash of Cave Paint, The King of Prussia is Drunk on Stars, Spells for the Wicked, All the Tricks of Language, and, just out, IRØNCLAD.  An album of post-classical music and spoken word, No More Animal Songs, is also forthcoming. His translation of award-winning Swiss poet and novelist Klaus Merz’ selected poems, An Audible Blue, won the 2023 Massachusetts Book Prize for Translated Literature. His most recent translation is In the House, Still Light, also by Klaus Merz. Marc’s own work has also been translated into many languages. His work has appeared in The Nation, Ploughshares, Raritan, Colorado Review, Evergreen Review, Washington Square Review, interim, Plume, Fourteen Hills, Willow Springs, Solstice, World Literature Today, The Notre Dame Review, The Golden Handcuffs Review, The Los Angeles Review of Books and many other journals, periodicals, and anthologies. Marc is publisher and editor of MadHat Press, and with Paul Hoover, co-publisher of the essential New American Writing. Vincenz lives on a farm in Western Massachusetts where there are more spiny-nosed voles, tufted grey-buckle hares and Amoeba scintilla than bipedal hominids.

1 - How did your first book change your life?

My very first published book was an illustrated chapbook entitled Benny and the Scottish Blues. Only around 100 copies were printed, and they ended up with friends and family. The book was a mostly biographical, narrative poetry based on a trip through Scotland—the Hebrides islands by motorbike. Benny and the Scottish Blues was published in 1989 or 1990. I can’t recall exactly, as I no longer have a copy of it. I remember at the time—I had only recently graduated from college—I had such a great feeling of accomplishment seeing my words in book form. By that time, I’d had a few poems accepted in journals and literary magazines, and, as you know there is always great elation even when just a single poem gets accepted for publication; but a book, well that’s another kettle of fish.  From that moment on, no matter what else consumed me in my life (and there were many distractions), I was always writing—both fiction and poetry with the intention of publishing these as books.

How does your most recent work compare to your previous?

Well my most recent work, IRØNCLAD, an illustrated hybrid collection, is coming out mid October with Spuyten Duyvil. I always try and approach a new work from a fresh angle, and IRØNCLAD is my first book that was not written on a typewriter or in word-processing software, but directly into the layout program, InDesign. The reasoning was to try and take advantage of the actual typography of the poem or prose piece. The book is set in the fictional world of The Iron Plier Society, who themselves are trying to make sense of their own archeological record. Fragments uncovered in the geological strata inform the book and the narrative. As you move deeper into the book, you discover, fragment by fragment, artifact by artifact, what appears to be the evolution of a civilization—yet, you can never quite be sure that what you have discovered in the damp earth faithfully represents your progenitors intentions (every interpretation comes with its own set of biases also). And, it is easy to misinterpret those too!

My previous collection, which came out with Unlikely Books in May this year, is the poetry collection Spells for the Wicked, which certainly informs IRØNCLAD. In fact, you might say that IRØNCLAD is the culmination of many years of addressing the subject of mythology and how it informs the later narrative and structure of a given society or culture.

How does it feel different?

Although they are two entirely different books, narratively, linguistically, typographically even, they do address some of the same principles in their own fashion. I consider myself a writer of books rather that a writer of individual poems or pieces of fiction. Much of my more recent work crosses the boundaries between fiction and poetry. In my earlier work, I may have been more concerned with presenting a given poetic form. These days I allow the book to inform me, rather than lying down rules in advance. Essentially though, I always try to approach each book project with a slightly different angle: be it the method for writing it (i.e. handwritten, typewriter, direct to computer), the environment I am writing in, or in some cases with a collaborator, the collaborative process itself. All of these things can significantly influence the outcome and inform the work, sometimes in surprising ways.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

Actually, I have dabbled in both poetry and fiction since the early days. Probably the first thing I actively wrote was a series of collaborative comic strips with my Aussie friend, Brett Cameron, when I was around 10 or 11 years old. I have been an avid reader of all genres since I cracked open my first book. I was writing song lyrics for my high school bands when I was in my teens; and then I took a class on contemporary American poetry in my junior year of high school. Here I discovered ee cummings, William Carlos Williams, Robert Frost, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, Marianne Moore, Robinson Jeffers, Wallace Stevens, and you might say, I was hooked.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project?

That has varied significantly over the years. Fifteen years ago, I spent much time taking notes, familiarizing myself with the world that I was about to immerse myself in—sometimes more than a year—before placing pen to paper. In recent years I am more likely to take notes and do research as I write; and I generally work on several projects at the same time.

Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process?

That varies significantly too. Generally, once I hit upon the first fundamental line or image, the rest comes relatively quickly. The process of refinement is a far longer process for me than the original ‘take’.

Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

Both. Depends on the piece / book.

4 - Where does a poem or work of prose usually begin for you?

Often with a title, sometimes with a single line, frequently with a visual image of the world I am about to step into.

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?

