James Meetze [Metz]
is the author of three books of poetry, including Phantom Hour and Dayglo,
which was selected by Terrance Hayes as winner of the 2010 Sawtooth Poetry
Prize, both published by Ahsahta Press. He is also the editor, with Simon Pettet, of Other Flowers: Uncollected Poems by James Schuyler (FSG, 2010). He lives in San Diego, where he teaches creative writing and
film studies at Ashford University and, with Ken White, writes for film and
television.
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 chapbook, Serenades,
was published by Dana Ward’s Cy Press in 2003. It was, for me, the first poetry
object that gave me permission to participate in what I perceived as
“professional poetry culture” as a poet separate from being a publisher (I ran
Tougher Disguises Press from 2002-2006, when I ran out of money). Like much of my
recent work, Serenades is a serial poem.
I’ve always been interested in the serial and long poem, in the stamina that
such a poem requires, and find myself most drawn to writing in this mode. I
think the major difference between my recent and current work and my earlier
work is its scope and vision. Strangely, and I’m blinded by my own bias, of
course, I don’t think my voice hasn’t changed all that much; what it needs to
say, however, continues to expand and open.
2 - How
did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I’ve been a reader as far back as I can remember. In my freshman
or sophomore year of high school, my literature teacher, Gerry Schimke, gave me
Ginsberg’s Howl. It was the first
thing that made sense to me on a cellular level. I felt poetry in my body. I’d
never thought about being a writer, even though, at the time, I was writing,
printing, and distributing an underground one-sheet paper at school that
featured all sorts of naïve “cultural” commentary. I’m certain this is what led
my teacher to think that Ginsberg would resonate with me. And Ginsberg is such
a great touchstone, because he names his influences and his peers liberally,
which provides the sort of reading list necessary for a young poet. Poetry has
been it ever since.
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?
Writing projects generally develop out of my reading or out of
concerns over which I obsess. For instance, my new book, Phantom Hour, was born out of a meeting with a psychic, research on
the historical figure of Merlin, and my father’s struggle with dementia. I’ve
written about it here: https://ahsahtapress.org/product/phantom-hour/. I began making notes from
conversations about my father’s life and conversations with other family members
about our family history. Then I dove into full-on genealogical research to
trace a history. Once I begin writing, however, the drafts do appear quite
close to their final shape despite my rigorous editing process.
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?
While I do write quite a few discrete poems, they’re most often
always composed within the context of a larger book-length project. I’m always
working on a “book” as a book. Though, the work I’m currently writing is likely
to span numerous books.
5 - Are
public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort
of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I do very much enjoy giving readings. My work is always tied to
song, and so it should be sung (read). Public readings, too, are integral to my
editing process. In the vibration of the audience I feel the frequency of the
poem and know whether it needs to be tuned differently. I’ll read for anyone,
anywhere, anywhen. I guess I’ve got a bit of the troubadour spirit in me.
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?
Always. Yes. And, in a certain sense, the concerns are always of
the same thrust despite the trajectory of the poem: what is the reach of
language as it relates to consciousness and whose language enters and lives in
my body. It isn’t all my own. What is the transcendent or magical power of
language? I think a great deal about “the practice of outside,” as Blaser puts
it, and the potential for rhizomatic thinking—and making—in which linearity as
such is not necessary to an operating principle. Theoretically, I’m informed by
Deleuze and Guattari, by Kristeva, by Ricoeur, very much by Jung, too, despite
what people think. But much of what I’m doing is working through is working
toward a better understanding of the mythic resonance of the polyphonic voice
in the contemporary world.
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 poets are generally shitty pitch people for their own
work/service outside the microcosm of the so-called “poetry world,” so the role
of the poet in larger culture is much smaller than it could/should/absolutely
needs to be. I dislike the impetus behind the phrase, “now, more than ever,”
because temporality isn’t ever a precise point on a line; now stretches into
the small human conception of ever. Poetry is as important as it ever was or
ever will be, and poetry is thriving in so many ways, but our current culture, despite
our obvious need for language and empathy and shared humanity, needs poetry in a dire way. It’s the
direct route to the soul, and that’s a place we need to explore and nourish. We’re
too blinded by obsessive voyeurism (reality TV and gossip culture) to think
about how language develops in parallel to the psyche and, thus, we see how a
barely articulate huckster coerced millions of people into voting against their
best interests. Look at the way this mountebank used, and continues to use,
asyntactic, repetitive fragments to cajole a significant portion of the
electorate. Isn’t that the place of poetry as an unacknowledged legislating
force? I think the role of the poet could be to engender inclusivity instead of
exclusivity. The role of the poet could be to hold up a mirror to the masses.
