There is a new poem of mine up at Verse-Virtualcalled “New Year’s Eve”. It’s the first poem I wrote in 2019, and I wrote in on New Year’s morning. I figured if I could crank out a poem with a slight hangover, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad year after all.
The poem was suggested to me while watching my daughter and her friend playing among the smoking ruins of neighborhood fireworks. Where we live, people set off their own outside their homes, in the streets, cheap and awful-smelling contraptions that create a haze and sting the eyes. But the girls’ curiosity was as if an alien spacecraft had just crash-landed in the backyard. That interested me more than the bright lights.
New Year’s Eve
Tonight we watched the lanterns rise
up through the black and flinty air
as neon blossoms lit the skies.
We squinted in the smoky glare
of cheap contraptions struck & burned
like matchsticks in the littered street.
A pinwheel sputtered, lifted, turned
about, a pyrotechnic feat
of ancient alchemy – it flew
a foot or two, then comically
crashed in a plot of grass, where two
children approached it cautiously
as if it were a UFO
portending unknown auguries
or sizzling in the afterglow
of unavoidable demise.
The poem has nothing at all to do with the story by the same name, published in the New Yorker. In fact, I’ve never read the story, which even has its own Wikipedia page for some reason. It’s just an appreciation of my furry friend, as if anything more were needed or required of a poem.
One of the main reasons I write poetry is to fix a moment, event, or feeling in time so it doesn’t disappear forever. I write against forgetting, against forgetfulness, against oblivion. This is the driving force behind my writing. I hope that something may endure after time has ravaged all the rest. Shakespeare had this in mind when he wrote his Sonnet 55. “Not marble, nor the guilded monuments / of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme.” It’s always been one of my favorites.
It‘s not that I love cats. I love my cat,
the way she pierces me with her clear eyes
and bites when she‘s excited, how her belly
fat feels in my hands & her domestic size
so perfectly selected for my palm
my fingers engineered to navigate her
haunches that lift and shiver, sway and roam
free as the trip-hop cadence of her purr.
I love the way she disappears for hours
materializing when we sprinkle food
into her dish. I love her haughty, proud
imperious demeanor as she glowers
slighted by some lack in our attention –
real or perceived – requiring intervention.
I’ve always wondered what it might be like to be interviewed.
When did you first start writing poetry?
Longer ago than I thought, actually. My sister recently mailed me some papers she found in her personal archives, and in them were poems I had written at college. I studied visual arts, and somehow had no memory of taking a poetry class in my first year. Once I read the poems, it all came flooding back to me.
Can you elaborate on that?
I was able to visualise the apartment I lived in at the time, in Richmond. And my bedroom, and then all the details of the poems themselves. It was a typical writing exercise: it was called “Twenty Snapshots”. It was evident from the writing that I hated the artifice of it. I think that experience shut the door between poetry and myself for a few years.
When did you return to it?
I hated college, and dropped out after my second year. I had burned all my bridges, had no friends and was supremely unhappy in Richmond. In hindsight, I was probably having a belated teenage rebellion. I moved to New York City in early 1995 – just caught a Greyhound and stayed in a cheap hotel on the Bowery until I found a job and a place to live. My first job was at the Strand. I walked in because I knew Patti Smith and Tom Verlaine had both worked there. They were my heroes then.
That experience, though horrible in many ways, exposed me to books and literature in ways college libraries hadn’t. And other people for whom books were a way of life, an obsession. I got caught up in that stuff. We drank a lot, and lived a pretty sordid lifestyle. I wrote about that time in [untitled chapbook].
Anyway, long story short I quit the Strand in a tizzy and ended up eventually at the Gotham Book Mart. Again, it was a Patti Smith thing. She had published her first book of poems with them. I probably knew that from some book I’d read about punk. Well, Gotham was a totally different atmosphere than the Strand, much more intimate and serious about books and people who loved them. And it was in midtown, on 47th, crushed in on every side by the diamond merchants. They had a great poetry alcove, and important poets each had a whole shelf for themselves: Stevens, Pound, Williams. Their photos lined the walls. It was a bookshop with a long history, and these poets were like extended family. At some point I came across Hart Crane and that was it.I was intoxicated by his poetry in a way I’ve never been by anyone else’s. I wanted to do what he had done.
