JoAnna Novak, DOMESTIREXIA

 

I couldn’t believe this
cardinal hopping
red fluff
in the yard
and more, green
all day long, the spread
of history, goodness,
the morning
made me hungry,
unstable, and talky (“Abundance”)

I’m very excited to see a copy of American writer, editor and publisher JoAnna Novak’s latest poetry collection DOMESTIREXIA (Soft Skull Press, 2024), following Noirmania (Inside the Castle, 2018), Abeyance, North America (New York/Kingston NY: After Hours Editions, 2020) [see my review of such here] and New Life (New York NY: Black Lawrence Press, 2021) [see my review of such here]. “Seducing the reader with its unexpected entanglement of ‘domestic’ and ‘anorexia,’” the back cover writes, “JoAnna Novak’s DOMESTIREXIA is a collection of poems that brings a behind-closed-doors sensuality to scenes of home life. Populated by unknowable characters wrestling with seeming abundance, DOMESTIREXIA plumbs the nature of longing and misbehavior, reimagining the home as a space for estrangement rather than intimacy.” The collection is set in five numbered sections, including a fourth, which is a reworked version of her above/ground press chapbook, Knife with Oral Greed (2021) [a further chapbook is forthcoming, I should mention]. Novak’s poems, as I’ve encountered, offer depictions of situations, her attentive eye and deep perspective on what would otherwise be familiar. From pregnancy to geography, Novak writes on motherhood and domestic life through dark twists, distances and shadows, language honed bone-sharp. “with pleasure or / praise,” she writes as part of the second sequence-section, “Abundance,” “we deserve / leeks / and little gems / honorable / invitation meet / me / in the pantry [.]” As part of an interview via Touch the Donkey, she spoke of the manuscript, then still in-progress:

I get tired of my default modes of expression, and I try to do something different—in the case of these poems, work with characters, create a façade of narrative logic. I think of narrative as having false comforts, especially as of late, because of the ongoingness of the pandemic. (And these poems were very much a product of the early days of quarantine.) I bristle when I hear people say, “When COVID is over” or the like. This idea that there will be a resounding “The End” seems false in this context. This resonates with my own sense of the world, I suppose, tinged by neuroses or compulsions, where repetition upends the notion of causality. But also, in a vastly different context, my son—who is fifteen months old—doesn’t seem satisfied by “The End.” He points again at whatever we’re reading (Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?) as soon as I close the back cover.

Novak moves through the tensions of domestic as subject—the disappointments, the distractions, mundanities, degrees and difficulties—echoing the cultural depiction of domestic as some kind of punishment, while simultaneously attempting to allow the flowing possibilities and delights of such space for turning, becoming. As part of the poem “Highboy,” writing: “I love your sense. I love your stability. I love your advice. I love your father making furniture, joints joints vices files ferries roses and fathers, were I a man I’d be a father, shan’t I, shouldn’t I, someday: I know nothing, I am trying to learn. I am not a novena, prayerfully blank, embittered esposa, easily drunk, painting foxes, teeth in denial, on tall chests of drawers. Let me survive the hand-me-downs and sentiment, the flinch before savings. Do I look vegan? Slow-mo flamboyant? What can I do?” Coming at her subject from the side, her poems offer themselves as sharp ellipses, running blood across lines. She writes the tensions between the two poles, two sets of expectations, even from within her own narrator. “Be only a girl:,” she writes, as part of the poem “Nothing to Lose,” “What other rule is there?”

JoAnna Novak, New Life

Thalamos

Beyond copse and corpse, hedgerow and scarlet hip,
the tent is white and obvious. Inside, a bride

begins her tour. Her train is gone, veil a jubilate
square. Now congratulations and congratulations and

this baby suits you. I have traded my Napoleon
for chicken. I am one sad stop, inevitable as a dandelion

clock. A dessert fork dings the first glass. Cousins
constellate and fib. Look at little mama, how

beautiful, peacocks gawping the photo booth, look
at some smokers off stubbing cigarettes on the empty

lawn. It is easy enough to smile through toasts, friends’
confessions, a brother’s snafus in a dress

of Normandy blue. Secrets macramé the neck,
and silence the sonar, starlit in rain.

