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MHR: First, l I want to congratulate you on Lost Birds of the Iron Range. The collection is exquisite and the poems are pristine. Can you give us some of the backstories of birds/mines which work to structure the poems?
AE: Thank you so much! This collection started as a love letter to the wild landscape of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula where I live. The area has a history of mining and logging that drew large numbers of European immigrants to the area in the 1800s, so the book is also a love letter to migration: the places we are from and the places we go, the things we bring with us, and what we leave behind. And that’s what I imagine the mythological birds to be—the objects of both the old and new lands, one always ceding to the other as cultures arrive and change and merge.
MHR: Can you speak to the imagined historical time that these poems would take place? What land encompasses the Iron Range as you envision it?
AE: The real-life Iron Range spans much of the Upper Peninsula and all along Lake Superior. In the U. P., the peak of modern mining was the mid-1800s, which is when I imagine much of my book’s history to occur. This is the time of the birds and the young woman whose journey we follow. I have also included poems from the perspective of The Historian and the Historian’s Apprentice, who are from the present, looking back on the past and speculating.
MHR: What are your ideas of why poets are attracted to writing about birds? Do you believe myth plays a part in this? How were you drawn to write these poems?
AE: Oh gosh, birds are so common but also so otherworldly, aren’t they? I know “poets writing about birds” is a cliché, but I also think cultures have been exploring the idea of birds for millennia, so I doubt any of us are giving up soon! (When Nicci Mechler at Porkbelly Press sent me my acceptance for this book, she noted that it was one of several bird collections she had received. Eek!) I hadn’t intended to write a collection initially. It was just one poem (I forget which one, or if that one even made it into the final draft), but after the first poem, they just started flowing, each one inspiring the next.
MHR: Were any of these poems inspired by dreams?
AE: Only the waking dream of living in this place! I am answering these questions half a mile down the road from a place literally called The Yooper Tourist Trap, which boasts a giant chainsaw out front, as tall as a house. The chainsaw’s name is Big Gus. And then there are the ethereally beautiful stretches of wilderness: waterfalls and winding trails through cedars and the untamable shore of Lake Superior. And then there’s the way the wilderness is interrupted by the eerie, terraced mines on the horizon. So, none of the poems were inspired by actual dreams, but there’s something very surreal about living here.
MHR: There is a line in “The Historian’s Apprentice Shares a Secret,” that reads “what is written removed from what is true.” What guides you to remove language to uphold structure and sense in a poem?
AE: Oh, that’s a great question! I often find that I tend toward too many words when my core words aren’t quite right—when they aren’t “what is true.” If my noun is off, or my verb, then I try to nudge them into the right direction with adjectives and adverbs and metaphors. Lately, my goal has been to cut away all of that, to cut down to the barest essence of what I am trying to say. My poems have gotten very small lately, something closer to silence.
MHR: Birds seem to take on mystical qualities in these poems. Did this liberate your language and enable you to be visionary while grounding the work in the various narratives? Did you find that the mystery of birds allowed for the poems to transcend the mundane?
AE: It really did. A few years ago, I read an essay by poet Fleda Brown where she lamented that her poems often stayed too close to the shore, and I wanted to use these poems as an opportunity to explore the more “out-there” waters for myself. The poems let me take more mundane elements—the scent of cardamom found in traditional Finnish bread, for example, or the mending of clothes—and couple them with these mythological birds. It was such a freeing exercise.
MHR: You have two poems, “Motherland I” and “Motherland II” What is the journey to which you allude?
AE: These poems follow a young woman as she leaves Finland with her husband so he can work in the Upper Peninsula’s copper mines. Those were some of the last poems I wrote for the collection (I think I originally had twenty-seven before paring it down for Porkbelly’s micro-chapbook contest), and I hope they helped to ground the themes of migration and home with the experience of one specific character.
MHR: How can someone purchase your chapbook?
AE: Lost Birds of the Iron Range is available through Porkbelly Press: https://porkbellypress.com/catalog/micro-chapbooks/2017-series/edmondson/
MHR: Thank you for taking the time to respond to our questions.