Book, from the very beginning. I occasionally write a standalone poem, but very seldom these days.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process?

I should say yes, part of—but more so than public readings, listening to audio recordings of my own works. This provides essential sonic information: tone, dynamic, the musicality of the language, which also often informs the written word in return.

Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

Yes, absolutely. I have hosted several readings out here in the Berkshires, Boston, and New York City, but I have also read throughout the US and UK at many venues, and will continue to do so. As you also know, together with Australian prose poet, Cassandra Atherton, and New York poet and puppeteer, Jeff Wright, I also run the live streaming literary reading series, Lit Balm. Since 2020, we have held nearly 250 readings, and have featured over 1000 poets and fiction writers across the globe.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing?

Yes, many: among others, the environment and industry, extinction and habitat loss, autocracy and suppression of ideas, language and protolanguage, rear view reductionism and the emergence of meaningfulness, mythology and ritual, fallacy and superstition, the nature of consciousness and expression, the human understanding of time and a linear narrative …

What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work?

I’m not sure I would call it answering questions, but more posing questions and / or presenting narratives in allegorical form that question given tropes.

What do you even think the current questions are?

Too many to list here, but if I were to boil it down to one phrase it might be:

What is the nature of reality?

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture?

This is somewhat of a loaded question.

As a writer, as an artist, I like to believe that all of us have something to contribute to our understanding of reality, be it in the micro or the macro, or both. Among other things, I believe it should be every artist’s goal to spread and encourage creativity, and a wide-angled view of the world. Every heartfelt contribution large or small should be seen as a net positive agglomeration for future thinking.

Do they even have one?

I can’t speak for others. Of course, we all know there are always those who seek fame and glory, form above substance. Certainly for me it is the journey rather than any specific end goal. Deeply wrought, well-crafted, and heartfelt work that informs as well as sings has always been my personal preference. Just as in all the arts, there are many authors out there breaking boundaries and helping to shape future thinking. So yes, I believe most authors and artists have their own personal credo and their place in society. Many things including trends, tastes and other ongoing polemics predicate how these resonate within a specific community, how they inspire and resonate with, and influence a culture at large. (Which is another conversation worth having.)

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

I have worked with many editors over the years—both with my own work, and at MadHat Press and New American Writing. Editors are essential in teasing works to their greatest potential. Have I worked with difficult editors? Most certainly. Did the processes bear fruit? In some form, always.

At the press, I’ve also had many writers who are difficult to work with, and even those who have scorned editorial advice. Even if it is difficult, my suggestion is to listen intently and deeply consider every adjustment or amendment that your editor proposes. That doesn’t mean you have to agree, but every suggestion is worthy of consideration.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

Read voraciously, live vicariously, write voluptuously.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to translation to musical composition)?

There is a natural flow between each of the forms, and as I get older, even more so. I have a short attention span, so it is great for me to have multiple projects in several forms of art going at the same time. I’ll settle in somewhere for a while, but if I feel I’m getting stagnant, I’ll move to another project and return later—sometimes much later.  Also, working in multiple different mediums tends to give you a broader perspective. Each of the various forms inform each other, and help to refine each other.

There is much crossover, in particular with my music and poetry—many of my songs incorporate poems or were inspired by my own poems, and sometimes visa versa.

What do you see as the appeal?

Appeal? I’m not sure that’s really relevant. It’s just the way the creative process works for me personally.

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?

I write on and off throughout the day as and when inspiration arises, however, I also assign 3-4 hours of my afternoon to writing / composing / translating. During that period I allow myself to be completely immersed in the creative process. Typically, I’ll work on MadHat Press affairs in the morning and early afternoon, take my dogs out on an extensive walk after lunch, then hunker in and focus on my own work later in the afternoon.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

I move to whichever project seems the most inspiring in the moment—whether that be poetry, fiction, translation, music, or something unexpected.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

What fragrance reminds me of where I come from? Probably sea air.

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?

Everything I have read, seen, experienced, tasted, or touched influences my work. All of the above.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

Many. From the dawn of written record—early literature: the Epic of Gilgamesh, the Odyssey and the Iliad, the Egyptian Book of the Dead, the Analects, the Bible, the Vedas, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, the Icelandic Eddas; to the Renaissance and beyond: Dante, Shakespeare, Goethe … pretty much all religious texts from the canonical to the lesser known. And then, closer to the current age, many poets and fiction authors, including, W.B. Yeats, Wordsworth, William Blake, George Orwell, H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, Edgar Allen Poe, Ray Bradbury, Kurt Vonnegut, Italo Calvino, Kafka, Nabokov, Borges, Burgess, Coetzee, Atwood … the list is immense.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Glide gently over a shallow and verdant valley like a bird.

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?