Crane can be a difficult poet.
He can! I was drawn to that initially. He was like pure music. Even when he was drunk and didn’t make sense, he still sounded wonderful. He had a kind of logic even in madness. His letters were great too. For me he was like the Velvet Underground, one of those artists whose effect is transformative on a rather small group of people. Others kind of just look at them sideways, or in horror (laughs).
Did you begin writing at that point?
Yes, right away. I’ve always been the kind of person who wants to get his hands dirty. I don’t care if I’m out of my depth. I wanted to see if I could make this wonderful word-music, too. My first poems were imitations, as they had to be. But they weren’t so bad, in my opinion. Or maybe they were!
And did you publish them?
Yeah, I was lucky that at the Gotham there were tons of editors and writers coming in and out. New York is great like that. I took advantage, striking up conversations with people. People would tell me to send my work, and they would sometimes accept it. It’s very different from the submissions process today. At least for me. I got four poems in Pivot right away. I thought, This is easy.
What is different about submitting today?
I no longer have an advantageous perch in a well-trod New York bookshop, for one. Now I live abroad, in an out of the way place (as far as American literature goes). I’ve also never stuck with it year in year out, so I lost whatever foothold I had had. I keep starting over from scratch. And the internet has changed the game.
It seems there is so much more happening now. Social media has become the preeminent way to promote yourself and your work. Of course, the rewards are greater for those nimble enough to navigate the internet effectively. You can become a superstar practically overnight. I distrust such success, however. I don’t crave it. I want to get past the filters on the merits of the work alone. I’m my own worst enemy in that sense. I think that comes from my father. He would always do things the hard way.
Who are your favorite poets?
I don’t really have favorite poets. I like certain poems I read, certain voices, but I don’t go out and buy the collected works anymore. I read a lot which isn’t poetry, too, so I’m not obsessive like I once was.
What are you reading now?
Right now I’m reading Homo Deus, which deals with the future of Homo Sapiens, a poetry chapbook and a novel. I get bored reading only one thing. I’m restless.
Let’s talk about your work. What is your process when writing a poem?
I don’t really have a process – or I don’t think I do anyway. Writing usually begins with a line or phrase that pops into my head when I’m doing something else. Sometimes I’m diligent enough to write it down in a notebook, and at times a poem follows. I’ll usually get something down in a rush, just trying to catch the words before they disappear, then I’ll type it up and the real work begins. But I like to see the poem on the page, study the shape it makes, then attack it from there. Then I put it aside when something else starts happening, and so on. It’s a nonstop process.
When do you submit a poem to a magazine?
Sometimes after years of working on it, other times immediately. I’m still not sure what the best strategy is, so I just try everything. Rejection is pretty much guaranteed either way. I’ve learned not to worry about it, because it’s like a kiln in which your poems are fired. It’s good for them.
Do you give readings?
I think I did only once, for a magazine called Greetings. I was invited to read my three poems from that issue at a bar in New York. I haven’t done one since. I’ve never had an opportunity, really. I was invited by Rattle to read in Los Angeles recently, but I couldn’t make it. I’d have loved to go, but I live in Italy!
Tell us what took you away from the United States.
Oh, god, that could go on forever. Basically I was growing tired of the itinerant New York lifestyle. I was in a different apartment pretty much every year, breaking up and moving in and out, and I couldn’t handle another roommate situation. And living alone was too expensive on a bookseller’s salary. So I was generally fed up. I had also gotten screwed by my ex-girlfriend, and had bad credit as a result. I put my stuff in storage and took the first plane to Rome.
Did you plan to stay?
I had no idea. I just wanted to get away. I ended up taking a sabbatical year in Rome, writing a novel-in-verse, and meeting my wife. Everything changed that year. There was no going back at that point.
Tell me about the novel-in-verse.