Across the lawn, our story skips the dogwood grove:
I too walked an aisle, really very happy.

Writer, editor and publisher (founder of the chapbook publisher and online journal Tammy) JoAnna Novak’s third full-length poetry collection, following Noirmania (Inside the Castle, 2018) and Abeyance, North America (New York/Kingston NY: After Hours Editions, 2020) [see my review of such here], is New Life (New York NY: Black Lawrence Press, 2021). Constructed in five numbered sections of narrative lyrics, New Life articulates her pregnancy, often in surreal, descriptive tones, composing short bursts of lyric narratives that explore around and through the core of the experience. As the title poem, “New Life,” opens: “does not survive on protein alone. My ankles are bound / to tear marching this reef, yet what a thrill—bloodying / white pumps. The island is mine. A mole on earth’s back, / bull’s eye, bingo, scratch, bite. At seven and twelve and thirteen / weeks, the pulse shimmers like a firefly: interruption.”

There is a shift in tone and tenor from her previous collection, one held in state and space, “ultrasounds and sustenance” (“Forecast”), engaged in a simultaneous anxiety and calm, the contradictions of anticipation, agitation, isolation and connection through the stages of pregnancy. “Wading in waist-high— // wait,” she writes, as part of the flow of the poem “Tides,” “where is the waist?       My bulge, // my bilge, my breasts, my rolled // neck: feels like the rest of my life, // totting / weeks to translate days, [.]” She writes of phallus, lake, glitter and agency with a swagger and rapture. Clearly, hers is a lyric of pointed precisions and very physical gestures; of effects bore down to bone. “What would you do with / a thick moment off the map?” she asks, in “House Sitter,” or in the poem “Trimester,” where she writes: “Give me grander // reptiles on this inhospitable island. Garter on a swing tray, / diamondback tub, / Animal, I don’t want to go in            the pool / and I won’t lose my tongue // and I won’t like your table. Give me ether, / at least twilit sleep, Tonga Room / dreams, trek over stream, / rain and rum on the half hour— [.]” There is such firm confidence in her lyric, even as she navigates such unfamiliar terrain as this particular state of the body and impending birth; a confidence that holds firm to every lesson garnered, glanced and won, as the two-page poem “Everything and fireworks” ends:

I’ve learned what I have
to do is a sentence;

what I get to do
is a gift.

 

Touch the Donkey supplement: new interviews with Chernoff, Olsen, Barbour, Ballantyne, Novak, Paty + Fishman,

Anticipating the release later this week of the twenty-ninth issue of Touch the Donkey [a small poetry journal], why not check out the interviews that have appeared over the past few weeks with contributors to the twenty-eighth issue: MLA Chernoff, Geoffrey Olsen, Douglas Barbour, Hamish Ballantyne, JoAnna Novak, Allyson Paty and Lisa Fishman.

