Category Archives: Poetry
Laird Samuel Barron is an award winning author and poet, much of whose work falls within the horror, noir, and dark fantasy genres. He has also been the Managing Editor of the online literary magazine Melic Review. He lives in Olympia, Washington.
C.Derick Varn: You are one of the few writers that works in poetry and weird fiction, what do you see as the relationship between weird fiction and poetry?
Laird Barron: Poetry is the atom that underlies all writing. A few years ago I concentrated my efforts solely on poetry and in doing so became a better prose stylist. It’s not clear to me that it could work so well in reverse. There’s a profound connection between poetry and the weird–some of the great stories are poems: The Ballad of Sam Magee by Robert Service; Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge; EA Poe’s The Raven; or any number of poems by Dunsany, Lovecraft, or Clark Ashton Smith. Hell, look at the ancient classics such as Beowulf. Poetry and the weird share a circulatory system.
C.D.V.: Do you think horror fiction demands a particularly poetic bend for genre fiction?
L.B.: I scrupulously avoid prescriptions. Many of the great authors of the macabre have succeeded with an unadorned prose style. Nonetheless, give me the baroque decadence of Michael Shea or Wilum Pugmire; the brutal lyricism of Livia Llewellyn and Joe Lansdale; or the rough and tumble stream of consciousness that emits from Stephen Graham Jones. Lyricism is the sinew of my favorite work.
C.D.V.: Are there any habits of a poet that can inhibit a fiction writer?
L.B.: On the contrary, my time as a poet steeled me for a career in prose. I find the discipline and the relative economy of poetic expression to have taught me a set of skills and best practices applicable to fiction and essay writing. The essential lesson of poetry being that every word must have weight. Making those few words count is exacting, and that’s not a bad takeaway for any kind of writer.
C.D.V.: What particular poets have had an effect on your prose?
L.B.: I don’t know if anyone has directly influenced my style, but several poets inspire me in abstract ways: Mark Strand; James Dickey; Anne Sexton; Charles Simic; Wallace Stevens; Ted Hughes…
C.D.V.: Do you find that you organize your books of short stories along any of the themic principles that poets often use for books of poems?
L.B.:No, although it’s a concept I’ve toyed with over the years. It might be something to revisit if I were to produce an omnibus of stories down the road.
C.D.V.: What has attracted you specifically to go back to cosmic horror so much in your writing career?
L.B.: The notion that mankind is tiny and insignificant against the backdrop of the cosmos is alluring and terrifying. The possibility that sentient life might exist amid that empty space only sharpens the attraction. Cosmic horror is analogous to leaning over a guardrail and peering into the mists of a gulf. Lovecraft’s influence is a culprit, and so too various religions with their depictions of vast and dreadful gods of stick figures. Possibly my thousands of miles traveling by dog team across Alaska sealed it. The landscape up there is immense and inhospitable. You can’t cross the Farewell Burn, or Norton Sound, or plod among the ancient, rounded slopes along the Innoko River without being conscious of your transient mortality. In such places a man is little more than a moving speck. It is probably inevitable that I’d be compelled to communicate that experience through the lives of my characters.
C.D.V.: Is this the same sentiment that makes place so important in your work?
L.B.: Yes. It’s also a manifestation of my reading habits in youth. The landscape as a character is something a number of my favorite authors featured–Howard, Lovecraft, L ‘Amour, Blackwood, Burroughs…
L.B.: My latest collection, The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All will be released in April. I’m working on several projects. These include another collection, this one featuring stories set in Alaska; and a crime novel. Thank you for the interview.
Yesterday was Adorno’s birthday [peace be upon him!]. And, while it remains enduringly fashionable among left-wing types to dismiss Adorno, and no less The Frankfurt School, in a single remonstrating gesture, it also remains a verifiable fact that few bother to engage him from beyond the miasma of elitism, essentialism and arrogance which our spectacular age has mounted on his diagnoses of culture. The general response to his work bespeaks a fear of raising the patina of intellectualism over praxis, of alienating popular culture, of subverting reasoned criticism to shirk the unconscionable biddings of political immediatisms where art has lost its frame of coherence and has become yet another product for popular consumption- a respite with sound and fury but no signification- yet such was never Adorno’s own project.
