Sunday, January 20, 2019

Tommy Pico, Nature Poem

oh, but you don’t look very Indian is a thing ppl feel comfortable saying to me on dates.

What rhymes with, fuck off and die?

It’s hard to look “like” something most people remember as a ghost, but I understand the allure of wanting to know—

Knowledge, or its approximate artifice, is a kind of equilibrium when you feel like a flea in whiskey.

I used to read a lot of perfect poems, now I read a lot of Garbage

by A. R. Ammons

the old mysteries avail themselves of technique.

It’s disheartening

to hear someone say “there’s no magic left” bc I love that YouTube of Amy Winehouse singing “Love Is a Losing Game” at the Mercury Prize Ceremony and yesterday I overheard that Brooklyn means “Broken Land”—there aren’t many earthquakes in the city, but there’s the fault line of my head.

Pain is alienating, but blue breath breaking on a voice is the magic that makes ppl believe.

What, I learn to ask, does an NDN person look like exactly?

Many of my reviews over the past number of months have included the suggestion that I’m “late to the game” on particular books, and this would be another: Brooklyn poet Tommy Pico’s second full-length poetry title, the book-length sequence Nature Poem (Tin House Books, 2017), resting between his other collections IRL (Birds LLC, 2016) [see my review of such here] and Junk (Tin House Books, 2018) [ a book I haven’t yet seen]. Jericho Brown hits the nail entirely on the head when he writes as part of his blurb on the back cover that “Nature Poem is a book about our true nature.” Pico’s poem is smart, funny, darkly illuminating and filled with rage, turning in and back and around on itself as an essay-poem exploring identity and identity politics, sexuality and nature, love and loathing (and self-loathing), blending the lyric and lyric sentence with the shortform of text messages, pop culture, sex and the best and the worst of human behavior. He writes of drag queens and citizenship, music and visual art; he writes of dating and dates, and the pavement of Brooklyn, New York. As he writes near the beginning: “Gay me are the worst people ever // bc if they don’t want to fuck you, // you are nothing to them. // Yet they love dogs.”

Every date feels like the final date bc we always find small ways of being extremely rude to each other, like mosquito bites or deforestation

like I think I’m in an abusive relationship w/nature

then again I think I’m in an abusive relations w/myself, I whisper after pinching my squishy belly

but for reals I leave yr apt in the early train of my hangover thinking that was a weird bump like all jostled but back on the open road

Going through the collection, I’m curious as to Pico’s influences, how he got to where he is, and wonder about the reference to the late A.R. Ammons’ (1926-2001) 1993 book-length poem Garbage (reissued by Norton in 2002) early in Nature Poem, whether included as influence or simply a play on Ammons’ title. The citation for the 1993 National Book Award for Poetry writes that Garbage “is an epic of ideas: all life—not that of human beings alone, but every species—is shown to be part of an ultimate reality [.]” Whether or not Ammons is an influence or a simple reference, Pico twists this idea completely, writing an epic, but one of the day to day, from nature to human nature, including Brooklyn streets, and repeated examples of racism, colonialism and homophobia; writing a sequence of disconnects and disconnections that can’t help but be intricately linked, as the heart hurts and the author records yet another act of dismissal or erasure, and Brooklyn is broken and the earth itself burns. “’I Said What I Had to Say’: An Interview With Tommy Pico,” conducted by Tobias Carroll and posted at Vol. 1 Brooklyn on June 14, 2017, around the publication of Nature Poem, might not provide, precisely, an answer to the structural/thematic linkages between Garbage and Nature Poem, but it does offer some insight:

Your books Nature Poem and IRL were released in relatively close proximity, and excerpts of both have shown up at various journals over the last few years. Were you working on both simultaneously? Did you find that each influenced the other to some extent?

Each book kind of sprang from the preceding one. I would hit a beat that I knew I’d have to return to later but didn’t think was in the scope of the poem I was working on. For example in IRL there’s the line (paraphrasing) “I hate nature bc every poem is like poplars, and bunch grasses, and peonies and shit!” And in Nature Poem it says something like, “I used to read a lot of perfect poems, now I read a lot of garbage/ by A.R. Ammons.” My third book Junk (coming out May 2018 from Tin House) is kind of my answer to Garbage. So while the books weren’t written at the same time, they did generate the idea for the next one. And yes, when I get time I have a fourth one planned!

As the interview continues:

Throughout Nature Poem, there’s a lot of discussion of what a nature poem is and is not, and whether or not this book falls into that category. Was that a question that first led to the writing of this book?