Well, for quite a long period in my adult life, I ran an industrial design company in Switzerland and Shanghai—all the while writing at the same time. It was during my 10 years in Shanghai that I wrote my first novel. I would wake up early around 5 am, work on my novel for a couple of hours, have breakfast, then head to the day job. During those Shanghai years, I would work 80-hour weeks. Weekends were not sacred, but sacrosanct for profit-making ventures. Pure capitalism. It wasn’t until I was in my forties that I finally managed to break free and focus on my arts.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

As I’ve said, I’ve done many other things, but the impetus to write / communicate was always there, and has been from the day I may have first been conscious. Somehow I realized early in my life that I needed a language and a medium to impart / present my whims and whimsies, to bring across my unique or alternate manner of experiencing the world. Words seemed to be the best solution.  As you know, I am also lucky to be blessed with art in other forms too. Anyone of those might have been my primary medium, but language always seemed the most direct.

19 - What was the last great book you read?

I read great books every week, but what I’m currently reading is Theodore Roethke’s Straw for the Fire, which I highly recommend.

What was the last great film?

Good question. I recently find myself increasingly re-watching classics from the earliest eras of cinema, such as Fritz Lang’s Metropolis; George Méliès’ A Trip to the Moon, Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator, or Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane. Recently I also dig a deep dive in animated movies and was incredibly moved by the 2016 film, La Tortue Rouge (The Red Turtle) which has absolutely no dialogue. I am increasingly bored with the current Hollywood mainstream: superhero movies, CGI science fiction and fantasy offerings, and the thousand and one reworkings of classic tales in a modern context.

20 - What are you currently working on?

Well currently I am working on my newest poetry collection, Mythodology; a novel, The Age of Occasions; and a spoken-word and music album to accompany my collection forthcoming with White Pine Press, No More Animal Poems. My translation of In the House, Still Light, Swiss poet Klaus Merz’ most recent collection, is coming out in November with White Pine Press. Several other translation projects are also in the works.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Wednesday, July 02, 2025

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Kit Robinson

Kit Robinson is a Bay Area poet, writer, and musician. He was born in Evanston, Illinois in 1949, and earned a BA at Yale University. He is the author of two dozen collections of poetry, including Tunes & Tens (Roof, 2025), Quarantina (Lavender Ink, 2022), Thought Balloon (Roof, 2019), Leaves of Class (Chax, 2017), Marine Layer (BlazeVOX, 2015) and The Messianic Trees: Selected Poems, 1976-2003 (Adventures in Poetry, 2009). His published collaborations include Individuals with Lyn Hejinian, Cloud Eight with Alan Bernheimer, and A Mammal of Style with Ted Greenwald. Recent poems appear in Brooklyn RailThree FoldTraffic Report, R&R, and The Best American Poetry Pick of the Week.

A collaborator on The Grand Piano: An Experiment in Collective Autobiography, San Francisco 1975–1980 (Mode A, 2010), Robinson has taught with California Poets in the Schools, performed with San Francisco Poets Theater and, with poet Lyn Hejinian, produced In the American Tree: New Writing by Poets, a weekly Bay Area radio show of interviews and readings. Kit has received fellowships from both the National Endowment for the Arts and the California Arts Council, as well as an award from the Fund for Poetry. His papers are collected at The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley. His essays on poetics, art, travel and music may be found at his website: www.kitrobinson.net. He lives in Berkeley and plays Cuban tres guitar in the charanga band Calle Ocho.

Robinson’s most recent publications are two reminiscences of Lyn Hejinian, one in the Los Angeles Review of Books and another in The Poetry Project Newsletter, as well as an appreciation of Neeli Cherkovski in The Brooklyn Rail. He also recently published reviews of books by Lyn Hejinian, Tyrone Williams, Yuko Otomo, Joel Chace, Maureen Owen, and Barbara Henning.

In a statement on poetics, Kit has said, “Poetry is the heart of language. It’s what’s left after everything else has been taken away. All the instrumental uses of language are completely necessary. We use language to invite people over, order food, build cities, etc. Take all of it away and you are left with poetry. The fundamental truth of language is that it is subject to change. Words mean in new ways every century. Words mean in new ways every year. In poetry, words mean in new ways every moment. Poetry is language on a holiday. Free to go where it will. But it is not jobless. The job of poetry is to continue, despite everything that is pitted against it.”

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, Chinatown of Cheyenne, was hand-set and printed on fine paper by Michael Waltuch of Whale Cloth Press in Iowa City in 1974. It changed my life by offering irrefutable proof that I was a real poet and starting a steady stream of books from then on. My newest book is Tunes & Tens from Roof Books. In it I tried out two new forms: a series of poems written to music and a long poem comprising 73 decimas. It feels good to be exploring new waters.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

I came to poetry as a teenaged fan of Bob Dylan and a reader of Ferlinghetti, Ginsburg, and Kerouac, which led to the New American Poetry anthology and the New York poets Bill Berkson, Peter Schjeldahl, and Ted Berrigan, who taught weekly workshops at Yale and introduced us students to the Poetry Project scene in the East Village.