Among his copious folios of work there is one particular stream in which his thought permeated the very heart of the matter, and though he may have fallen off his hobby horse now and then into the pits of assumption and error, his reconnoitering remains exemplary in its scope, perspicacity and endurance. His critique of the nexus between artistic expression and the cultural trends that it capitulates to is damning and remains all too painfully pertinent; when we admit to ourselves and others that music means no more than entertainment, which may be as it may, do we really escape the indictment of abandoning the task of our own escape from the strictures of oppressive culture? It is highly suspect. Among the basic axioms of his procedure, Adorno gave special place to the unique recursive structure of thought applied to thought, one expects no less from a dialectician: he posited that a deep dissatisfaction with one’s culture presumed an immersion worth the name into its substance. Only those who partake of its products, paradoxically, are allowed the luxury to see in it the detritus of their conscience, the dregs of their resistance waylaid by the trite melodies of popular dance music and as they are struck petrific by the entrancing thaumaturgy of film. Today, were he around, he would most probably be goaded into citing himself- Simon Critchley calls self-citation an act of narcissism, but I digress- and pronounce upon us our dishonest evasion of our predicament. It is not that merely our desires are stifled by the culture that enables us our habituated libertinage but even their symptoms are effaced by the apparatus of “…a lavish display of light air and hygiene…[produced] by the gleaming transparency of rationalised big business…” (Adorno 2005, p. 58).
Our complicity with contemporaneous conditions makes us culpable for its failings, for the slippages of desire and damage incurred by acceding to the despots’ machinery of causeless effects. If indeed art were produced in vacua there would be no need for its justification but only since we are swarmed by it in a reciprocal configuration of desire versus desire we owe more than wrung hands to its integral form. It behooves us to draw strength from this involvement “…to dismiss it” in so far as it fails to arouse our sympathetic epiphany, our rising beyond the material conditions of the commoditised world to reclaim the tenacity of despoiled, alienated and thereby mystified desire. “What is true of the instinctual life is no less true of the intellectual: the painter or composer forbidding himself as trite this or that combination of colours or chords, the writer wincing at banal or pedantic verbal configurations, reacts so violently because layers of himself are drawn to them. Repudiation of the present cultural morass presupposes sufficient involvement in it to feel it itching in one’s finger-tips…” (Adorno 2005, § 8. p. 29).
The import of his critical project would not have us wash our hands off art’s lifeblood at the scarce font of immediatisms accommodating the brutality of indifferent social systems. The mystical and poetical flourishes most contemporary artists employ to exonerate themselves from the duty of explaining their motivation only serves as a foil for the abject regression of the artistic self, which has miscarried all artistic intent before it can strive to redeem itself by its own toil. The artistic subject removed from ipseity at home in his milieu, thrown into the being of the market system which homogenises all in the currency of its one-all, has become a blight to the possibility of a conscience that has power to elevate art above human conditions and, so in due inversion, the possibility of also man’s elevation above the artefacts of [a]historical conditioning. “… [Herein] lies music’s [indeed, all arts’?] theological aspect. What music [art] says is a proposition at once distinct and concealed. Its idea is the form (Gestalt) of the name of God. It is demythologised prayer, freed from the magic of making anything happen, the human attempt, futile, as always, to name the name itself, not to communicate meanings” (Adorno 2002, p. 114).
The logic of the day, which makes so much of its clarity, has naively adopted this perverted notion of everyday speech. Vague expression permits the hearer to imagine whatever suits him and what he already thinks in any case. Rigorous formulation demands unequivocal comprehension, conceptual effort, to which people are deliberately disencouraged, and imposes on them in advance of any content a suspension of all received opinions, and thus an isolation that they violently resist (Adorno § 64, p. 101).