Amber Edmondson is a poet and book artist who lives in Michigan’s
Upper Peninsula. Her work has appeared in publications such as Diode
Poetry Journal, Menacing Hedge, and MockingHeart Review. She is the
author of two chapbooks: Darling Girl (dancing girl press 2016) and
Lost Birds of the Iron Range (Porkbelly Press 2017).
Becoming the Blue Heron, Press 53
Becoming the Blue Heron
Press 53 Amazon
MHR: I must say this book was a complete delight and worthy of awe. Your poems are rooted in story which sometimes take on fresh mythologies; incorporating family memories, nature, and myriad sensualities. Combined, this speaks to your skill as you weave these themes into finely wrought narratives. Can you illuminate us to something of your writing process? Do you have a schedule for writing? How do you begin a poem and how do these initial underpinnings become the finished art?
TKE: Thank you so much for the kind words, Clare. I admit to having no writing discipline, whatsoever. I write when something moves me to do so—an image, an idea, a bit of family history that someone passes along to me, my own memories of experiences from childhood and beyond. I begin a poem with no idea, usually, of where it will end up. For example, I wrote a poem the other day based on the motion of the tall trees in the churchyard behind our house, how the tips of the branches reminded me of sea anemones as they waved in the wind. Around that central image, I crafted a poem that took me on a journey from that particular vision to somewhere else entirely. The finished art happens when I read through the work and feel it says exactly what I wish to say, the way I intended to say it—and most importantly, whatever was said has some universal appeal. I bear in mind, always, that I’m writing “to” someone and not talking to myself in front of a mirror. Poetry isn’t an exercise in introspection. It’s a conversation between the poet, the poem, and potential readers.
MHR: These poems are at once exciting and meditative. Do you practice meditation or have a unique prayer process that sometimes leads to the discovery of poems?
TKE: I believe that I live, for the most part, in a meditative, prayerful state. I don’t have particular prayer times or go to church on a regular basis, but I am in constant communion with the God of my understanding—mostly expressing gratitude, but sometimes asking for mercy upon myself, the people I love, and the world as a whole. Life is a difficult, though entirely worthwhile business. I know myself to be a broken human being to whom grievous and agonizing harm has come again and again, yet I remain ecstatic to be alive on this gorgeous and ever-changing planet of ours. I am thrilled every morning when I wake up because I know when I open the curtains and blinds in our house, if my eyes are in working order and the world is still with us, I will see the sky, which floors me every day with its beauty! It is this exquisite feeling of being present in such a glorious setting, privileged to see what God has made for the delight of the creatures He created, that so often leads to poems.
MHR: In each of these poems, the voice never falters. There is a refreshing immediacy in the language. This speaks to your skill but it also sparks the idea that you are deeply attuned to life and nature. Are you writing when you are not writing? Can you speak to this?
TKE: I spent most of my childhood outdoors, the natural world my playground. And as long as I can remember, in the midst of seeing what I saw when lying in the grass, climbing trees, and playing games with my friends, metaphors came to me easily and quickly. I often thought about how “this” was similar to “that,” always looking for comparisons. For example, I wrote a poem at the age of ten, comparing dirty snow by the side of the road, to old newspapers—the same faded and yellowing “paper,” the dirt like newsprint. So yes, in some sense I am always and have long been “writing,” even if all the words haven’t yet found their way to paper or to a computer screen, which is where I do most of my composing these days.
MHR: Becoming the Blue Heron is your fifth collection. When you read your own work do you sense the development of your poetry? What changes have you noticed in your writing from the first book to this one? Do you have any advice for your younger poet-self?