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?

After a book comes out, it usually takes me a while to get my arms around a new project. Once I settle on a mode of production, the work usually proceeds quickly. In the 2010s, I hit on a method of writing 60 lines or an hour, whichever came first. I like to write spontaneously and edit only a little.

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?

It used to be the former but lately I tend toward the latter.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

Readings are a good way to test out the work, trial balloons kind of. I do get off on performing. One never knows while writing how the work will appear to others, and the reading allows for immediate feedback. A good reading will generate a lot of energy in the room. Afterwards people usually want to hang out and talk.

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?

All kinds of theoretical questions, sure. Not that I have all the answers. Ted Berrigan used to say, “To write great poems you have to have great theories. And I do have great theories. I just can’t remember what they are right now.”

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?

I think the role of the writer should be to look around and see what’s happening and do whatever it takes to write it down. In that sense we are bearing witness. On the other hand, poetry has a phatic function, which is to say, “Howdy! Nice to see you!”

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

That’s a tricky question. Much of the time I’ve found editors and publishers are content to publish my poetry as is, or with occasional suggestions here and there. Sometimes though, an editor will challenge me to rework a piece or be more specific or put more umph in or something. I find I’m quite resistant at first, but I try to comply and afterwards usually recognize that the work is improved by introducing the constraint of another perspective.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

Have fun!

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to translation)? What do you see as the appeal?

I haven’t done much translation lately. In the 90s, in preparation for a trip to the Soviet Union, I translated the 600-line Ode on Visiting the Belosaraisk Spit on the Sea of Azov by Ilya Kutik. Not having any Russian, I relied on a rough translation by the author plus a series of working sessions with Lyn Hejinian, who was studying Russian at that time. More recently I translated some fragments from the Latin of De Rerum Natura by Lucretius as part of a study group led by Lyn. The appeal of translation is the challenge of working with another language combined with the opportunity to do things in English one would never otherwise think to do. More broadly, translation opens a transnational conversation that is more important than ever in today’s increasingly nationalist environment. As writers and poets we sense intuitively that we are citizens of the world. The imagination is not restricted by state-controlled boundaries.

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?

I used to write mostly in the morning after breakfast and coffee. Lately it’s been more occasional, including the middle of the night. I keep a notebook by my bed for recording dreams and sometimes lines of poetry.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

Sometimes I just sit and wait. This was the way when I was working by the one-hour rule. Lately I might just walk away and come back later for a fresh impetus.

13 - What was your last Hallowe'en costume?

For many years I have attended my daughter’s Halloween party in the same costume, that of King Tut. I wear a coiled snake headdress and wear all black with a fake gold chain.

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?

All of the above. My poem sequence “Tunes” was written while listening to favorite music tracks by artists like Henry Threadgill, Thelonius Monk, Carla Bley, and various African and Cuban musicians. My long poem “Tens” includes many descriptions from nature as well as two ekphrastic stanzas describing paintings by Edouard Manet. For some years I’ve noticed that quotations crop up in my poetry, lines from poems and songs that have lodged in my head, including my some of my own. With “Tens” I decided to add citations in endnotes. Writers cited include Woody Guthrie, Robert Aitkin, Zora Neal Hurston, David Graeber, Douglas Woolf, J.H. Prynne, Sojun Mel Weitsman, Hozan Alan Senauke, Alfred Bester, Erik Larson, Frances Richard, John Keats, John Donne, Dave Van Ronk, Farid al-din Attar, John Cage, Edgar Allen Poe, Jules Verne, Robert Grenier, Arkaadi Dragomoshchenko, Karl Marx, Bob Dylan, Ludwig Wittgenstein, and Philip Whalen.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

OMG, there are so many. Right now I am rereading the Fictions of Jorge Luis Borges. Other authors I return to are Joseph Conrad, Clarice Lispector, Mario Vargas Llosa, Donald Westlake, Lorenzo Thomas, Lyn Hejinian, Ted Greenwald, Tom Raworth, Clark Coolidge, Anne Tardos, and on and on.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

I’d like to visit Japan.

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?

In elementary school I had to fill out a questionnaire that included the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” My answer was “writer.” I think I was destined to be a writer. I made a living writing press releases and marketing materials for the tech industry, and then there’s the poetry. Had I not been a writer, I might have liked to be a musician. Playing guitar and singing was a form of social life I enjoyed when I was younger. To do so professionally would have required more discipline, study, and practice than I could muster at the time. Later in life I did pursue the study of Afro-Cuban music and took up the Cuban tres guitar. My life in music has opened up whole new networks of teachers, bandmates, friends and fellow enthusiasts.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I don’t know. My parents were teachers. I think it just came naturally. I like putting one word after another.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

The Secret History of Costaguana by Juan Gabriel Vasquez. And Touchez Pas au Grisbi
Directed by Jacques Becker.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I seem to be writing poems, not sure yet what they will amount to.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Monday, April 02, 2012