Because I’m a Native person, there’s this stereotype that we’re reverent of nature or whatever. I wanted to mess with that, and be like camping is dumb and fuck lakes and grass sucks. Throughout my numerous repudiations, it becomes evident that it’s not “nature” I really have a problem with (I mean you will not catch me in the woods for nothing). It’s racism, colonialism, homophobia, misogyny, etc. So the “nature poem” that the book ends up becoming is naturally just me.

So while the title and initial content of Pico’s Nature Poem might suggest something along the lines of an update on New York School poet Frank O’Hara’s oft-quoted lyric “I can't even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy” (from the title poem of O’Hara’s 1957 collection Meditations in an Emergency) but that element is almost a throw-away or a red herring; for Pico, it is simply an opening to something far larger, meaningful and complex. Pico’s casual throwaways are anything but, examples of his own meditations on his own ongoing complexity of emergencies, anxieties and conflicts, written out of the language he lives in. As Pico writes:

I can’t write a nature poem bc English is some Stockholm shit, makes me complicit in my tribe’s erasure—why shd I give a fuck abt “poetry”? It’s a container

for words like whilst and hither and tamp. It conducts something of permanent and universal interest. Poems take something like an apple, turn it into the skin, the seeds, and the core. They talk abt gravity, abt Adam, and Snow White and the stem of knowledge.

To me? Apple is a NDN drag queen who dresses like a milkmaid and sings “Half-Breed” by Cher

I wd give a wedgie to a sacred mountain and gladly piss on the grass of the park of poetic form
while no one’s lookin

I wd stroll into the china shop of grammar and shout LET’S TRASH THIS DUMP then gingerly slip out

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Nina Puro, Each Tree Could Hold a Noose or a House

elegy with burnt spoon & horse chestnuts

there were
tiny coyotes
in the walls.

could feel my lips
but they weren’t attached.

lights harshing
the big rigs
sway in their wind.

snaggletooth girls
with takeout boxes.
little crucibles of heat.

we all have drowsy
recording devices.
chosen names &
amplify the

we are so clever.
we keep

shake my hand,
then count your fingers.

Poet Nina Puro’s debut full-length collection, winner of the 2017 New Issues Poetry Prize, is Each Tree Could Hold a Noose or a House (Kalamazoo MI: New Issues Press, 2018), a collection of confessional lyric, each imbued with a fierce and fearless restlessness. In Puro’s poems, there is an acknowledgement that every object, every word, is a potential weapon, and one that can be far too easily used against us, and these poems offer both precision and witness, examination and exhaustion, a fiery optimism and a determined heart. How does one survive and not be broken?

I am not sure if what I wanted for myself, once, was a witness. To what happened. To naming what happened. No way to describe. The tyranny of language cannot. To have cut how many cities down, bodies back, plastic rings from soda cans & balconies & receipts. A sky particulate: engraved with fine tracings, latticework or ironwork. A buzzing in the room. I didn’t know where from. Light-specks floated from our feet, as if we were an inauspicious constellation. As if radioactive.

There is the past & there is the past. There is the sound of metal in wind—off-kilter, tonight. A boat with no ocean close. As if it knows something in the low tones, as if warning us in the high. If the ghosts are back. In the close-packed concrete room, I could see the whorls in the girl’s ears, the darkness that hung around her—unnamable damage, something rent—& that was part of it: the witnessing. The way her hair fell in dark wings along the mark the blade left. A gash longer than the length of what we could understand—scale, irrevocability. (“Bare Life”)

Puro’s poems are thick, and impossible; the finest kind of political, in their adherence to speaking of family conflict, silences and trauma; how the world breaks, and how people break, forced to abandon everything or begin again from scratch. “I’m not sure how I decided / to join the living,” Puro writes, to open the poem “Shift Work,” continuing: “but I know / when it began: that winter so long / persimmons lasted until April / & the neighbors hissed until three a.m.” There is darkness here, but one that is examined alongside the light, weaving intricately in, around and through, concurrently writing hopelessness against hope, and the possibility of all that could begin. There are lines that leave marks, and render bone; lines that catch, and carry. There are lines that take what can’t be said, and speak it, such as this fragment from “Top 40”: “A father is a piano full / of bees Gender is a skirt of wet rocks,” or the ending of the poem “elegy with trillium & medical records,” that reads:

if we weren’t
wax I’d remember
how to measure
kings burned a cigar
then weighed the ash

dozens of holiday weekends
spent speaking only to
the stove.

