Zach Savich [photo credit: Lisa Wells] was born in Michigan in 1982 and grew
up in Olympia, Washington. He received degrees from the Universities of
Washington, Iowa, and Massachusetts. His work has received the Iowa Poetry
Prize, the Colorado Prize for Poetry, the Cleveland State University Poetry
Center's Open Award, and other honors. His fifth collection of poetry, The Orchard Green and Every Color, was published by Omnidawn in 2016. He is
also the author of Diving Makes the Water Deep, a memoir about cancer, teaching, and poetic friendship. He teaches in
the BFA Program for Creative Writing at the University of the Arts, in
Philadelphia, and co-edits Rescue Press's Open Prose Series.
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?
My first book was published in 2009 by the University of Iowa Press. I’d been writing poetry seriously since 2001,
submitting manuscripts since 2006. I got the call and was in a daze for a week.
I remember driving fifteen hours to a job, totally blissed. Understand I was a
person who had made a lot of decisions, some of which I wouldn’t advise, in
order to try to write poems; I was probably too fixated on publishing a book as
a kind of proof, a justification that the relationships I’d failed at, the
leases I’d broken, the jobs I’d quit—all that led somewhere. Where did it lead?
I met many people I’m glad to call friends. I got to leave those poems behind
and write new ones.
The main difference now: it was useful
for me to believe (and I probably still do) that a first book should show one’s
learning, many types of poem tried. For over a decade, I tried to read and
write as variously as I could. That was also a way of covering my ass, and matched
ideas that were current at the time about hybridity, experiment. Now I don’t
want more ideas about poetry, more fluency, more formal ability, more proof of
accomplishment, but more time.
2
- How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I first wrote prose: heavy praise to
small town public libraries and their fiction shelves. But my interests were
poetic; the best story I ever wrote started, “For a dime, a yard sale book.” I
walked around for weeks repeating that sentence, for the rhythm, its shuffle
and stomp.
Then a teacher read some Hopkins and I
stared at his mouth like it was the source, like how could we stomach language
that was less. Then I realized that poetry might be an interest that let me
stay interested in many things, and (in contrast with philosophy, which I
thought I was interested in), allow types of unknowing, emotional and
astonished reasoning, away from insufficiently conventional phrases and ideas,
a way for language to find itself or us.
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?
Yes, it starts with making notes, as
one does when reading—to be marginalia to many things. At some point the notes
start to stick together, and at some point some of them stick together less
than others, and I begin to revise: from collage to compost. The poems in my
latest book, The Orchard Green and Every
Color, are often composed of distinct statements with a semi-proverbial
tinge. I think that style can slacken unproductively if it starts to seem
merely notational, so I try to revise to convey/enhance a notational sense, of momentary
perception, while also cutting a lot. Leading to kind of hyper-realism, but
with a hush? The writings of George Oppen and Lisa Robertson helped me think
about this.
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?
Yes, as mentioned above, it comes from
notes. You walk and remark on things to a friend, or to a phrase. For books, I
tend to have a title first, one that serves as a kind of tuning fork, and then
I fit or adapt or construct material to preserve the tone and meaning that seem
hovering in the phrase. I do think of many things in terms of books—friends are
familiar with my advice to extend an essay, to try to make something into a
book. That unit’s meaning means more than its status as literary artifact,
clearly. Maybe I’m a person who loves reading books but “works” to write poems
that let me look up from them, or feel like I have. That way of staring while
turning a phrase around.
5
- Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the
sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
Health has prevented me from giving or
attending many readings in recent years. This has made me more aware of all the
readings I attended or gave that could have been different—when I would have
rather talked to a friend who was in the crowd, and didn’t get to, or when we
all mostly wanted to have a party, or to say hello and then get back to a
babysitter, or when I was too self-conscious about the reputation of the
university I happened to be reading at or who was there or wishing I had
already written the next poems that I was sure would be better. Or was blown
away by the first poem and should have gone for a walk to think about it. I
suppose I’ve always liked most reading aloud with friends—others’ work, more
than my own—in kitchens and campgrounds, when it also feels fine to put down
the poems at any time. I like hearing my students read. I like when a reading
becomes—officially or not—more of a discussion. I remember where we went after
the readings, more than anything I said. This one time at Al’s in Seattle, or
on that roof in Lincoln, swearing I had once been a roofer.
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?
Can I say my theoretical concerns are
life and death? I hesitate to say that I’ve been, say, “dancing around an
overtly terminal state,” because I’d rather be wrong, and aren’t we all dying,
and Keats alive is better than Shelley’s “Adonais,” all the sentiment of the
imminently (eminently? immanently?) mortal scribbler. And I’m lucky, in a way,
to be able to think about this state, with healthcare and friends and a
supportive job and a house I like, with relative ability, relative time. But it
drives my questions, which I suppose are more acute versions of ones that
anyone has: how to be past certain things but not beyond Things; how to
“appreciate moments” while not romanticizing diminished capacity, the frayed
receptors that still slightly light from time to time, which once interwove,
beamed, met others; the limits of language/ability/will/resolve; how little
“understanding” or “wisdom” changes things; courage, folly, empathy; how to at
once give in and insist. To be astonished each day (no choice but to be), by
what can be lost or found again or lost again and how much.