12 or 20 questions (second series) with Megan Burns

Megan Burns edits the poetry magazine, Solid Quarter (solidquarter.blogspot.com). She has been most recently published in Drunken Boat, Jacket Magazine, Callaloo, New Laurel Review, Trickhouse, and the Big Bridge New Orleans Anthology. Her book Memorial + Sight Lines was published in 2008 by Lavender Ink. She has two chapbooks, Frida Kahlo: I am the poem (2004) and Framing a Song (2010) and two forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press and Fell Swoop. Her second collection Sound & Basin will be published by Portals Press in the summer of 2012. She lives in New Orleans where she and her husband, poet Dave Brinks, run the weekly 17 Poets! Literary and Performance Series (www.17poets.com). Her next project is a book called Haunting The Moors: Reading Wuthering Heights through the lyrics of Bob Dylan

All of the answers to these questions are the titles and/or a section of lyric when further detail is needed from Bob Dylan songs. My basic tenet as a writer is to magpie, so I’ve created an explorative musical response that seems to me much more interesting than anything I might have to say. Feel free to listen to the particular song as you envision the answers. Or not.

1 - How did your first chapbook change your life? You’re A Big Girl Now

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction? Simple Twist of Fate

he felt a spark tingle to his bonesIt was then he felt alone and wished that he'd gone straightAnd watched out for a simple twist of fate.
3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Most of the Time

4 - Where does poetry usually begin for you? Huck’s Tune

makes my heart rejoice,/ play me the wild song of the wind./ I found hopeless love,/ in the room above,
when the sun and the weather were riled./ You're as fine as wine,/I ain't handing you no line,/ I'm gonna have to put you down for a while.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? I Believe in You

6 - What do you even think the current questions are?
 Masters of War

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Mississippi

Every step of the way we walk the line/
Your days are numbered, so are mine/Time is pilin’ up, we struggle and we scrape/We’re all boxed in, nowhere to escapeCity’s just a jungle; more games to play/Trapped in the heart of it, tryin' to get away/ I was raised in the country, I been workin’ in the town/I been in trouble ever since I set my suitcase down
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)? I’ll Keep it With Mine

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
You’re Gonna Have to Serve Somebody

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to critical prose)? Buckets of Rain

Little red wagonLittle red bikeI ain't no monkey but I know what I like
11 - How does a typical day (for you) begin? Million Dollar Bash
Well, I’m hittin’ it too hard/My stones won’t take/
I get up in the mornin’/But it’s too early to wake/First it’s hello, goodbye/Then push and then crash
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration? To Ramona
The flowers of the city Though breathlike, get deathlike at timesAnd there's no use in tryin'To deal with the dyin'Though I cannot explain that in lines.
13 - What was your last Hallowe'en costume? Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts

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? Song to Woody

Here's to the hearts and the hands of the menThat come with the dust and are gone with the wind.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work? Isis (Live Version)

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done? Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door

17 - Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer? Blowin’ in the Wind

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else? Visions of Johanna

The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rainAnd these visions of Johanna are now all that remain.
19 - What was the last great film? Don’t Look Back

20 - What are you currently working on?
Desolation Row

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

12 or 20 questions (second series) with Marthe Reed;

Marthe Reed has published two books, Gaze (Black Radish Books) and Tender Box, A Wunderkammer with drawings by Rikki Ducornet (Lavender Ink), as well as three chapbooks, post*cards: Lafayette a Lafayette (with j/j hastain), (em)bodied bliss and zaum alliterations, all as part of the Dusie Kollektiv Series. Her poetry has appeared in New American Writing, Golden Handcuffs Review, New Orleans Review, HOW2, MiPoesias, Big Bridge, Moria, Fairy Tale Review, Exquisite Corpse, and Eoagh, among others. Her manuscript, an earth of sweetness dances in the vein, was a finalist in Ahsahta Press’ 2006 Sawtooth Poetry Contest. She has guest edited an issue of Ekleksographia and served as assistant editor for Dusie Kollektiv; she teaches in the English Department at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, where she serves as the Director of Creative Writing. Further information about her work can be found at her homepage http://www.ucs.louisiana.edu/~mxr5675/ She can be reached at: marthereed@gmail.com

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
The first book came after returning to the States after seven years in Western Australia and nine years of a life largely devoted to two young boys. tenderbox, a wunderkammer was a huge pleasure and relief, a sense that I could indeed reclaim a writing life that has a share in a wider community beyond my own praxis. Working with Bill Lavender was a treat, as well. He is generous editor/collaborator and a tremendously talented book designer. I was fortunate, also, to have become friends with Rikki Ducornet at that time, who gave me six drawings to illustrate the collection. All in all, it was a richly gratifying experience.