It was begun on the eve of my departure, when I was still living in Brooklyn. Everything was falling apart, and I just began with this line, “Each night the poems traveled from his pen…” which was true enough about me at the time. It turned out to be a Byronic satire. The main character is a version of myself, but put through a number of filters. It goes on for eighty pages or so. It’s quite funny in its bleakness. It’s a bit like long-form Edward Gorey.
Is it true you met Gorey once?
How did that happen?
I was working at the Gotham and the owner, Andreas Brown – Andy – who had been the one behind the Amphigorey books in the 1970s – he was a friend of Edward’s. At Gotham that was how they stayed alive at that point, by selling Gorey books and prints and paraphernalia. All signed. They had the market cornered on all things Gorey. One day Andy – who didn’t drive – told me I had to take him up to Provincetown (where Gorey’s house was) with a carload full of books. It was quite a trip.
What was he like?
Andy, or Gorey? (laughs)
He was like you’d imagine, I suppose. Let me say that I was not a fan at the time. I considered his brand of art whimsical. (I’ve since revised my opinions.) So I wasn’t going up there to meet the myth. He had that beard, and that crazy old mansion with too many books and cats – it smelled awful – but he was pretty normal. I remember the tv was always on. Sitcoms. I recall canned laughter coming from upstairs. The funny thing is that [untitled poem] – the novel-in-verse – ended up taking a great deal from that encounter with Gorey. I barely spoke to him, but I observed him pretty closely that weekend.
Has the novel been published?
No, no, I’ve still never had a book published. That’s like the Holy Grail for me, a book person, to have my own book. I’ve sent it out but it always comes back with a rejection note. Too bad, because I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. But I can see how it’s maybe not for everyone.
What do you mean, ‘not for everyone’?
I mean that it’s a quirky book, which goes to great lengths of absurdity just to see how far a joke can be pushed. When I was writing, I would just follow the stanzas – which are strictly rhymed and metered – wherever they went. All those years of working in bookstores, of non-stop reading, came out in that poem. It overflows. It’s not a quiet reading experience, or an orderly one. I’ve been told it’s very much like I am, by people who’ve known me. I take that as a compliment! From a marketing perspective – which is responsible for which books get picked up and which don’t – it’s probably a nightmare. Which is precisely what I like about it.
What do you think of contemporary poetry?
I don’t. I read it, and I write it, but I try not to think about it.
What’s the point? I’m not a critic or a publisher. I just write what I write. Whenever I find I’m competing with fantasms, I have to step back. I don’t care about what other people write. If it’s good, I’m happy to read it, but I’m not into all the back-scratching happening on social media. All the networking. Which is probably why I’m under-published. Of course it may just be that my work is not that great. Who knows?
What are you working on now?
Everything at once. I’m still submitting those manuscripts, trying to place them. I write pretty much every day, no matter how much other work I have to do. I’ll find some time, even ten minutes, to revise a poem or jot down a line or two.
Thanks for talking to us.
[…] Titles have been deleted to protect the names of circulating manuscripts.
I’m a little behind on this blog – which is funny because it no longer has any readers and to be ‘behind’ implies that something is actually happening. Which it is, of course, if only in one’s mind. Then again, that is where everything ‘happens’, so I suppose a lot has been happening. (Forgive me, I’ve been reading Homo Deus and I’m beginning to think like a cyborg.)
As far as poetry goes, which is where this blog is at the moment, a few of my poems have appeared in the last few months, most notably in Verse-Virtual. In fact, an entire sequence of poems about my father was published in October. There are also photos and some prose, which makes it a cool mixed-media kind of thing. Below is my favorite of the poems, which is about how my dad used to wake up at night – sometimes more than once – and raid the fridge, guzzling milk and pretty much anything edible he could reach.
He’d empty nearly a whole gallon of milk
each night, metal tubes of anchovy
paste, stewed tomatoes, hamburger
meat he called ‘steak tartare’, salted &
peppered, black cherry ice cream
meticulously excavated to reveal
a diminishing pink ziggurat
at its center like a frozen heart,
gobs of fruit leeched to his beard
then walk the house in the semi-dark
his open eye a roving periscope.
