Imbolg (2020) is a double collection with poems of relationship change, doubt, place, guilt, and a Lockdown Diary of fifty poems. The verse fantasy, Parvit of Agelast (2016), was one of three books shortlisted for Ireland’s Pigott Prize 2017. An allegory of social control and ecological collapse, it is informed by the art of Pauline Bewick. Savage Solitude (2013) is a prose work drawing on multiple disciplines to sound the solitary psyche, and Tenant (1999) is a historical fiction of the Irish Famine.
Máighréad has three novels and a series of blogs online, and has collaborated on several award-winning art films, as well as writing for radio. She has a pedagogical life with workshops and mentoring, and holds a creative-critical PhD from DCU, which gave rise to her term ‘autopoetic essay’.
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 was written while my first child was developing in my womb, three hours most nights, for about a year (or nine months). It was published by a well-established publisher who had the resources for publicity. It made me public, and aroused interpretations and perceptions that included me in the poetry world. It also aroused a little controversy. But really, I was only interested in trying to communicate experience in the best poetic form, and in the discipline of the work itself. The Making of a Pagan gave me the impetus to continue with that, and segued into my performance practice. Current work is attempting the same formal co-relations, but I think has more layers and textures, and more discursiveness. Many poems have a tendency toward the dramatic or performative, but I have new concepts of rhythm, and I also write essays.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I like them all, and have written them all, but poetry arose because I tended to take poems into my body. They stayed in my chest, I sometimes learned them off and recited them, if only to myself. Shakespeare’s plays also, and I was interested in theatre. So, I think it was the structure of poetry, and the way in which you could use it to delve into coherent moments, events and perceptions in a deeply memorable way.
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?
Some poems arise spontaneously, but I am always planning or in the process of longer works, which I usually structure conceptually. A moment gives rise to a poetic desire, or a sentence sounds in the head. The process involves psychic immersion and research; then work on the best structure, the unifying principle/s, the lexicon. The journey from first draft to final varies, and can take some time, with radical alterations. With some poems the first line rules and guides. I do compile notes, but the extent and process varies according to whether the poem is personal, narrative, discursive, documentary, or whatever else I want to achieve with it.
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?
As I said in 3., it varies. My books are mostly long-form conceptual works. A few books contain ‘collections’ of single poems, but I find that there are conceptual and experiential phases, so that single poems produced, say, in the duration of a year or two, seem to be concerned with similar matter.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
My performances were intrinsic to my poetry in the early years. I wrote novels and essays as well as poetry, but I have always performed my readings to some degree. Between my first book and my second, performance was what I did. Many poems were written for performing; I sang them, used backing tracks, etc. I then began to just recite, rather than sing or provide sound, and performed less, concentrating on writing and the book. However, I always welcome the opportunity to present my work. The body is inseparable from the book and I like to move with my words. I find that I’m back performing with my recent book. So maybe I enjoy . . .
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 the course of my creative-critical PhD, I invented a term, ‘autopoetic essay’, for a methodology and the kind of writing that currently interests me. The text is organised poetically around an event or experience, but includes research and analysis. It is often given the terms ‘mixed genre’, ‘auto-theory’ and many others, but my idea is that we try to represent an environment in text—a textual living system. Think Anne Carson, Maggie Nelson, Claudia Rankine, Kazim Ali. I’m very engaged by this kind of writing as it has coherence and perspective, and if truly poetic, will be equally structured and playful. It allows for exploration and discovery in many ways. Poet as non-aligned investigator, interpreter, medium, crafter.
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 don’t like making prescriptions. I think a writer generally attempts to find the linguistic co-relatives of experience and event. Reportage in itself is important, making manifest. Writers are observers, and creative writers investigate the layers of reality. Seamus Heaney said he wrote to ‘set the darkness echoing’—to touch the unsayable. Entertainment is also a valid role, and for some of us that might be a function of how a piece is structured, how liberating that can be.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Editors are essential, because they are also much-experienced readers and can highlight issues that really shouldn’t pass. Ideally, they discuss rather than impose, and I have had only helpful experiences.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Write the kind of book you like to read.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to prose)? What do you see as the appeal?
As Shelley said, the distinction is not exact. Poetry exists in prose in various ways, and I think the opposite is also true. I sometimes experience prose written by poets as hesitant and self-conscious—reviews and essays—but then, there is the poetic novel, and the autopoetic essay I refer to above. I have written novels in fairly typical novel-style, and enjoyed writing them. I also enjoy writing essays for the release of my analytical faculty—though sometimes they are also poetic! I suppose we might hold different modes in our brain and seek different sounds and structures depending on the material.
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?
Currently I write in the morning, maybe until mid-afternoon, and then again in the evening. When I had a full-time day job, at least three hours a day, maybe more.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I always have ideas, so it’s a question of deciding which one to pursue. I go to my notes and plans and force myself to something!
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
I have no concept of home. I live in myself. But I love the scent of jasmine. It was a bright eternal moment in Morocco.
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?
Oh yes. I wrote a prose work that was a series of internal conversations, using quotations—the voices of the world—taken from a range of disciplines. I read science, I’m greatly inspired by visual art, I look at psychology, history. Some musicians have influenced my performance style, and I’m interested in movement—forms of dance and energy practices such as (currently) Contact Improvisation, Tao Yin and Qigong.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
I always read Anthony Vahni Capildeo and Anne Carson. Adrienne Rich has been a huge influence and her work is still a touchstone. I return to some of the more formal Irish poets every so often, to remind myself of their method. I like Jorie Graham and lately, Louise Glück. Novelists that engage me: Michel Houellebecq, Ian McEwan, Dave Eggers.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
In writing—a series of novels. In experience—perhaps visit southern Argentina.
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?
What I might have done, given the opportunity and support, would be to study anthropology, biology, music, visual art or/and dance. Or work in theatre.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
It was there.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Evelyn Araluen’s The Rot is beautifully wrought and an intimate experience. I recently discovered Elif Shafak’s kaleidoscopic novel, There are Rivers in the Sky. The film Sirāt is still in my body, with its sublime soundtrack by Kangding Ray.
20 - What are you currently working on?
I’m writing a couple of essays with poetic underscores; thinking about a grammar of the body and how to work it into a writing methodology; writing a series of ekphrastic poems; hearing a novel in my head.
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