The second book, like the first, grew into itself as a collection. That is, an impulse toward a small series grew into a longer one, in this case, a more various one. Gaze engages with Bush II’s war in Iraq as well as with the swirling milieu of the times: the construction of gender both in the West and in the Middle East and the associated notions of covering or uncovering women’s bodies, haute couture’s engagements with militarism, torture, and war in 2005-06 (some pretty crazy medieval armor along with parachute suits, body bags, piercings, binding, etc), and contemporary Islamic visual artists’ own engagements with Islam, the war, and/or culture. So Gaze feels different in terms of the wider range of attentions I brought to the writing. Gaze’s publication came out of a further immersion in collaboration that was initiated through Susana Gardner’s Dusie Kollektiv. From it, one member, the amazing Nicole Mauro, gathered a group of Dusies and others together to form a new book publishing collective, Black Radish Books. The sense of community that these two collectives have given me is astonishing and wonderful, placing me in the midst of a shared passion for writing and making, introducing me to some fabulous other writers. Among those is j/j hastain with whom I made my third Dusie chap and am currently collaborating on a new manuscript. She also encouraged me to take up a further extension of making, that is the collages that are central to our collaboration, one of which will be used for the cover of her new book from Furniture Press. The big difference, then, between the publication of tenderbox and Gaze is that immersion and participation in a community of writers – wonderful! So huzzah Susana and Nicole!

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
As a very young woman, 13 or 14(?), still a girl I suppose, I started writing poetry, no doubt inspired by my mother’s own passion for poetry. I grew up in a household where my mother went about the day’s duties, reciting, for herself and us, Wordsworth, Keats, Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Frost, a habit picked up at university where she and her roommate would keep each other awake ‘til late at night reciting poetry. –Though I learned her passion for poetry, I never developed her facility with memory.

In college I loved my play-writing workshop with Rochelle Owens, creating a playscript calling for a huge screen and projections in lieu of other kinds of staging, this is in the early ‘80’s. This was also when I was taking verbal performance with Jerome Rothenberg and constructing text performances, one using slides and two voices, another taking a kind of Bread and Puppet Theatre approach with outdoor performance and multiple performers. And, in a box somewhere from those days, there is a fantasy novella, my only real venture into fiction. I have written the occasional nonfiction piece, though very rarely.

Poetry has always been my first interest: its compression, its language play, the heightening potencies of imagery and sound – these were/are a kind of magic. Reading the Language poets with Ron Silliman while an undergrad, burrowed up in the Archive for New Poetry reading and taking notes, and then working on Gertrude Stein’s work with Michael Davidson cemented both a deep connection to poetic language and a widening sense of its possibilities. Performance, though, stayed in the mix and still interests me. My creative thesis with Keith Waldrop was a text for performance, inspired by Rothenberg’s Ethnopoetics and studying non-western theatre at Brown. My readings from Gaze are sometimes done in association with a slideshow of images, many of which are directly associated with the poems’ composition.

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?
It really depends on the project. Those that require research come out of notebooks and note-taking. Often there is a long reading and collecting period, assembling a body of notes and understanding that will generate the writing. Individual poems have their own natures. Some seem to leap out onto the page, though I suspect that appearance is misleading, that these “easy” ones come after long periods of reading and processing. Sometimes I think I am more attached to the idea of something than to the actual writing; I am presently ignoring a project that I have picked up and put down several times. I reckon I am not ready to take it up and may never be. I do edit a lot, usually away or out. I try to give myself permission to write and keep writing, leaving room for elision and disruption, for compression as I return to the piece. Though this is less true for constraint-driven work, where constraint makes many, though not all, of the decisions for me.

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?

Again, this depends on the project. Some projects grow, sometimes into one another, while others begin as a concept around which I am working. Gaze certainly was a defined project, but other interests and pieces early began to feed into making it a kind of hybrid animal in its interests and attentions. The manuscript I have out in submission right now, as well as the one which I am currently working on, has its origins in a book concept. Nights Reading is a series of engagements with The Thousand and One Nights, female narrator/narration, the deployment of gender, and Sir Richard Burton, as well as other writers’ takes on the story-cycle: writers such as Edgar Allen Poe, Jorge Luis Borges, John Ashbery, Fatima Mernissi, Italo Calvino. It is a marriage of many impulses, coalescing on the nature of narrative and Scheherazade as narrator, though from the beginning rooted in my own reading of The Thousand and One Nights.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I love reading and performing my work, though much better in the dark! Somehow standing in the glare of lights with eyes and faces pointed at me is less potent that speaking into the barely illumined dark. That darkened space is a kind of invitation to performance, to adopting a persona, rather than simply reading my work aloud. Which is not to say I get more theatrical, but that my own immersion in the experience is deeper. Reading the work aloud is central to the writing. Not to the initial composition but in the editing and revision process, absolutely – the way the thing sounds is intimately related to my sense of its shape. The rhythms and pacings become manifest in the reading, and the soundings clearer.

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?