Interviews with contributors to the first twenty-seven issues (over one hundred and eighty interviews to date) remain online, including: Kate Feld, Isabel Sobral Campos, Jay MillAr, Lisa Samuels, Prathna Lor, George Bowering, natalie hanna, Jill Magi, Amelia Does, Orchid Tierney, katie o’brien, Lily Brown, Tessa Bolsover, émilie kneifel, Hasan Namir, Khashayar Mohammadi, Naomi Cohn, Tom Snarsky, Guy Birchard, Mark Cunningham, Lydia Unsworth, Zane Koss, Nicole Raziya Fong, Ben Robinson, Asher Ghaffar, Clara Daneri, Ava Hofmann, Robert R. Thurman, Alyse Knorr, Denise Newman, Shelly Harder, Franco Cortese, Dale Tracy, Biswamit Dwibedy, Emily Izsak, Aja Couchois Duncan, José Felipe Alvergue, Conyer Clayton, Roxanna Bennett, Julia Drescher, Michael Cavuto, Michael Sikkema, Bronwen Tate, Emilia Nielsen, Hailey Higdon, Trish Salah, Adam Strauss, Katy Lederer, Taryn Hubbard, Michael Boughn, David Dowker, Marie Larson, Lauren Haldeman, Kate Siklosi, robert majzels, Michael Robins, Rae Armantrout, Stephanie Strickland, Ken Hunt, Rob Manery, Ryan Eckes, Stephen Cain, Dani Spinosa, Samuel Ace, Howie Good, Rusty Morrison, Allison Cardon, Jon Boisvert, Laura Theobald, Suzanne Wise, Sean Braune, Dale Smith, Valerie Coulton, Phil Hall, Sarah MacDonell, Janet Kaplan, Kyle Flemmer, Julia Polyck-O’Neill, A.M. O’Malley, Catriona Strang, Anthony Etherin, Claire Lacey ,Sacha Archer, Michael e. Casteels, Harold Abramowitz, Cindy Savett, Tessy Ward, Christine Stewart, David James Miller, Jonathan Ball, Cody-Rose Clevidence, mwpm, Andrew McEwan, Brynne Rebele-Henry, Joseph Mosconi, Douglas Barbour and Sheila Murphy, Oliver Cusimano, Sue Landers, Marthe Reed, Colin Smith, Nathaniel G. Moore, David Buuck, Kate Greenstreet, Kate Hargreaves, Shazia Hafiz Ramji, Erín Moure, Sarah Swan, Buck Downs, Kemeny Babineau, Ryan Murphy, Norma Cole, Lea Graham, kevin mcpherson eckhoff, Oana Avasilichioaei, Meredith Quartermain, Amanda Earl, Luke Kennard, Shane Rhodes, Renée Sarojini Saklikar, Sarah Cook, François Turcot, Gregory Betts, Eric Schmaltz, Paul Zits, Laura Sims, Stephen Collis, Mary Kasimor, Billy Mavreas, damian lopes, Pete Smith, Sonnet L’Abbé, Katie L. Price, a rawlings, Suzanne Zelazo, Helen Hajnoczky, Kathryn MacLeod, Shannon Maguire, Sarah Mangold, Amish Trivedi, Lola Lemire Tostevin, Aaron Tucker, Kayla Czaga, Jason Christie, Jennifer Kronovet, Jordan Abel, Deborah Poe, Edward Smallfield, ryan fitzpatrick, Elizabeth Robinson, nathan dueck, Paige Taggart, Christine McNair, Stan Rogal, Jessica Smith, Nikki Sheppy, Kirsten Kaschock, Lise Downe, Lisa Jarnot, Chris Turnbull, Gary Barwin, Susan Briante, derek beaulieu, Megan Kaminski, Roland Prevost, Emily Ursuliak, j/j hastain, Catherine Wagner, Susanne Dyckman, Susan Holbrook, Julie Carr, David Peter Clark, Pearl Pirie, Eric Baus, Pattie McCarthy, Camille Martin and Gil McElroy.

The forthcoming twenty-ninth issue features new writing by: Bill Carty, Michael Turner, Nina Vega-Westhoff, Sarah Alcaide-Escue, Colby Clair Stolson, Robert Hogg, Elizabeth Robinson, Tom Prime and Simina Banu.

And of course, copies of the first twenty-seven issues are still very much available. Why not subscribe? Included, as well, as part of the above/ground press 2021 subscriptions! We even have our own Facebook group. It’s remarkably easy.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with JoAnna Novak

JoAnna Novak is the author of the novel I Must Have You and two books of poetry: Noirmania and Abeyance, North America. Her short story collection, Meaningful Work, won the 2020 Ronald Sukenick Innovative Fiction Contest and will be published by FC2. Her work has appeared in The Paris Review, The New York Times, The Atlantic, BOMB, and other publications. She is a co-founder of the literary journal and chapbook publisher, Tammy.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

I Must Have You, my first book, is a novel about sex and eating disorders and growing up in the '90s. Publishing that book let me live and breathe the decadences and deprivations of suburban adolescence in a way that still excites me.