So, briefly, why read Adorno today? Because, it is imperative to act against the reactionaries, though they be ourselves. If we say too much has happened that has incontestably altered the course of art and its equation with consumption, thought and its relation to things are we not merely begging more reasons for surrendering to the beast that is already astride us? Read Adorno because, precisely because, he angers you with his obstinacy, his clinging to a hopeful differentiation from the abject form of alterity imposed upon popular consciousness. To fight the abstractions which generalise the self, artistic and otherwise, Adorno’s critical apparatus remains a worthy weapon, -though it sometimes is a knife all blade- what hurt is spared the self which cannot define art but can seek out a hadron’s theotechny? Wherein rests the aura of artistic inspiration; wherein the magic of its immaculate conception; wherein the titanic moment of its articulation and production through the very engines from which we derive our existence, let us inquire therein of the precise psychical automatisms that move us thusly to procure for its occult, atemporal archaeology the produce of our bodily culture, our arts. If our art is all sensuousness and corporeality what then is the mystery of its immaculate inspiration, how can we rest assured in the rejection of all inquiry and criticism of its material epigenesis? To do so is dishonesty shown home, in ourselves, in a world where selcouth artistic essences threaten the very existence of the thing itself; the world where art is two birds in a bush and we are left with age-old platitudes in our hand, kneeling before the disembodied flash which animates it with a cataclysm. In the end, to mystify the moment of our deepest impulses with the rhetoric of romance or respectable forgetfulness is to disavow the pompous claim history lays upon our culture: justify yourself despite your existence. Why must rational consciousness coil itself like an illusion, effacing its discernable origins, if it comes ascendant on Dickinson’s nimble winged hope? The emancipatory potential of art lies in the understanding of its brutal prehistory and natal experience, which must be unearthed and come to terms with on its own terms; thought, in order to be made intelligible and not mystical or sophistically narcissistic, must break free its jaw from its own tail. Adorno invites us, despite the neutralising haze of our critical conscience that settles itself on his work, to recreate the topology of desire and study the imbrications and scarifications lathed upon it as so many warts only so we may excise them now, though it is too late. For, we are moving in the circle of unreason so long as we attribute to some divine preordainment the subordination of art to both commerce and magic, the repression of self to the bad infinity of the body which speculates about the end of history. The end of history situates itself in our aeon, and we must resist becoming anachronisms in this inauthentic becoming. Else, why art at all?
Theodor Adorno. Trans. Gillespie, S. Ed. Leppert, R. “Music, Language and Composition (1956)”. Essays on Music: Theodore W. Adorno. USA: University of California, 2002. Print.
Theodor Adorno. Trans. Jephcott, E., F., N. Minima Moralia: Reflections from Damaged Life. UK: Verso, 2005. Print.
Arguably the first novel ever, Bānabhatta’s Kadambari is a rollicking ride in a rickety machine of transcendence. The plot so convoluted is yet humane and filled with the awe, empathy and openness of attitude that is lost on our contemporary society: Bānabhatta’s critique of individualism is more than mythologically bolstered legalism; it is coloured in the soil of its culture and yet seeks expression, authenticity, in those breaches where tradition and reason collide in individual experience.
The lexis and idiom is circumlocutory, exotic and immediate to the point of seeming to want in variety; one must however bear in mind the peculiar geography implicated in this work and its evolved, involuted, characters and their loves and strifes in a uniquely lived cosmology. The possible encumbrance of ubiquitous hyperbole, the sheer profusion of alaktha, lotus stalks and parijata petals, rut fluid dripping from scent elephants and the floral fugleman, Manmatha’s- an Indian Cupid’s- carnal elicitations in the graduated litanies of metaphor and stretched similes are all to be savoured as served if one must arrive at the strange experience laid out for perusal, demanding a suspension of disbelief.
The book may seem, to some, a lure in its promise of strange, alienating, pleasures and a trap in its effusiveness and wild itinerary to others: the force of gods and goddesses, imps and monarchs who only long for the ascetic life populate its teeming landscape. Our unreliable narrator, Vaishampayana- who is, in fact, Pundarika- cursed again by his erstwhile, petulant suitor, is no less steadying in his relating of the tale. This relating being a game of leading to us on to another narrator, and who does likewise to another, so on till the resolution of the plot where all lovers unite against hitherto improbable seeming odds. A rare and osmotic book, dense with ingenuity, liberality and an innate capacity for finding enchantment in the most traumatic and profound of human experience and also the most tender; love and separation from the beloved that one can never anticipate until begged the occasion are laid bare in their ancient sangfroid, tainted by the alaktha of Bharatavarsha’s vision and cultural identity
My Rating: ****
Bāṇabhaṭṭa. Trans. Rajappa, Padmini. (2010). Kadambari. India: Penguin Books.