Theoretical concerns. The nature of language, so reading Wittgenstein, indeed often playing with his own language, but also the nature of perception and so reading Austin’s Sense and Sensibilia. Feminism, the construction of gender, the relative treatment, roles, burdens of women globally. In that context, what does it mean to say, to know? How is being a woman implicated in each and every one of my actions, of any woman’s actions? How can language, poetry, be a means to articulate those experiences, those understandings? Kristeva, Irigaray, and Cixous, here are useful to me. Politics more generally come into the work, most recently war and torture, the Bush Administration’s wars of adventure and plunder and the consequences to lives, cultures, human rights. How does one write in the midst of horror, articulate one’s inherent complicity? I live here, this is/was my government. It is not clear to me that poetry is any effective means of grappling with these issues, but in writing I seek a means of both engaging with and articulating that vexed territory. Landscape and the environment, a sense of place, are also at the heart of my thinking and work. I have moved around so much, I think I have no longer any place which is my own. A common condition, no doubt. One of the consequences, going hand-in-hand with global industrialisation and unrestrained capitalism, is the degradation and loss of places, both in terms of environmental integrity and the inherent character of a place. I live in Lafayette, Louisiana, the heart of Acadian culture in the United States, and though much about that culture thrives here, it is in a compressed form: the music, the food, and, to a lesser extent because of the systematic efforts to extinguish it in the first half of the last century, the language. The landscape, however, is increasingly decimated by oil and natural gas exploration, the chemical industry, suburban sprawl, and coastal erosion which is itself linked to the oil industry, as well as to the carving of shipping channels through the wetlands and the restraint of the Mississippi River to a course which forces its load of sediment out past the edge of the coastal shelf. So living here, where I thought to find my neighbours speaking Acadian French, there are almost none who do. Where the coast is but a short drive away, it is littered with industry and vanishing at an astonishing rate. Where the bottomland forests and swamps give rise to an extraordinary landscape of land that grows ever more wet as it approaches the coast, becoming at last the prairie tremblant, I live in the midst of Popeye’s Chicken, Chili’s, Domino’s Pizza, Target, and Walmart where sidewalks are almost non-existent, automobiles king, and the only ‘wild’ land within reach is a scant 10 acre park at the edge of town, also serving as a trailer park. Reading on place: Bachelard, J.E. Malpas, Edward Casey, Yi Fu Tuan.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I think writing is inherently political, whether writers choose to explicitly engage with political issues or not. To not engage, not look, not say, is equally political. Being part of a larger culture means everything we do has wider consequences than our own immediate impulse or desire. Driving to the shops instead of walking is a political choice, so is eating industrially produced and disseminated food versus locally grown, organic food. So is thinking and teaching and everything else I do. How can writing not be implicated and engaged? It can’t. What’s the writer’s role? I think we all have the same obligation, whether writers or artists or any otherwise: to make our choices conscious and explicit, informed and compassionate. To see our actions as part of a web of associated choices and actions. Think globally, act locally, hold the policy-makers’ feet to the fire.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Invigorating, actually, as the editor challenges me to see the work from outside myself and my own intentions toward it. To read as a reader. I think that is essential, whether it comes from an editor or not.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
In response to my inevitable and incorrigible backlog of reading – I just finished a writing review of a book sent to me 3 months ago—Skip Fox told me to read 10 pages of everything (though not necessarily the first 10): if it grabs you, keep reading, otherwise, move on to the next. Just keep reading.

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 teach and direct the Creative Writing Program at UL Lafayette, so during the academic year, I squeeze writing in wherever and whenever I can. During the summer, grant-writing aside, I write almost every day, usually in the morning. Afternoons are okay, but I am liveliest, freshest in the morning. By evening, all I can do is read, so that is when I try to catch up on that enormous collection of unread books. A typical day begins with a cup of rose-scented tea and breakfast – right now, peaches and blackberries with yogurt because that is what is in season here. (I love picking fruit in summer! At least, early enough in the morning that the heat doesn’t do me in.) Followed by answering email. Then I gather my books, my notes, my self, re-read what I have been working on to plunge myself back into that language, and start writing.

11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

Reading, always reading. Laura Mullen’s hybrid book Murmur was great for that when I was working on both (em)bodied bliss and Gaze. I think this is a matter of needing to open out of myself, back into a wider world of voices and language, to hear again as a reader. Going out and away makes coming back possible. That reading is not necessarily poetry, but usually. Keith and Rosmarie Waldrop are inspiring in that way, as well, especially Rosmarie’s work for me. Or Nicole Brossard’s Notebook of Roses and Civilization.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Here and now, old fashioned roses, freshly baked bread, rose-scented tea. Of my childhood home, almonds and dust and the sun-warmed coats of horses. I grew up on a small almond orchard in central California. When I wasn’t raking in the harvest (hot, bloody-minded work), I was riding bareback through the trees with my sisters.