TKE: I think my confidence level is the main difference, although I hope, also, that every collection is better than the one before it. I can’t make that judgment, myself, because I’m too close to the work. But I never want loyal readers (those who have read and enjoyed my poetry thus far) to say. “Bless her heart. Maybe TKE needs to find something better to do with her life!” I definitely want my poems to remain accessible and I believe they are, but perhaps as I’ve grown older and richer in experience and insight, my poems reflect that growth, adding a few more layers of meaning to poetry that is more complex than it might appear at first glance. If there is anything I would say to my younger poet-self, it would be to live as fearlessly as possible, to never stop feeling everything intensely, even when it hurts. Then, when the time comes to reflect on our emotions “in tranquility,” as William Wordsworth so eloquently stated, we have so much more material from which to draw. I’d say the same thing, however, to people who are not writers. A life well-lived, in my opinion, is one in which we have been completely and willfully present.
MHR: Many of these poems work from memory—memories of stories you heard as a child, childhood memories themselves, nostalgic family scenes. In the poem “Zydeco,” (which as a Louisiana poet and publisher, and lifelong resident, I wish I had published), you draw such a complete and insightful picture of a Louisiana Zydeco performance in an Opelousas dancehall. Can you tell me about this poem—how memory infused it so that you were able to capture such an authentic feeling for the experience?
TKE: Sadly, I’ve never personally experienced an Opelousas dancehall, but when I lived in Louisiana in my early twenties, I heard plenty of Cajun and Zydeco music. In writing the poem, “Zydeco,” I used a combination of imagination, research, and memories of how those soulful, sensual, and lively songs made me feel, to try and convey to readers the joyful abandon of dancing (for the most part, in my living room!) to these particular melodies and rhythms, and how it might feel to do so in the company of strangers and friends brought together by their love for this life-affirming music. Music, like poetry, is a powerful unifying force, and I dare anyone to listen to Zydeco and try to feel anything but good!
MHR: Light is a motif in this book. What to you is the power of light as it appears in Becoming the Blue Heron?
TKE: “Light” is used to symbolize God, faith, and holiness throughout the Christian Bible, with verses such as Psalms 119:105: “Your word is a lamp to my feet, and a light to my path,” and John 8:12: “Then spoke Jesus again to them, saying, I am the light of the world…” As a Christian by faith, everything I write reflects my feelings and impressions of God and His creations, even when faith and God are not mentioned in the work. Like C.S. Lewis once said, “I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.” In Becoming the Blue Heron, specifically, the word “light” is also used as another word for “soul” or the essence of life in every living thing, as well as a symbol for illumination. I believe we are here to learn and grow in wisdom and love for our brothers and sisters in this world, not only our human companions but the blue herons and honeybees, horses and barn owls. People speak of moving toward the “light” as we transition away from our lives on earth to our eternal lives with God, but I believe each of us contains what many refer to as the “divine spark,” already, and in my view, we either tend that God-place in ourselves by practicing kindness, compassion, and love, or allow it to be extinguished by hatred and prejudice, fear and indifference. In my own journey, I strive to keep my tiny portion of light glowing as well as I can and to look for and write about the light in others.
MHR: Again, about Louisiana—since MockingHeart Review was born and bred in Louisiana—can you tell me a bit about your life when you lived here? What were some of your best memories? Did you have a favorite Louisiana meal?
TKE: Decades ago, I lived in Alexandria, Louisiana, with my ex-husband who was stationed at England Air Force Base. It was July when I arrived and hot as Satan’s tie clip, the air heavy-laden with humidity. Naturally, insects abound in that moist environment so we had our share of palmetto bugs, the first I’d ever seen. They were the size of polo ponies and surprise, surprise, palmetto bugs can fly! I discovered this important fact while attempting to encourage them (with a broom!) to exit the kitchen of our tiny rental house, where each room was painted a different rainbow color. For a brief period, I worked as a hostess in a seafood restaurant but soon found a day job as a sales clerk in women’s “fine” apparel at the (now defunct) Wellan’s Department Store. After four or five months of helping women in their search for wedding dresses, furs, and other finery, I found my “dream” job and worked as a copywriter at KALB Radio/Television station until the day we moved back to NC. Among my favorite foods were shrimp po’boys, heavy on the cayenne pepper, particularly since they were inexpensive and gourmet meals weren’t in our budget, and my dear friend, the late Narcille Mayeaux’s homemade candy, famous in her hometown of Pineville and beyond. I remember my time in Alexandria with great affection, and the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of one of our most unique and culturally rich states have made their way into more than one of my poems!