Aleathia Drehmer originates from a small New England town which served as the home base for an extensive amount of traveling across the country before the age of 10. Her parents were not in the active military nor were they gypsies, but most likely unsettled in their identities and spent much time searching for them in far off po-dunk towns.
From this, Aleathia learned the distinct importance of human connection in her life. She had to learn to extract whatever lesson was given to her by each person she met very quickly before moving again. This type of life made it easy for her to fall into the lap of poetry. She would become a collector of small moments in her life, an observer of other people’s lives, and develop a keen eye for things left in the shadows.
As an adult, she has been married and divorced and left with a darling child to show for it. Her chosen career is Emergency Nursing, but her love is art and writing. This dichotomy, though seemingly unrelated, has proved the best platform for writing and editing in the small press. One job affords the other.
Aleathia Drehmer started her journey in poetry in 1983, but did not find the small press until 2006. Prior to the small press she had won several awards for poetry and fiction at her local community college. Since 2006, Aleathia has been published widely in print and online for her poetry, fiction, and photography.
She spent a good amount of time being one of the many editors at Outsider Writers before landing a co-editor job at Zygote in my Coffee where she was the sole editor of the book, “The Beards”. Aleathia was one of the original founders/editors of Full of Crow where she managed the poetry department. In 2009, she branched out on her own and created Durable Goods. This print microzine has been her crowning jewel since then with a vast readership that employs a grassroots method to distribution. In 2010, Aleathia created the online flash fiction website In Between Altered States which features 300 word flash fiction that knows few boundaries.
At the present she juggles home life, work, a relationship and several publications in her rural upstate New York apartment. She continues to publish her work in small press venues and do readings when she can find them. Aleathia has many projects on the horizon just waiting to be born.
Skepoet: As both a poet and an editor, do you find your aesthetic commitment similar in both roles or is there some divergence between them in your criterion for your own craft and for selecting others work for an audience?
Aleathia Drehmer: I have had to really contemplate the idea of “aesthetic commitment”, because to me this implies a certain amount of education in the philosophy of art and beauty in order to give a critical reflection of the arts. Most of my observations and judgments about art come from real life experiences and a more emotionally charged place. So maybe my commitment to writing and art stem from esthetics, which bases its ideals on a sensorial-emotional model. Having differentiated between these two studies of art, I can honestly say that there is a certain amount of divergence in my criteria for my own work as opposed to the work I chose for others to enjoy.
When working on my own poems, fiction, or essays I come from a place of deep feeling. My work is entrenched in my personal life, because it is what I know best. It would be near impossible for me to effectively write about subjects of which I have no knowledge or viable connection. Much of what I produce is an attempt to capture the essence of a moment or experience, and translate it into a piece of work that the reader can relate to despite its personal content.
I have a great understanding that the darkest, most moving times of our lives are not singular and significantly our own. We, as people, don’t own emotions due to their abstract nature, but we feel them uniquely based on what we have seen and felt in our lives and the people that have intersected our paths.
One of the most influential things ever told to me about writing was that as a writer it is my job to show a person the scene I am creating through words rather than tell them flat out. This makes the reader active and invested in the piece. It allows them to create their own visuals and place themselves in that space they have created which might be totally different from what the writer saw or intended. So every poem I approach is internally edited with this ideal in mind. It doesn’t always work and some poems escape to tell the reader exactly what I want them to know. At the top, I hold myself responsible for maintaining a depth of imagery that is often laced with metaphor. I hold myself responsible for creating a brief space where the reader knows it is ok to feel something intense about words.
As an editor, it depends greatly on the magazine I am working on or the people I might be working for. In my print microzine Durable Goods, I am more relaxed on the work I will choose. The mission of this publication is to connect as many humans as possible. The work will not please everyone, but with each one it does, the magazine spreads its circle just a little bit farther. When choosing work for Durable Goods, there must be at least a line or two that grabs me enough to contemplate the idea beyond reading it. I want to be transported for just a moment.