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?
Visual art, the natural world, science and the language of math, all of these have and do influence my writing. I am interested in the correspondences between these, the way, for example, Fibonacci sequences are mathematical equations, a description of the growth of sunflowers and pinecones, and a method for tuning an instrument, while also possessing a fabulous name: the golden spiral. Science and math offer vocabularies that push me out of my usual range, that reformulate the way I am thinking about language. A fair number of the poems in Gaze are ekphrastic, responses to the work of artists in MOMA’s Without Boundary, artists Shirin Neshat, Ghada Amer, Mona Hatoum, Shazia Sikander, Jananne-Al-Ani, and Raqib Shah, who are themselves responding to the artistic and religo-cultural legacies of Islam.

14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Jerome Rothenberg, always: his ethnopoetic work, his extensions of it into his own work, his contemporary work. H.D., particularly her engagements with Sappho and other ancient Greek poets and Trilogy. Mina Loy’s gorgeous Lunar Baedekker. Gertrude Stein. Rosmarie Waldrop. Mei-mei Berssenburgge. Lyn Hejinian. Wittengenstein’s Remarks on Colour. Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma and Botany of Desire. Borges’ Labyrinths. And most recently, the work of Dawn Lundy Martin.

15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Surf! I watched my partner, Mike, learn to surf when we lived in San Diego, and though I have lived close to the coast most of my adult life and love to body surf, I have never learned to surf. Some part of me pines for that. A sense of a missed moment and experience. Being in the ocean is extraordinary. Delicious. And pretty terrifying at times. Not much fun to be pinned down by a wave or caught in a rip. Still, I loved body-surfing when I was pregnant, letting go into the water, becoming weightless and graceful, immersed in something entirely other, that was a great pleasure.

More writerly? Learn French well enough to converse easily. Better? Fluently enough to translate contemporary poetry written in French.

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?

Anything: competition-level 3-day event rider. Alternately, I think I would likely have done something rather related: science writing, perhaps. Editing. Teaching, which I spend a lot of time doing, in fact.

17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
There were other impulses: astrophysics, musical composition. Though I was strongly engaged by these, I am better at writing. In fact, I think I was not all that great at those others. Whereas writing immediately creates in me that feeling psychologists term “flow” – like body surfing the perfect wave, everything in sync.

18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Poetry: Conditions of Light by Emmanuel Hocquard (translated by Jean-Jacques Poucel). Fiction: Rikki Ducornet’s Phosphor in Dreamland and Robert Coover’s Briar Rose. I was really taken by Unclean Jobs for Women and Girls, as well. (I just finished teaching a course on contemporary fiction.) Anthology: Poems for the Millennium, Vol. 1 – yes, I finally settled down to read it – by teaching it! Films: Julie Taymor’s Frida and Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man. I liked Plunkett and MacLane directed by Jake Scott, too. Film comes to me almost exclusively through Netflix, so I am well behind everyone else who catches film in the theatre.

19 - What are you currently working on?
I am in the happy condition of have a whole series of projects cooking. Up front is a piece based in a cut-up: scissoring into/through Swann’s Way. Though I imagine this as a full-length manuscript, the first section of 20 pages or so is also part of a collaboration with a theatre group (my colleague Keith Dorwick’s Plastic Theater), an animation/video artist (Yeon Choi), and a musician (Joshua Carro). The piece will be presented via a 3-D digital “cave” here in Lafayette in March 2012. Very cool. Working with the other artists is hugely exciting, flexing the intellectual space in which I work. Next up, I am collaborating once again with j/j hastain on a series of verbo-visual texts addressing body and embodiment, using as point of departure Forrest Gander’s "The body has been my sole means for finding a world" from Eye Against Eye. Nicole Brossard’s assertion that “the motive is roots, flesh and skin….a first and ultimate memory” resonates in my part of this, too. j/j and I exchange image-texts – her “cells” and my collages – then exchange responses to one another’s work, creating a kind of rhythmic pattern, two such exchanges per month. Ultimately we imagine it published on the web, imagining the color images would make a print version pretty dear. I am also collaborating with my husband, Mike Kalish, who makes art jewelry and small sculptures, in this case, his “boxes” and my texts. This collaboration challenges me as I have to severely limit the amount of text for any piece. These are small boxes, made of copper or brass and enamel, usually no more than three or four inches in diameter. I keep going back and looking at Ian Hamilton Finlay’s work, as a way of seeing how such limited language works. I first came across his work at UC San Diego: his UNDA is part of the Stuart Collection there, overlooking the coast. Amazing piece. Finally, I have a place-centered collection I am just beginning to gather the threads of, work responding to the landscapes of Louisiana – the whole range from prairie tremblant, bottomland forest, the BP oil spill, coastal erosion to the fact of living in a hurricane zone – juxtaposed against the history and politics which shape/have shaped Louisiana’s landscapes. A first step: reading Radical Vernacular: Lorine Neidecker and the Poetics of Place and Oliver Houck’s Down on the Batture. –Plenty to be going on with!

12 or 20 (second series) questions;