The role of the poet could be to touch the part of our souls that reminds us
what soul is and where to find it in ourselves and in others.
8 - Do
you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential
(or both)?
I find outside editors essential—though it’s not always an editor
as an editor per se; often, I have a very close cadre of friends to whom I
trust the work for editorial suggestions.
9 - What
is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you
directly)?
Shift the narrative. Shift the perspective toward the narrative.
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?
My typical day begins with reading as soon as I wake, then I surf with
my son, Brighton, if there are waves or I do yoga if there aren’t. I like to
begin every day connecting to language, to nature, and to the body. For the
past two years, I’ve been writing screenplays with Ken White. We work together about
two or three hours almost every weekday afternoon, after we teach. So, while
I’ve also been writing poems, those have taken a back seat, become more
sporadic, but I do sit with the current poem, for at least some time, daily. I
find that writing an ongoing serial poem—a “world poem,” I guess I could call
it—called “The Long Now” enables me to drop in and fiddle around, make a line
or two, without having to adhere to a strict routine. This hasn’t always been
my practice, however. In the past two years, I’ve written a collection of
poems, three feature-length scripts, a dissertation, and a creative writing
textbook. I must have some kind of routine. Usually, it’s just getting the work
done when I’m able.
11 - When
your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a
better word) inspiration?
The natural world. Robin Blaser and Lisa Robertson. Nathaniel Mackey, who was my teacher at Santa Cruz. Dante. Homer. Whatever books of
philosophy I’m dallying in.
12 - What
fragrance reminds you of home?
I spent much of my childhood with chronic sinus issues, so scent
is powerful for me. I think it’s why I’m so obsessed with wine; it’s an aid to
memory. I’m reminded by the Pacific Ocean. Rosemary. Orange blossoms.
Honeysuckle. The smell of fog on a cold fall morning. Chlorine.
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?
I think David W. McFadden is right. Much of my juvenilia was
ekphrastic: inspired by music and painting. Now, it’s books and thought and
soundbites and stories that have endured throughout human history.
14 - What
other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life
outside of your work?
I think my response to #11 covers this to a certain extent, but
I’m always reading new writers and new books, too. Forthcoming books by Kelli Anne Noftle, Ken White, Sueyeun Juliette Lee, Jasmine Dreame Wagner, and Andrew Wessels. New books by Douglas Kearney, Peter Gizzi, Ryan Murphy, Robert Seydel,
Adrienne Rich, and Elena Karina Byrne are all on my nightstand.
15 - What
would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Kill a man. Wait. I probably shouldn’t say that. I’d love to see
the whole world. I’d love to learn that alternate universes do exist. I’m
planning to make a feature film. I’d love to help humans be better to other
humans and to themselves.
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?
I was always going to be a writer and professor of writing. If I
were to do anything else, I’d be a winemaker.
17 - What
made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Writing, poetry, was the one way of knowing that was most
accessible to me and for which there was a long tradition. It was, and it
remains, the one profession and praxis in which the doing (making) is also a
way of knowing.
18 - What
was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Hell or High Water and Moonlight are the two films that come immediately to mind. And, if
we’re being honest, Rogue One was
pretty great. I always wondered how the rebellion got those plans for the Death
Star.
I read a lot books that I think are great, but recently—and I
wrote a blurb for it—I’d have to say Kelli Anne Noftle’s Adam Cannot Be Adam (Omnidawn, 2017) is pretty fucking great.
19 - What
are you currently working on?
I’m hustling to support my new book Phantom Hour, and giving as many readings as I’m able. I’ve just
finished writing a feature film script with Ken White, called The Conservationist. There’s always
another script in the hopper, too. I recently completed a poetry manuscript,
called Cosmographeme, which includes
the first eighteen sections of “The Long Now.” The nineteenth section is now
finished, too, and the twentieth is underway.