MHR: Your poem, “Rail Walking” made me gasp pleasurably. It’s one of many that begins in nostalgia and transcends sentiment to rise to high art. Your great-grandfather in the poem takes on a mythic aura. The poem is rooted in the real but glows with an otherworldliness. Can you give us a bit of insight into how this poem came to be and how the narrative led you to an almost supernatural finish?
TKE: My great-grandfather, Samuel White, was a Primitive Baptist preacher and a coffin maker, who lived to be 89 years old. He and my great-grandmother resided with my grandparents from the time my mother was a child, so she and my uncle have many memories of him and his life that they have shared with me over the years. By the time I was old enough to know him, myself, “Papa” had already had several strokes, so my recollections are of a gentle, kindly old man who never said much and was difficult to understand. There are photos, however, of a handsome man with black hair and blue eyes who, as told to me by others, could charm birds and squirrels from the trees and I mean this literally! We have a family photograph of Papa with a squirrel sitting on his shoulders and this, I am told, was not an infrequent occurrence. Animals loved and trusted him, and people did, too. So I have a great deal of material from which to draw when it comes to writing about this sweet-natured man, which I tried to put to good use in “Rail Walking.” This was something my great-grandfather loved to do, according to my uncle–often going on long walks along the railroad tracks. So as I was coming to the close of this poem, in my mind’s eye I could see him there, his long stride, his concentration on and appreciation of the beauty surrounding him, imagining what his innate kindness would look like to someone with eyes to see the light of his good soul, brightly shining…
MHR: There is an array of animals in these poems. Do you feel that your relationship to wildlife lends itself to your poetry so well because of their ultimate mystery? I mean, we don’t always know about them because they live apart from us, peeking into our lives as blessings—and they literally don’t speak.
TKE: Because I was a shy and introverted child, often told (by adults) that I appeared to be older in speech and actions than my years would seem to indicate (I often joke that I was at least 35 when I was born!), I wasn’t all that comfortable with people other than close friends and of course, my family. I loved animals, however, and we had a number of pets in our house, including turtles, lizards, a parakeet named “Pete,” an incredibly long-lived and beloved cat, and about a zillion goldfish. And as I said earlier, I spent most of my childhood outdoors when weather permitted, and found a great deal of comfort and peace in the presence of animals, birds, and even insects because they seemed so carefree and happy, and nothing was asked of them but to be their own gorgeous and mysterious selves. I’m “inside” more than “outside” these days, but I’m still fascinated by and enthralled with our fellow sojourners on this earth–creatures who never speak but have so much to say when it comes to teaching us how to live in the moment.
MHR: You have a measured, sensual voice which speaks to skill in your craft. I sense you write for yourself but are ever-aware that your work is a gift to the world and the people in it. Am I accurate in saying so?
TKE: When I’m writing, I do try to remain conscious that my poems are meant to be read and that writing them is not just some cathartic writing exercise intended for me, alone. I strive to be real and honest in my interpretation of whatever it is that I’m writing about and to satisfy myself in this regard, but I also want to weave into the “story” or “narrative” of the poem, common threads that are familiar to others. For example, if I’m writing about my grandmother or any other family member, I hope to stimulate a reader’s memory of a similarly beloved person in their own lives. And if the subjects are blue herons, blue jays, frogs, red and white tulips, and on and on when it comes to my attempts to celebrate the natural world, I’m doing my best to take the reader along with me into the fields and creeks and woods as if we are friends linking arms and experiencing it all, together.
MHR: And lastly, the book ends with the title poem, “Becoming the Blue Heron.” Can you give us some insight into why you placed this poem last in the book?