For many writers, Durable Goods is a challenge because of its short form and I enjoy being a part of this uncomfortable place. I believe it is these spots that we learn the most about what our writing can be and how we can learn to shape our own voices under pressure. This zine is a gathering of writers around the campfire. It is a place writers come to feel comfortable.
When I used to edit for Full of Crow, I was under a more stringent criteria because I had to conform to the overall vision of the magazine and deliver a certain type of poetry which I felt lent itself to intelligence splashed with a great amount of international flavor. Sometimes I had to alter my own personal criteria for choosing work to consider all of these components.
At In Between Altered States, I look at the work completely differently because it is flash fiction. These pieces aren’t based on emotional values as much as they are geared towards stretching one’s comfort zone and expanding the boundaries of the mind. Many of the topics used to theme these episodes are ones that I might not morally agree with, but I have learned that it is of the utmost importance to maintain a tolerance for the differences in intellect, writing style, and content. I believe in the power of free speech even if it cuts into my core belief system. I find it much easier to “edit” these types of stories than I do poetry. I have more confidence to suggest changes that would tighten and improve the work.
I believe as individual writers we hold ourselves to an extremely high standard and keep ourselves accountable for what we produce. We have to be able to stand behind it without hanging our heads. This ideal cannot help but spill over into how we judge another person’s work. I do my best to leave room for understanding that each person writes from a unique perspective and voice that I may or may not understand.
S: Do you think poet’s have a particular social role to play in the larger culture?
A.D.: This is an interesting question because I believe the standard answer from most writers or artists would be “yes”. What creative person doesn’t want to think that their art or words have an impact in the larger culture?
We live in a world where there is little honest feedback, especially on social media where most of us present our pieces to the world or link our work up for viewing. Circles of people are created based on a person’s likeability and it is my experience that people give criticism based on how much they like the person and not the writing. Sometimes this perpetuates a lower quality of poem, because the writer believes his or her writing has a significant impact on the larger culture they have thrown their words out to.
In the small press, it is greatly apparent that many of its writers aren’t looking to improve what they do and they don’t take constructive criticism well. I would believe those sorts of writers are present to make themselves feel better and to have an impact in their own personal culture.
I have been lucky in my life that despite having swum in the same circles where I get patted on the back for substandard work, I have also met a good solid few writers who are willing to put my feelings on the line and tell me the truth about my poems. This is painful in many ways, but it is from this pain that I have grown. It keeps me working hard to achieve a higher level of writing that will allow me to possibly have an effect on the larger culture.
It is general knowledge in this day and age that most people don’t read poetry except the classics and maybe the Beats. I am not especially sure the poetry of my generation has made enough of a stand to significantly impact culture and society. I am not sure the work is honest enough yet. I include my own work in this. I haven’t reached the full potential of my craft. I have a long way to go.
S.: Which poets do see as being most influential on your editorial process and what superficially did you learn from them?
A.D.: I am going to have to be very selective with this question or the answer could go on forever. I tend to learn something from each poet that I meet or at least I try to. When I first popped onto the small press scene in 2006, I met poet Zachary C. Bush. He was very energetic and had an uncanny ability to think outside the box which I was not doing at the time. We exchanged emails often and he would offer ideas on how to shape poems or things to write about that would help me push out of my own comfort zone. I began to look at the world from a different perspective after this meeting of the minds. I still us my experiences with Zach today.
A year or so later after meeting Zachary, I had the pleasure/displeasure of interacting with poet Ed Churchouse. I respect his work immensely. He is a true lover of the word and intensely passionate about the poem. He was by far my hugest judge and jury. He was so critical of my work that many times I cried. Other writers found this to be barbaric, but they were all patting me on the back saying my work was great when it really wasn’t. Ed was willing to risk friendship in order for me to be honest with myself about what I was writing. In a previous question I mentioned a person that taught me the “show, don’t tell” tactic, this would be Ed Churchouse. His influence shows up every time I write and even affected my process as I no longer write down everything I believe MIGHT be interesting. I let the important images linger in my head a long time before putting them on paper and I find I am more personally satisfied with the work.