Friday, January 18, 2019

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Gillian Cummings

Gillian Cummings is the author of The Owl Was a Baker’s Daughter, selected by John Yau as the winner of the 2018 Colorado Prize for Poetry (The Center for Literary Publishing at Colorado State University, 2018) and MyDim Aviary, winner of the 2015 Hudson Prize (Black Lawrence Press, 2016). She has also written three chapbooks: Ophelia (dancing girl press, 2016), Petals as an Offering in Darkness (Finishing Line Press, 2014), and Spirits of the Humid Cloud (dancing girl press, 2012). Her poems have appeared in Boulevard, the Cincinnati ReviewColorado ReviewDenver Quarterly, the Laurel Review, the Massachusetts ReviewQuarterly WestVerse Daily, and others. A graduate of Stony Brook University and of Sarah Lawrence College’s MFA program, she was awarded the Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Memorial Fund Poetry Prize in 2008. Cummings lives in Westchester County, New York.

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?

When my first book was published, I was very scared. I know that’s probably the opposite of what you’re supposed to feel, but that is the truth. The poems in My Dim Aviary were persona poems written in an attempt to heal from sexual trauma. But to write them, I pretended to be someone I wasn’t. Now that my second book, The Owl Was a Baker’s Daughter, is in the world, I feel happy about it. It feels more like the “me” I know.

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

When I was a freshman in college, majoring in English, I became friends with someone who was a poet. I had always loved writing stories as a child, and I’d turned to journaling sometime later, but even as an English major it didn’t occur to me that you could be an actual living poet. My friend opened my eyes to this possibility by recommending books by contemporary poets and showing me his own drafts of poems. Then I decided to try it myself. My first poems were awkward and unoriginal, but they were a start.

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’s a very spontaneous process with me. I’ll find something in the world that corresponds with a feeling I have inside, and I’ll use that image or sound or concept to start writing a poem—the “objective correlative”. Most often, when poems have come to me, they’ve come through a voice that starts speaking in my mind. It’s a different sounding voice than my usual worried-thoughts voice, because it speaks more rhythmically and slowly. When I hear that voice, I try to stop everything and get the words down. That’s the first draft. And while some poems I’ve written come out being close to finished in the first draft, others need many, many drafts, and yet countless others I simply abandon at some stage. The poem in The Owl that came out nearly perfect on first try was “When World Is Whale.” And “Cloud of Ancient, Cloud of Old, Cloud of Platinum, Cloud of Gold,” which took the most drafts, isn’t even in the collection, because it became too difficult to get right, though it was published at one point in Whiskey Island.  

4 - Where does a poem or work of prose 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?

After my MFA at Sarah Lawrence, where I was just writing single poems and getting them to cohere became a problem, I began working on “project books.” My Dim Aviary was a project book, almost a novella in prose poems, and this new book, The Owl Was a Baker’s Daughter, began as a series of sonnets in third person, all on the similar theme of loss and suicidal depression.

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

I couldn’t write if I thought about having to read what I was writing to an audience. I’m very shy. The performer “Gillian” is not the same as the “Gillian” writing the poems, though when I give a reading, the audience can still sense, I think, this shyness that is so much of who I am. And when I give a reading, if it goes well, I do feel tremendous gratitude.

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 think that it’s important for writers to help foster acceptance of all people for who they are, without passing negative judgment due to race, religion, ethnicity, sexual identity, or abilty / disablity. In The Owl, I try to present the topic of mental illness in a way that sheds light on its potential to expand limited notions of how a person should feel and be. I try to say that if you feel like someone who “wants to die and does / not know…” essentially why you feel this way, feeling like this is okay, too, it’s human. I purposefully didn’t tell a recovery story, because I believe that the insistence upon so-called “recovery” in our society actually perpetuates the problem of stigma. This is a question that I am concerned with as a person with Bipolar 1 and PTSD.

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 don’t write political poetry, so I guess this is a hard question for me. I think that those writers who are dealing with the bigger issues in their works—such as racial injustice, rape culture, poverty and homelessness, and ecocide—are doing the important work. But I think it’s also okay to “write what you know.” And what I know is mental illness and the devastations of trauma, so I start from there.

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

Essential. Definitely essential. My poet-friends, my teachers, and editors are always much smarter about my own work than I am.

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

My late Zen teacher, Susan Jion Postal, once gave me a little printout of a saying by Lin Yutang. It goes like this:

“Besides the noble art of getting things done, there is the noble art of leaving things undone. The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of the nonessentials. Awareness of one’s true place in life cannot be hurried or forced. Dialogue with oneself that leads to awareness and action must come of its own.”