TKE: In several weeks, I’ll be 59 years old, which is rather an unbelievable age that will probably leave a few people wondering how many years I intend to be 59! But I’ve never been reluctant to reveal my age because I feel it is a mark of valor that I’m still here, still speaking in coherent sentences for the most part, and continue to have a sense of humor! So the poem, “Becoming the Blue Heron,” in my own mind, is about transformative experiences, about stepping out of one’s comfort zone and allowing ourselves to be free from self-doubt, guilt, regret, and the weight of old sorrows, and to “fly” into the unknown (i.e., aging and its ultimate conclusion) with courage, hope, and lightness of spirit–so light, in fact, that flight changes into something we can do, if only in our imaginations. As a person who has endured a variety of health challenges since birth, it has been difficult to maintain a cordial relationship with a body that continues to “act up.” So imagining myself stepping out of the confines of a less-than-ideal form was in itself freeing, and seemed like it ought to be the final statement of the collection. I wanted to end the book by saying let go, let go, of anything that weighs us down, my loves–let go and don’t look back!
MHR: Thank you so much for taking the time to answer these questions.
TKE: It was a pleasure, Clare. Thank you for your insightful questions, your sensitivity, your support of other poets and writers, and for your own fine work, which I have long admired!
MHR: Thank you!
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of five full-length collections of award-winning poetry, including her latest book, Becoming the Blue Heron (Press 53, 2017). Her work has appeared in the 2013 Poet’s Market, Ted Kooser’s “American Life in Poetry,” Asheville Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Christian Science Monitor, Cutthroat: A Journal of the Arts, JAMA, Literary Mama, NASA News & Notes, North Carolina Literary Review, storySouth, The Southern Poetry Anthology (Texas Review Press), The Writer’s Almanac with Garrison Keillor, Verse Daily, and many others. Awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize, Nazim Hikmet Poetry Award, Atlanta Review International Publication Prize, Gold Medal in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards, and a Nautilus Silver Book Award. She lives in North Carolina.
MHR: In a few of the poems, we encounter the heart. There is a great tradition of writing about the heart. What does it signify to you poetically and what is your renewed vision of that metaphor, in a poem like, “squatter?” Also, why the male personification of “heart” in that specific poem?
DB: Let me start with addressing your question about male personification. When I was in my teens, twenties, and thirties, my poetry was relentlessly autobiographical and confessional. When I returned to writing in earnest in my fifties, I was bored with my personal narrative. Over the past year and a half, I’ve thrown myself into exploring alien poetic forms, personae, and source material. As a young adult, I would never have written poems that looked as these do on the page—so full of space and so spare. At that time as well, I would probably have chosen a narrator who was more of a mirror image. Now, in contrast, I am much more curious and much freer as a poet. I don’t want to be bound to my gender or to any other aspects of my identity when I write.
Too, Portland, Oregon has a large community of unhoused people. Most are men. Many are veterans. Every day on my walk to work, I watch their ingenuity in surviving in marginal spaces, admiring their scrappiness and savviness. To me, the heart is like that, a crusty survivor.
Finally, the heart figures prominently in my work because it is so damn insistent—it clenches, thunders, hungers, feigns indifference. As “systole/diastole” says, the heart is “membranous” and “cussed.” It wants what it wants and to hell with the rest.
MHR: Your poem, “how the blessed travel,” opens the chapbook. In it are the lines, “there they go/with a sound/like a piccolo” These lines fit wonderfully with the rhythm of the piece itself. How did this auditory image come to you?
DB: This chapbook contains many mobile and birdlike slight poems. They flit about with their hollow bones. The word piccolo is both visually playful on the page and fun to say. It captured the image of a tiny little holiness hitching a ride on that perfect emblem of the spirit—the singing bird.
MHR: “Sitting on the wall,” is a poem of vibrancy and energy. It is as though a veil is lifted from our eyes to see into burgeoning reality. Do you identify as a prescient or visionary poet?
DB: Yes, I do. I feel compelled to write. I wake in the night urgent to begin and often have to fight to stay in bed. My head vibrates all day long with an electricity that’s only released at the keyboard. When I write ekphrastic poems, the story emerges as if whispered, as if the paintings possessed me until I got it right. In the same way that a medium gets caught up in a trance, I disappear into my creative process. I feel most at home there.