In 2009, I met poet and all around great guy, Carter Monroe. This was a chance meeting at a festival in Kansas City that proved to build a fine friendship that would involve an education in poetry, music, and the art of laughter. Carter was engaging and often sent me links to articles via email about writers and the history of poetry. After reading the article we would email back and forth our thoughts. He was also helpful in guiding me towards great established writers I’d never heard of, all of whom would go on to shape how I attack the poem. The influence he provided me has been profound. If I had to name someone as my mentor, I’d name Carter Monroe.
Lastly, I feel that Amanda Oaks gave me something so very important. I was a part of a test group for one of her teaching modules that had very little to do with creative writing and more to do with being honest with yourself about nearly every emotion or feeling you have. Within this process she sent me a book by Brene Brown on perfectionism and how it serves to drag you down and remove the opportunity for moments of real life from your day. Learning this allowed me to go deeper into my poems without any sort of regret. It let me loosen up my grip on my life in order see and feel more so I could translate it into the poem. I’m forever grateful for that realization and grateful to Amanda for having one of the kindest hearts in the business.
All of these poets moved me in different ways and I can’t really say that I learned anything superficial from any of them, because what they had to teach moved me enough to use the tools they’ve given me every day. I believe in making my human connections as deep as possible even if I never cross paths with a person again. They have come into my life for a reason even if it doesn’t make itself apparent until years later.
S.: Do you think poetry has any necessarily explicitly ethical components?
A.D.: I think in this generation of poets everything is explicit. I see more in your face type poetry that comes off like a rant rather than a poem. These poems often speak loudly to ethical or political situations which carry heavy weight. My problem with much of it is that the writers use the “poem” as a soapbox and much of it leaves me feeling as if there is little craft put into the work.
If you look at poetry from other heated cultural times like the 60’s you will find that though those poets were in your face, their language wasn’t explicit to the point of vulgarity as it is today. LeRoi Jones comes to mind. The work was electrically charged and active. It stood up in a room, but in reading it I never felt like the language was misused or vulgar. Some poets are able to get down and dirty and use explosive language because it works with their voice and style. If they can manage to do this in a smart way, I think they still can capture an audience.
In my opinion many poets lose sight of what a poem is supposed to be and in all truth maybe the parameters of poetry cannot be seriously defined anymore. I do believe you have to know the rules of writing to break them and create a stunning poem that is both moving in its word flow and its ethical content.
I think we do need some poetry with explicit ethical content. I think it will always be part of our culture because in every era there are those whose voices are louder than others and who are willing to make waves through art and literature. The ones that can do this in a crafty way are the writers we tend to remember and admire.
S.: Do you think there is an ethical component to refraining from polemic in poetry and trusting the reader to draw such conclusions?
A.D.: The problem with polemic in poetry, for me, is that the writer can begin to have an argument for or against a particular topic and try to drag you (kicking and screaming) to their version of the truth, but that is all it is—their version of truth. Most poetry tends to have an emotional component which is close to the writer. In poetry that uses polemics I feel this can often be amplified because subjects that people want to rant about are usually ones of significant social tone or have an ethical nature to them.
It is difficult for me to say if there is an ethical component to refraining from using polemics in poetry because each person is raised with a different set of values that draw from their parents, their environment, and the region of the country or world in which they live in. For me personally, I don’t enjoy argumentative poetry. I am for bringing up topics in a palatable way. I want finesse. To me ranting on about a piece of culture that irritates you isn’t really educational unless it is based in fact and let’s face it….overly factual poetry isn’t easy on the eyes.
I do believe we have to trust readers to make their own conclusions. If anything, polemics in poetry could start an internal dialogue in the reader to ask more questions about the world and the society they live in. In art of any kind, we must remember everyone’s opinion is subjective rather objective based on the fact that creating art and poetry is a very passionate and personal process.
S.: Are there any trends in contemporary poetry that really worry you?
A.D.: This can be a bit of a tough question because in some places I have seen the list of contemporary published poets (those well established and known to many) upwards of 280. This would be poets still living in my time or recently deceased. I cannot confidently speak to any trends in their poetry, but I can touch on my own generation of poets in the small press.