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 there’s value in the continual
insistence on what literature is especially good at exploring, and which many
aspects of culture tell us we should ignore: mixed emotions, experiences with
multiple or unclear “meanings,” intuitions that don’t fit conventional
narratives or phrases, absurdity, desire, transport, candor.
8
- Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or
essential (or both)?
I love it. And I find the
dedication/friendship/intelligence of my editors to be one of the most
heartening parts of my life—I don’t mean their commitment to my work, except as
it’s part of a larger commitment. Rusty Morrison at Omnidawn spoke with me for hours
about an early version of The Orchard
Green and Every Color, helping me not just revise the manuscript (into
something very different than she initially accepted) but understand where to
go next with my writing. Carrie Olivia Adams and Janaka Stucky at Black Ocean
have at once supported the wildness of some poetry I felt unsure about and made
it more precise; when I was in one period of bad health, Janaka offered to
drive several hours and edit with me in person, an especially beautiful
generosity that I think is indicative of the spirit of the press and of so many
poets. The editors I mentioned are all poets whom I admire; it’s a gift, to
have their eyes on time on my work, when I also hope they have time for their
own.
9
- What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you
directly)?
“This way is north, unless this is.”
10
- How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to critical
prose)? What do you see as the appeal?
I sometimes write reviews. I favor a
critical style that is more journalistic than academic. I’m disappointed when I
read critical prose, especially about poetry, that focuses on books I’ve read
and discusses critics I’m familiar with in a style that conveys mostly (I can
grumpily feel) the sociology of the academy, of types of discourse that gain
authority by all they leave out or argue away—I’m eager to say that I feel
equally grumpy about anti-academic postures. For a long time I felt like it was
a responsibility to try to review new books of poetry—especially poetry that
some people wish to consider “difficult” because it doesn’t tell a little story
of little feelings in little words—in a clear style, with reference (maybe too
much) to poets some readers might be familiar with. More recently I’ve felt
that responsibility in other ways: I wrote a review of Keith Waldrop’s Selected Poems, for example, because
I’ve loved his work for years, but I felt aware that the book wouldn’t get too
many reviews, and maybe I could write one as someone who has read a bit both in
the experimental lineages his work is often associated with and in some poetry
from the mid-century that might at first glance seem separate from his. The
appeal, I guess, is in how critical prose can make an appeal: to affirm that
what we do in poetry matters, and can be discussed in terms that are
comprehensible to interested readers who haven’t already signed on to the scene
or downloaded this season’s favored jargon, while also advancing those thoughts
through the types of flight and recklessness and intuition that poetry loves.
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?
Illness is redundant, a sorry excuse
for an excuse, but it’s true: in recent years I organize my days and energy
around small tasks. I cook elaborate things that take a long time. I respond to
work emails and read student poems and papers. I hold and stare at stones and
shells and bits of wood. I read newspapers and listen to news programs on the
radio. I sometimes find some notes I have taken and sometimes get excited about
what they start to suggest. I try to stay calm. I say this wishing I had more
time to think or read or think or read better about this state, but it’s a part
of it, that you can’t.
12
- When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of
a better word) inspiration?
I listen. I cook elaborate things that
take a long time, I read newspapers, etc…
13
- What fragrance reminds you of home?
Tidal muck.
14
- David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any
other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual
art?
I’m lucky to teach in an art school,
where my colleagues and students work in many media, and my courses include
ones on collaborative practice, so I’m frequently finding sustenance in other
arts and in the conversations artists in other fields have about questions like
these. In recent years I’ve been especially glad to work with composer Jacob Cooper on several projects; his work, which is wonderfully atmospheric and
playful and surprising and precise, has helped me think about how contemporary
poetry can offer comparable experiences. His recent album, Silver Threads, features collaborations with poets including me and
Tarfia Faizullah and Dora Malech and others. It’s out from Nonesuch Records.
15
- What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your
life outside of your work?
I want to mention some books by friends
whose work has run through mine, and my mind, for years, excellent books, the
pleasure of feeling floored with respect for people you’ve known through many
situations, a syllabus and seminar to be near: Andy Stallings (To the Heart of the World), Melissa Dickey
(Dragons), David Bartone (Practice on Mountains), Hilary Plum (Watchfires). The poets I never tire of,
who I can read when I’m sick of reading and poetry (that is: when I need poetry
the most), include Oppen, Hopkins, Niedecker, Schuyler, Rosmarie Waldrop. I’ve
spent a fair amount of time with Cervantes and Dante, think about them daily.
I’ve come to love the late books of James Tate in recent months, think he
really perfected some things in his last years.
16
- What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Write one more book.
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?
This is what I’ve wanted.
18
- What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I grew up in a house with books, in a
place that was removed from some things and had a lot of some other things, with
parents who were very creative and would have liked to do more with the arts, and
I always took language very seriously, as though it were real.
19
- What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Ivan Vladislavic’s Double Negative (novel; fans of Sebald will love it) and Portrait with Keys (nonfiction, of Johannesburg). Just read them. I haven’t felt
like such a fan in a while.
20
- What are you currently working on?
Brining a thing I mean to sear.
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