“Sitting on the wall” is one of many poems that I have written to deal with my disappointment at rejection. There are days when I receive 5-8 rejection notices. Even though I understand it’s an unavoidable part of the writer’s process, I still feel a welter of sadness, frustration, anger, confusion, isolation, envy, and so on. The way I deal with this is to write more. I imagine scenarios in which someone doesn’t get what they wanted—in love, at work, in the family, and so on. This poem, while ostensibly about a single woman embracing her aloneness at dusk, holds this other pain inside it like a seed.
MHR: In “with the insight of vast differences,” we are brought into a mythic space. The vehicle is not merely a plane, but the poem itself which carries us. In the third section, you make a breathless pronouncement. Can you decode that for us?
DB: My physical world is very small. I live within a couple miles of my work. I spend most days within a couple miles of my home. I walk each day in the same parks. I am largely a creature of habit living on limited means. That said, every day, I find something worth writing about. Every day within the familiar, I locate something new and strange: an encounter, a painting, a quotation in a book, a news story. My poem’s final pronouncement summarizes my life or stands like a legend on my family crest: “we are all of us being born //…into newness //even if the place we have arrived // is the very place from which we only recently departed //”
MHR: Who is the subject of the “Hungry” and how do you know her?
DB: The process of aging in a female body is fraught as, traditionally, women’s bodies have been predominantly sexualized. As a teacher, my physical presence, my sensuality as it were, has been one of many tools to be used in the classroom to attract and maintain attention. Now that I am in my 50s, however, my relationship with my body has changed as has the way others see me in my body. Now I tend to evoke the motherly or grandmotherly. I have entered the crone phase, becoming more like a witch-woman who lives in a shack in the woods and gathers herbs for simples. My identity as a poet superimposes itself on that of the witch, as I collect anything and anyone that I might weave into my craft. The birds and the plants don’t always welcome the crone’s attentions just as my poetic subjects don’t always warm to the analysis they receive at my hand.
MHR: “Luminescence” evokes a deep sensuality. This is repeated effectively in “wild(er)ness.” Does nature lend itself to you for sensual or sexual sensations?
DB: Without a doubt, nature evokes the sensual, and in all seasons: the almost indecent fecundity and horniness, the storms, the maturation, and ripeness. Seeds and blooms mimic genitalia. Nature is profligate and insistent. Too, the natural world can express heartlessness and indifference as do we when consumed by our own hungers.
MHR: You’ve drawn so much out of the natural world. What do you find to be key that prompts you to knit a poem out of dream and dark as in “To the Dark Boundary?”
DB: This poem came to me in the liminal moment between sleep and wakefulness. I was taken by the image of my feet having independent agency from the rest of me as they are, instead, always my servants. I found it charming to follow them for once and go where they wanted to go, to have the dusty, gnarled, stinky part of me in the lead. My feet seemed so much less self-conscious than I usually am—perhaps precisely because they were liberated from my overly-analytical brain.
MHR: “Dutiful” seems to speak of the poet’s curse and blessing to create from experience. Can you explain your understanding of this poem? Am I off the mark?
DB: Off the mark would be too strong. I’m always delighted to see what people receive from my work. I much prefer being offered an interpretation that is slightly askew to my intentions than just the comment “I don’t get it”(or radio silence) and a pause in which I am expected to explain it.
I love that you saw the poet’s project in this poem. It is that and so much more. As a mother, I have an on-going sense of being pendant on others, a duty to watch out for and encourage. As a teacher, I also have a set of obligations to entertain yet instruct, to hold the large space of the class while making room for all the individual egos within it. As a wife, I have obligations to my spouse. As a daughter, I have yet others to my parents. As a poet, I have a duty to my craft and to my voice. All these roles with their attendant sacrifices are often underappreciated by their recipients. Thus, it falls to me to encourage myself. “What I’m doing seems to be working.” I could abandon my various posts, “I imagine letting go…I could follow as if by plan.” But I can’t. “Steeled by duty,” I carry on. For better or for worse, these are my identities. At the end of the day, it is up to me to garland my own head and say, “well done.”