When I first came on the scene in 2006, I noticed that in order for most women to get published they had to write in a very sexual way, they had to be objects of desire. This idea that you had to be your most salacious self and be deeply in touch with what our masculine counterparts wanted to read really bothered me. Did I have to do this to get published? Would I be willing to write this way? The answer to both questions was yes. I dug into the darkest parts of my life when I didn’t really care about myself and looked at the ideas that would let me portray myself in the most disparaging ways. These poems got published. These poems allowed me to make a name for myself that I quickly wanted to change before it was too late; before I was labeled as a one trick pony. I only had so much sex that I wanted to sell.
I see a fair amount of women who make themselves out to be sleazy and who use very shocking language and images to get published and read by peers. This is greatly enhanced by the insurgence of social media in the poetry scene. Women can add a sexy picture of themselves to go with a sex filled poem and rapidly it has more “likes” and comments than it’s worth. It is quite possible that some of these women have lived these types of lives and this is there true personality, but it is hard to believe they exist in that state all the time and that sex is the only thing they have to write about. I notice that once they get caught up in this expression of poetry they rarely leave it. They tend to not grow outside the confines of sexuality. We have to really ask why this happens. How do male publishers perceive these women? Why do they get published over and over again? What do female publishers think about how these women portray themselves? As a woman and an editor, I look for something genuine and real from all the writers I publish, but especially from the women. I believe we can prove our equality without degrading our standard of writing and ourselves. I think giving readers something they don’t expect from us is what changes the tide.
I also find the lack of growth in general to be disheartening. Retaining your voice and style is one thing, but never challenging yourself to achieve more or to better your craft is pretty relevant these days. It seems odd to me to still be reading the same poem rehashed from a writer six years later. As a generation of writers we have to be willing to take it to the next level. In much of what I have read about the poets that came before us, texts mention a competitive nature between them; they often had meetings to reveal new notions. They took ideas from each other, tried new things, and expanded on them to make them their own. In these exchanges new forms of poetry were born. We are competitive beasts by nature. We are innate achievers. I see a huge divergence from that nature in today’s poetry.
Lastly, the trend that bothers me the most is emulating a writer so much that the person’s work sounds almost copy-cat. I wish writers would have the confidence to speak their own voice. There are many poets I love, whose work I keep by my bed, but never once did it occur to me to want to write just like them. Their lives were full of things I could never know deep enough to be able to write about from an honest and real place. As writers we can acknowledge skills in other poets that enhance our own styles, but the writer should retain their own clear voice that is all together separate from those they admire.
S.: What advice would you give a new editor of poetry?
A.D.: All advice anyone can give has to be taken with a grain of salt, because as you go through your career you learn to create your own style by trial and error. You have to find your own comfy seat on the couch.
I can impart the things I have learned:
Always take chances on new writers that you see have potential. Your acceptance could be the thing that pushes them forward and allows them the confidence to get better.
Be an editor. This doesn’t mean just run a magazine by taking submissions and choosing poems haphazardly. You have to hold writers responsible for spelling and errors of space. These days with experimental poetry space is sometimes considered part of the poem, so be keen enough to ask if they meant to do it. We are all human. We all make mistakes, but writers should proof their work before they send it and it is the editor’s job to call them out when they don’t.
If you are editing for a magazine in which you are not the managing editor, be sure to understand that you are choosing work that fits the reader’s scope of interest within that magazine. Continuity can be key to making an issue of a magazine run on all cylinders. If you are editing for your own magazine make sure you stay true to the vision of each issue.
Never, ever, ever choose work based on how much you like a writer as a person. Readers may not know the writer like you do and taking substandard work because a writer is nice is a death nail in your respectability as an editor. This is hard to do in the beginning, but your career and reputation will thank you for it later.
Don’t be afraid to change your tastes in writing. As we grow and learn and are introduced to different styles of poetry we find our palate changes. Don’t be afraid of that. Don’t care what other people might feel about you when you like work that doesn’t fit the trend or the societal mode. Don’t be afraid to discover new talent that could inspire the rest of us.