Noirmania, my first book of poetry, is a death march for the self, dressed up in all manner of goth couture. It was so different from the novel, formally, obviously, but there's a common fixation with the death drive, I think.

My latest book, Abeyance, North America, translates that drive to desire and longing, those little deaths. Looser, steamier, more urgent: this work feels freer. 

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

Poetry can be made of gasps and phrases and images, a making that comes more naturally to me than building plot.

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?

Quickly for initial drafts, especially with poems, and I sometimes think because they come so quickly I should work more like Russell Edson, drafting a big batch in a sitting and then sifting through from there. As it is, I write poems fast, in a notebook, and then type them up, editing as I go. Once I've got a manuscript together, I do another, bigger edit, often with the aid of readers or tools (i.e., feeding the whole document through a translator (like Google Translate) to destabilize the language); I rework and sharpen from there.

4 - Where does a poem or work of fiction 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?

I work on individual stories. For the last couple years, I've worked on poems with ideas for book titles in mind. I guess that means I'm working on a book from the get-go.

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

I enjoy them the way I enjoy going to the dentist: I feel refreshed and clean afterwards, or maybe mildly chastised; then I'm happy to not have to return for another six months.

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?

Time, sex, the body, decadence/excess, recklessness/responsibility, drive and abstinence, consumption, minimalism, negating and/or/vs thinking ...

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?

She has one, I believe that. Does she illuminate the bridge between here and there, then and now, want and need, right and wrong, extravagance and utility? I think so.

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

Essential and exciting and a privilege. I love working with outside editors. I think all writers need them.

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

I am an advice hoarder. Right now, in my notebook I've starred: "Experience the joy of doing," which David Lynch writes in Catching the Big Fish.

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

Very easy, as easy as having a good stretch after a run. I like the movement between lyric/associative thinking and more narrative logic; I like, too, creating voice and then creating character. I like how differently concrete fiction and poetry feel.

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?

My best days begin at my desk, without talking to anyone for a couple hours. Notebook, laptop (no internet), dictionary, coffee.

I try to do that every morning, but I find it harder now that I have a baby. If those early hours get away from me, I try to force myself into that headspace later on, even if I only have twenty or thirty minutes. Taking notes while I'm reading or running is very necessary, too. I think I fill up one of those floppy Moleskines every five weeks.

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

Going to museums is good. And, of course, reading: something small by a writer I love almost always helps. For fiction, I turn to Leonora Carrington or Gary Lutz; for poetry, I revisit Anne Sexton and Ted Berrigan. Listening to Air, the soundtrack to The Virgin Suicides, also puts me in a dreamy, angsty mood that typically sparks something. I don't often seek out inspiration, though––I feel sort of perpetually "inspired" ... it's more a matter of whether I'm disciplined enough to act on the impulse.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Mozzarella cheese melted and splotched on a pan of lasagna, crushed red pepper, opening a box of pizza--that's my parent's home.

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?

Culinary arts, visual art, music, film, fashion, yes––!

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

Right now: the writings of Agnes Martin. Suzuki's Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind.

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

Live in another country. Write a play and see it produced. Cultivate a quieter, less frenetic mind. Bake a flawless croissant.

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?

A fashion designer, a painter, or a pastry chef.

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

When I was thirteen, I wrote a poem––four pages, all enjambments and line breaks like nothing I'd ever even read before––that Maureen Seaton selected for a creative writing award at Lake Forest Academy. This terrified and thrilled me, the fact that that came out of me and someone responded to it made me believe I'd found a way to put a lot what seemed unsayable in words ...

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

Loosing My Espanish by H.G. Carrillo. Hache was my mentor, and he passed away this spring. His novel is built of the most stunning sentences about time and space and sugar and sweat and stories that one can imagine.

20 - What are you currently working on?

Editing a new poetry manuscript (90% prose poems). Editing a short story collection that's coming out from FC2 next year. Editing a book-length lyric essay. Taking notes for a novel.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;