MHR: Thank you for taking the time to answer our questions, Devon.
DB: My pleasure!
Devon Balwit is a teacher/poet living in Portland, OR. She has four chapbooks—How the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press), Forms Most Marvelous (forthcoming with dancing girl press), In Front of the Elements, and Where You Were Going Never Was (both forthcoming with Grey Borders Books). Her recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Non-Binary Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Almagre Review, The Stillwater Review, The Tule Review, Red Earth Review, The Free State Review, Front Porch, Cease Cows, Concis, and Eunoia Review.
MHR: Sensuality is palpable throughout the collection. I am drawn to ask you about “Toulon, 1971.” So much is unsaid of the Spanish lover, and yet we are clear about who he is to the speaker. Can you speak to the idea of capturing a scene/moment/character indirectly rather than by explication?
KCH: First, Clare, I want to thank you and MockingHeart Review for publishing my work and for the opportunity of this interview. I think the best writing never explains but engages us through stories that allow us to reach our own insights. Initiation into sex, first love, loss, rejection and the entire spectrum of human sentiments and interactions are, obviously, universal. But it is the specificity of individual experience that allows us to relate on common ground. Most of our stories are amazingly similar. It is authentic emotion in singular instances that allows us to relate to these shared experiences in new, revelatory ways. This is the essential beauty of creative expression.
MHR: Do you study Eastern philosophy? I am thinking the poem, “April Note,” in the second section, which is titled “In the Silence of Snow.” In this section, you are able to capture the “tableau” of seasons with a Zen-eye. Do you feel observation of nature and the seasons affects the poetic mind’s inclination towards contemplative poems?
KCH: I see nature as incredibly interactive not as pastoral and impassive as it is often portrayed in poetry. We are an integral part of the natural landscape whether we honor, respect and work within it or whether we try to subjugate and abuse it. I have great reverence for its power. I’ve studied various spiritual paths and, perhaps, there’s a Zen-like influence in my approach. I seek to capture the less expected or pedestrian responses to the natural environment, the nuances that we miss in a busy, noisy world.
MHR: I am deeply impressed with your economy of line and the precision of your line breaks. They are clean almost like breathing. Do you read poems aloud as you are drafting and revising?
KCH: Thank you, Clare. That’s lovely. Yes, I do read aloud continually. It is critical to the appropriate rhythm. Ideally, a poem is read and heard. The poet has to be mindful of both aspects—it should work optimally at all levels. I believe one misplaced comma can make a big difference. I learn much about my poems when I hear others read them. Inevitably they will stumble in places where I hesitate myself and am most uncomfortable. It shows me something is off. There must be proper flow. I also review videos of my readings. Often the perceptions we have while reading are quite different when we see them more objectively as an observer.
MHR: Themes that you explore are love, contemporary life, consumerism, history, landscapes and our impact on them. Would you add to this list?
KCH: Yes, most definitely. I would say wounds and healing. We are all wounded in various ways. Forgiveness is often misunderstood. It is an organic process that evolves once we face transgressions head on, holding others and ourselves responsible and working through the pain. It is not about absolving people. We are all angry, although it’s not an acceptable form of expression and is confused with violence—that is not acceptable or necessary if one processes anger properly. Acknowledging we are all perpetrators and victims to one extent or another allows for compassion that is more genuine than forgiveness. There is no secret ingredient, magic thought process or sacred ritual that achieves this; only hard work and brutal honesty about others and ourselves. People confuse peace and truth. If you seek peace you cannot always accept truth because you compromise. If you always strive for truth, your peace will grow from that. As the saying goes, we are only as sick as our secrets. This is why I write as honestly as I can about working through maternal incest and childhood abuse and how abuses such as these can permeate all of our relationships and interactions in life.