Stick to your deadlines. This is so important, because when you let them slide your audience begins to doubt your credibility over time. This may start subconsciously, but it will roll into something they attach to your name in all your future projects. Keeping deadlines is establishing a line of trust between the writers and the readers of your magazine.
Above all you need to continue to be excited about what you do. When editing becomes a burden that makes you want to clean the house rather than go through submissions or produce the magazine, then you should think about changing venues or taking a hiatus from editing. This is important because when you lose your gusto for editing then the work you put out falls seriously flat for the readers. You owe it to yourself and your readers to find a certain amount of joy in the work you do.
S.: Anything you’d like to say in closing?
A.D.: I don’t think so. It all seems covered. Thanks so much for the opportunity.
Carruth is an interesting poet, and his longer poems seem to straddle the same lines that two kinds of modernists poets that were famous during his lifetime: the observational strand of Auden meets with the regional ironies of Frost then deals with the personal demons of Carruth’s contemporaries like Robert Lowell or Wendell Berry. Yet it is easy to regulate a “poet’s poet” like Carruth to a list of names of that he mirrors, so I should not do him the disservice. The flora and fauna of Vermont always appear within the book, but never in a way which alienates those from outside the region nor dropping into a kind of generic pastoral that formal poetry can be given too. Much of this book (three key long poems) is written in the near-sonnet paragraph that Carruth mastered: rhymed, myraid metered, fifteen-line stanzas that form narrative and thematic units. “The Sleeping Beauty” is among them, and this poem alone would be worth the cost of the book. The over forms in the book are various and show the lie to the accusation that Carruth was a stale formalist. Carruth is not without his unevenness, his uncanny use of adjectives is freshing, but all the more problematic with a slightly purple adjective is seen in the page. Still few poets then or now could maintain longer reflective poems like these and illustrate a mastery of a variety of techniques without it seeming forced or obvious or ostentatious. While I was familiar with Carruth’s work, finding this book in a used book shop in Seoul, South Korea was a strange bit of luck as it reminded me of the beauty of much of the late modernist American poetry that we can sometimes lose a perspective on in an age in which the two poles of poetry tend to be more glib or in the vein of light verse or more alienating in its experimental posture. While I enjoy these elements of contemporary poetry and acknowledge the craft in today’s hybrid verse, Carruth reminds us that the formal, regionalist verse can be just as challenging, even “experimental,” without depending on the prestidigitation of language poetry or break-beat of slam poetry or the ironic methodology of flarf, etc.
James Tate’s style consisted of practiced, easy idiosyncrasies that read akin to the narrative of a dream. His stream of conscious style paired with light wit is unique, although it does invoke poets like Kenneth Koch. To some, this may be like eating kimchi, to those who have no cultivated a taste for these particularly humorous bits of surrealism, it may go down like spiced, half-rotted cabbage. For those who have developed a taste for Tate’s particular vision, it would be something one could eat with every meal. Although that metaphor can have one miss Tate’s prime talent, the ability to build a tension that releases in humor or a subtly bitter sweet crescendo.
This book has the feel, though, that Tate has perhaps turned his process into a nearly mechanical procedure, as Randall Jarrel said about late Auden in an entirely different context, though Tate’s long lines and prosaic turns, while not quite exactly prose, may be best seen in his earlier works. This book is still not one to skip despite the fact fans of Tate may have seen it before and partisans of Tate may be coming to it with the taste of consistency that a good and unique craftsman can render, but one that sells his earlier brilliance a little short.
There are very poems that seem more direct and laconic in English, although Nicanor Parra’s antipoetry in Spanish is unique close. A retrospective of all of Dugan’s career, whose poems still resonate with me since I read them in my late teens in the 1990s even though they were written in the 1960s. While contemporary to Charles Bukowski and Frederick Seidel, Dugan has a subtler art than Bukowski’s and a more naunced meanness than Seidel. Often bitter and hyper-rational, there is a subtle beauty that can be seen in poems like “Love Song: I and Thou” whose twists better near nihilism and love can be dizzying. Dugan’s irony is classical, not the flippancy of a lot of hipper, younger verse. To be savored, slowly and carefully, even in some of the unevenness of Dugan’s later work.