Michael S. Begnal has published the collections Future Blues
(Salmon Poetry, 2012) and Ancestor Worship (Salmon Poetry, 2007), as well as the chapbook Mercury,
the Dime (Six Gallery Press, 2005). His poems, essays, and criticism
have appeared in journals such as Notre
Dame Review, Poetry Ireland Review,
Natural Bridge, The Otter, and
the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. He has an MFA from North
Carolina State University and teaches at Ball State
University (Indiana). He can be
found online at www.mikebegnal.blogspot.com
and @Michael_Begnal
1 - How did your first
book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to
your previous? How does it feel different?
I
spent years just trying to get into journals, and then a couple more years
trying to get a book manuscript accepted, so the first book (with Six Gallery
Press) felt great. I had also at that time had a book accepted by Salmon
Poetry, a somewhat bigger press (though really, what poetry press is all that
“big”?), and when that one came out I have to say it felt even better. At the
time when I was struggling even to break into print, I thought that having a
book out would mean I had finally “made it” as a poet. But now even with a few collections
out I don’t really feel like I’ve made it, since, as it happens, not a whole
lot of people care all that much about poetry anyway, and the poetry world
itself is so diffuse. So while of course I still want to get my work out there
and have more books published, I’ve kind of gone back to the early, early
feelings I had about poetry, before I even got to the point where I thought anyone
would ever put out a book of mine, where I was first of all just concerned
about writing the poem, and the words on the paper, and the intensity of that. Again,
don’t get me wrong, I still send out work and so on, but I suppose I have to
say that having books published was not as transformative as I used to think it
would be. It’s still better than not having books, though, obviously.
2 - How did you come to
poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I
always thought it would be a great thing to be a poet. I read poetry and
fiction more or less equally, but poetry was the form that I felt was really
me; I just inherently felt that, that it was a field in which I could do
something. For that matter, even my favorite novelists are ones who write
“poetic prose,” Djuna Barnes, James Joyce, Kerouac. I’m not really into plot, I
must admit. It’s more about the language for me, and ideas.
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?
If
I have an idea, it will eventually find its way, if I can do the writing.
Usually an initial draft comes out quickly, and then I probably keep shaping it,
to some extent or another, but the basic form is there. If I don’t have the
right idea (or any idea), I’ve learned stop forcing things, and I don’t even
try to write. I don’t mean I have to have a fully realized idea to begin with,
but if I’ve got nothing at all, then there’s no point. On the other hand, maybe
an “idea” can just be: let the unconscious do its thing, and then something
comes out that you didn’t expect. I honestly don’t have a particular method.
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’s
been both at different times. At first I just wrote individual poems that after
a while accrued into a book-length manuscript. Then when I was writing what
became my collection Ancestor Worship,
I realized I was writing to a particular theme, which had to do with Irish and
Irish American identity, and so I kept going with it until it was done. Same
with the following collection, Future
Blues, which was written around the idea of death (yeah, grandiose or
whatever, I know). More recently I’ve written longer, chapbook-length
sequences, where each is more or less a whole long poem in itself, and where I pretty
much knew from the start that that was what I was trying to do.
5 - Are public readings
part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who
enjoys doing readings?
Yeah,
I love doing readings, for the most part. There’s a lot to be said for the
rhythm of spoken language, a whole lot, and when I read poems out loud, I’m
trying to tune into that rhythm, and if I can’t find it then maybe I need to
rethink it or rewrite it. I don’t know. When I do have it, I can usually tell
from some kind of audience response, and/or the feeling it gives me when I’m
reading it. So it can definitely be a part of the process. Even if I don’t have
a public reading going on, I’ll read a poem out loud to myself or whoever, so I
can hear it outside of my own head. Sometimes, though, there are certain pieces
that are designed more for the page, and make use of space or other visual
cues, and so don’t work as well orally. That’s okay too.
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?
In
Ancestor Worship, and to a lesser
extent in Future Blues, I was definitely
concerned with identity politics and cultural nationalism, and was trying to
work out those kinds of questions. But after that, I felt I needed to do
something else. I didn’t want to keep doing it over and over. Lately, I’ve
focused more on things like, I guess you could call it ecopoetics, or the
intersection of natural, urban, personal, even subconscious spaces. Again, that
sounds kind of grandiose. I’m just trying to give a name to something that feels
like it happens more or less instinctually. But all writing is rhetorical,
whether we’re conscious of it in the moment or not.