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

Everything happens organically. With writing especially. I don’t choose what I write about or in which form / genre the writing comes. I just hear words and let them guide me. Most times what begins is poetry, but once I heard a novel beginning… With visual art, well, I draw as a hobby, as a form of relaxation. When I draw, I have to concentrate so hard on the still life object, almost always a plant, that there isn’t much room in my mind for words. No words. A freedom from them. I need that for balance. And so drawing has become an integral part of keeping me sane and keeping me writing. And I can draw when I feel blocked with writing, and then at least I feel I am still creating.

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?

When I write poetry, I write whenever I feel inspired. I don’t follow a routine with poetry. I can’t. When I am working on fiction, I wake up in the morning, have a cup of tea with honey, and—when I am awake enough—start writing wherever it was I left off.

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

Other writers. Reading. But I have to say that I went into a daylong coma during the time I was writing The Owl Was a Baker’s Daughter, and for a long time after the coma reading became really difficult. I would look at a page of writing and the words wouldn’t form meaningful sentences. So when reading failed me, it helped to go for walks in the woods for inspiration or to museums to look at great art.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Parrot feathers and—not that these go together—baked apples.

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 go for walks in the woods all the time, and sometimes I hear poems forming as I’m walking… My husband, Rich Panish, has for the past eight years dedicated his life to composing music, and when you share your life with a composer, music becomes a very big part of it. He has written three albums so far and is now at a stage where the first one is being recorded. This is an album we collaborated on. I wanted to remain invisible and let the work be all his, but he is insisting that he give me credit as co-composer… And then visual art. Visual art is a huge influence. I love going to museums and galleries. I keep art books scattered all over the coffee table. My living room, because I live in a small space, is half art studio, and feels like the heart of our home to me. It’s where our stereo speakers are. It’s where we go after our parrot falls asleep at night.

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

When I was writing The Owl Was a Baker’s Daughter, I read Hamlet over and over, and King Lear, and Shakespeare’s sonnets. I read the sonnets of Keats and Hopkins. I read Dickinson and Plath. And Unica Zürn’s two novels (I also loved looking at her ink drawings, which were created in an asylum). Also Gérard de Nerval’s Aurelia. And lots of contemporary poets, including but not limited to the recently deceased Lucie Brock-Broido, and living poets Cynthia Cruz, Allison Benis White, Larissa Szporluk, Jennifer Militello, Jennifer Chang, Brenda Shaughnessy, Joanna Klink, Rachel Eliza Griffiths, Kristy Bowen, Blueberry Elizabeth Morningsnow, Jennifer S. Cheng… The list could go on. And I am purposefully naming only the women poets I read, because I wanted the collection to sound very feminine—and even feminist, though in a quiet way.       

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

I would like to travel to Norway to see the Western fjords, the stave churches, and the Edvard Munch museum in Oslo. I would like to do more collaborative work with other artists—I’d love to put together an artist’s book or two with someone else’s artwork and my poems. I would like to co-author, with my husband, a book of critical theory about the mental health recovery system. And I’d like to do more to help others who are suffering.

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?

If I could choose another career and go back in time, I would have liked to have been a botanical illustrator.

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

Fate, I guess. This question might be beyond me to explain. It felt like something was pulling me. I was writing in my spare time and working in libraries as a part-time clerk, and I was sad that my work wasn’t really being picked up by magazines, so I went for an MFA at the age of thirty-six, which is late, I know. After graduating, I had a breakdown and became suicidal, not because of writing but because of a great loss in my life. The losses kept happening, one after the other after the other. And I chose to write through them, because what else could I do? Those poems became The Owl Was a Baker’s Daughter.

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

I recently read GennaRose Nethercott’s The Lumberjack’s Dove, which is a beautiful fairytale / folktale in the form of one long poem, an extended meditation, also on loss, in this case the loss of a hand that turns into a dove and what that can mean and not mean. Her book left me wanting to read more and more books of poetry that incorporate fairytales—I always love when a book opens a door to other works.

Film—that’s hard. I don’t own a television and don’t watch movies that often. I did love Jim Jarmusch’s Paterson. I also loved a French / Russian film called Polina, about a dancer trying to find her way in the world and struggling.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I’ve finished the first draft of a novel about a five-year-old girl named Lily who lives with her grandparents and doesn’t know why she doesn’t have a mother. I’m struggling with it now, because I don’t know how to edit fiction so well... I’ve also been writing new poems of two kinds, poems about the landscape of Iceland, and some new poems that are the saddest works I’ve ever written, but I can’t say much about them yet because they are too new.