Once he snacked on an entire tin
of Danish butter cookies, his delicious sin
betrayed by a tower of ruffled papers
on the kitchen counter – as though
a thoughtful raccoon had raided
our garbage while the world slept.
Here is a poem I had up at Poets Reading the News in October, called “Breaking”. It was written in response to the breakneck pace of news during the Kavanaugh hearings, where every hour seemed to disclose some new revelation. I found that enjambment worked well here, kept up the pace of the poem as if it were an unstoppable series of half-baked ‘events’ from beginning to end. It aims to be disorienting. Also, as a language teacher, I was intrigued by the possibility of using as many collocations as I could for break.
I’m tired of breaking things the petulant news
always a bull breaking china breaking
into our homes like a thief
at breakneck speed we break
our backs to break our fall it’s time
to break for commercial take
a break from this record-breaking
breaking of the law and take
a moment to break down quietly
in a corner and softly mark
the breaking hours all around
us I find it’s hard to break the habit
though my will is broken broken
by the promise of broken ground
beneath our feet broken windows
in our cars broken glass in
our shoes that still need breaking
in when will we break loose
from these broken promises
broken dreams break
Somebody Suggested the World Needed More Vampire Poems, So I Wrote One* -for Kristin Tracy
My sixteen year-old niece says she’s finally finished
with them. Vampires, that is. She’s all grown up
now. She’s tossed out that pair of white plastic teeth
she used to frighten me with, those glow-in-the-dark fangs
from the costume shop. They tasted like old ketchup.
Her prized collection of Harry Potter books
has cozied up to tales of death and vengeance,
the kind that lead you toward philosophy
not shopping malls. Even her bedroom wall
projects a morbid serenity it never had
before. I gave her a Vampire Weekend album
on vinyl, thinking she’d get it but she just said
Thanks but what am I supposed to do with this
my mom threw out your old turntable
I’m excited to have a poem up at GRAVEL. It’s a gentle satire on the submission guidelines poets must wade through when sending work out. Some journals write guidelines as if they were gourmet menus, and the result is that a poet can easily feel that his or her work could never live up to such expectations. This is definitely the way I’ve felt on many occasions.
Incidentally, Steve Klepetar had a poem with the same title and a similar approach at Verse-Virtual in April. Our efforts were completely independent of each other, suggesting that this is something many of us are noticing. Editors, if you’re reading, feel free to tone it down a notch. The amp doesn’t always have to be at 11.
We’re seeking original work that sucker punches us
& pilfers our wallets, leads us down
the garden path, slides its uninvited hands
up our thighs on the L train – takes us
by surprise, if you will. (read more)
I had two “news” poems – does it sound cheap to call them that? – published in Tuck Magazine a couple of weeks ago. Here is the first:
Some are content to sit and watch the world
burn from their bedrooms, minutely attuned to events
through secret channels. Others jam the streets
with indignation, shadowboxing power,
euphoric in their dissent. Others still observe
comfortable events unspool their destinies
as in a game of chess, eye cocked on the king
confined to his quadrant. One faulty move and
check – the pendulum begins its slow descent.
It was inspired by that fool president of ours holing up at his Florida resort while students were protesting the umpteenth school massacre out in the streets. Pendulums have a habit of swinging both ways eventually.
A few weeks ago my poem “National Day of Atonement” went up atWriters Resist, a website “born of the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election”. The poem was actually written in November 2017, in response to the Virginia election results. It was the first time in a year where there seemed to be a glimmer of hope on the horizon. The poem takes its first line from an article about Americans actually screaming at the sky on the anniversary of the election. There is a play on Wallace Stevens’ “Blanche McCarthy” there, as well. The poem attempts to end on a note of hopefulness. Let’s hope 2018 fulfuls that wish.
“National Day of Atonement”
Scream at the empty mirror of the sky,
the waiting blue, the blinding cosmic eye,
until your pain lathes the Plutonian rim
of the Solar System.
Scream at the crystal ceiling of the sky
until it cracks up like an electoral map
of the United States, our jagged earthly cry
a collective bootstrap.