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?
Even
though it wasn’t Claudia Rankine herself doing this, I thought it was great
when a person in the crowd of a recent speech by a right-wing U.S. presidential
candidate was shown on camera ignoring said speech by reading Rankine’s Citizen instead. I’d like to see poets be
relevant figures in this or similar ways in contemporary cultural/social/political
discourse. But, in an often anti-intellectual society, that’s hard to effect. So,
I don’t know, just do your thing regardless.
8 - Do you find the
process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
In
my experience so far, editors have been largely hands-off. For poetry, I think
that’s mostly a good thing. I wouldn’t want an editor to ask me to radically
rework my poems, though at the same time I’m open to a level of feedback or
suggestions. But it’s really never happened, so far. In academic prose writing,
I’ve had some pretty tough comments from outside readers in regard to articles
I’ve sent out to peer-reviewed journals. In this case, I’ve found that the
suggestions, while tough to deal with at first, ultimately made the piece
better. These are different modes of writing, however.
9 - What is the best
piece of advice you’ve heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
In
James Liddy’s poem “Photo,” from his collection I Only Know That I Love Strength in My Friends and Greatness
(2003), he recalls the admonition given to him, “The world is straighter and more
Protestant / than you imagine.” Whether literal or metaphorical, it’s a dose of
reality worth remembering if you’re trying to be an artist.
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
tend to write poetry in the evening and late at night.
11 - When your writing
gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word)
inspiration?
You
know, I used to worry about this, but now when it happens I just try to forget
about it altogether and do something else, and not even care if it inspires me
to write or not. Basically, if I never write again, it doesn’t matter.
12 - What fragrance
reminds you of home?
I
honestly don’t know what I would call “home” anymore, so I can’t say. The idea
of home is an illusion.
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?
Film
and visual art for sure. For film I especially like Stan Brakhage, and lately in
painting, Walton Ford. But music more than anything else, and in particular the
Stooges have been a big influence on my writing, especially their album Fun House (1970). I’ve written poems
that respond directly to their music, and at other times their modes or methods
have been in my mind or ears as I write. I really like how Amiri Baraka, Sonia Sanchez, Kalamu ya Salaam, and others have responded to jazz, and I’ve written
about jazz myself, or really just the free-jazz guitarist Sonny Sharrock. But
if I’m going to say what music honestly speaks the most to my individual position
in the world, it’s got to be the Stooges.
14 - What other writers
or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your
work?
My
favorite poets are Baraka, Bernadette Mayer, Helene Johnson, Thomas MacGreevy,
James Liddy, Maurice Scully, Catherine Walsh, Gearóid Mac Lochlainn, Haniel Long, Witter Bynner, Muriel Rukeyser, André Breton, Philip Lamantia, Li Po, and
that’s just at the moment off the top of my head.
15 - What would you
like to do that you haven’t yet done?
I
don’t know. Just keep pushing past where I’m at, in poetry and just in life.
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?
When
I was younger, I was in bands myself, of the punk and rock’n’roll varieties. I
played drums, which actually I think has fed into how I approach poetry in many
ways. But it didn’t turn into a viable career. My job now is teaching writing
at the university level, both composition and creative writing. Beyond those, I
don’t know offhand.
17 - What made you
write, as opposed to doing something else?
For
better or worse, I’ve always had to do something else at the same time. It’s an
extremely rare poet who can survive on poetry alone. But I did it because
that’s what I wanted to do, so I guess I’ve had to have a degree of
persistence. You have to work hard, or work hard at not working hard (ha ha),
in order to be able to carve out enough space in your life to keep writing.
18 - What was the last
great book you read? What was the last great film?
In
the last number of years, the greatest book I’ve read was Haniel Long’s Pittsburgh Memoranda (1935). The
greatest film of the recent era (for me) is Steve McQueen’s Hunger (2008). I could mention a number
of other, also great works, but I’ve already done a lot of listing, so I’ll
leave it at that.
19 - What are you currently
working on?
As
I mentioned earlier, in the last couple years I’ve been writing in the longer,
serial mode, and recently finished a chapbook-length manuscript of linked
poems. Now that that’s done, I’m not working on anything. Thank you for asking me
these questions, by the way.
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