MHR: I sense in your style that you are adept at making poems fold in on themselves. Can you give us insight into your poem-writing process? You can speak of craft, language, and poetic vision.
KCH: I believe the poem should startle, create an “aha” moment, even a twist at the end. It should lead us away from conditioned responses. Further, if it creates an epiphany or catharsis of some kind, that’s a great bonus. Poems that just describe or dictate are not enlightening. We want to take the familiar and make it fresh. After all, we go to a poem to discover some new insight about the world and ourselves. Craft is, of course, essential. Choice of form, finding the right language, and correct structure. “Poetic vision” sounds so elevated but, actually, it’s true. Often lines pop into my head, in dreams, upon waking or through observations. In truth, the best work is not conjured or forced but comes through us as a vessel. You can call it the muse, the divine, God, but it all amounts to the same thing. There is a universal, communal force we can tap into if we are open and available to it.
MHR: How was the sequencing determined in this collection? What made you decide to divide the book into segments?
KCH: Initially there were no segments. These developed organically as I began to organize how I would sequence the poems in the book. Some were more relevant to relationships, some to political, social and ecological concerns, some to personal healing and others to resolutions. But I see them as all connected in one sense or another. The epigraphs and quotes I included were discovered along the way and just felt appropriate.
MHR: Some of the poems seem confessional. How do you balance the personal when made public in your poems? Do you think it is necessary for the poet to designate the speaker as “I” in poems for a personal processing of the emotional impetus that sparked them?
KCH: In a sense, some of the poems in Out From Calaboose are confessional in their details and references. Using “I” as the speaker is not essential to the point or impact of a poem. However, I find that using the personal references creates a greater connection with my audience. People will come up to me and say they were immensely touched by my personal revelations and it sparked reactions based on their own experiences, even though those situations may not be exactly the same. The most important element is the genuine emotion behind the words. In the poem “A Thin Season” I pay homage to a teenager beheaded by terrorists for listening to pop tunes in his father’s grocery store. A true story. It’s not my story but properly told it can stir our emotions and create an empathetic heart.
MHR: What are some highlights of your process? Do you prescribe times to write or do you write on the go? Both?
KCH: I would say both, although I do a lot of my work in the morning hours when I’m alone at my desk before the household gets moving. The most critical aspect of writing is to authentically recreate from real life experiences at a very visceral level. It’s also important to write consistently. If there’s a block, do some journaling about the block! There’s much to be said for discipline, for showing up, as they say. Then review, edit, rewrite and do it all again and again. It is also important to work in community with other writers and poets. Read, read, read as much as possible and listen to others. It’s not only informative but sparks inspiration. Recently, I’ve been writing a lot of reviews and am so pleased to be published by the American Book Review, Compulsive Reader and others. I also befriend the media, social and local, and have gotten newspaper, magazine and radio interviews. We need to build a solid, genuine platform and then ask! I work hard to keep my website exciting and updated.
MHR: How many years was this book in the making? Can you tell me about the Nirala Series?
KCH: In all, the poems cover three decades. I published individual pieces during that time, as noted in the acknowledgments. But the time had to be right to pull it all together. It’s wonderful that there are so many opportunities to publish in today’s world. But it’s a slippery slope regarding quality. I’d rather put out one book occasionally than many I feel are less than what I expect from myself. A representative from Nirala, the wonderful poet Yuyutsu Sharma, met me at a book launch for a poet they had just published, whose work I had edited. I read during the event and he approached me afterward. From there I forwarded a manuscript that was accepted, and we worked on it for over six months to bring it to fruition. Nirala is wonderful to work with and did a beautiful job on the book. They’re global publishers based in New Delhi, India but have a large series of authors from around the world. I also had the input of bestselling author Linda Gray Sexton, daughter of two-time Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Anne Sexton, who made editing suggestions. We share similar backgrounds and family dynamics, and I greatly appreciate her input and friendship. Poet Roberta Gould, who just published her eleventh book of poems and is a great friend, wrote the Foreword. And I was blessed to receive many great blurbs and reviews. Robert Milby, just named Poet Laureate of Orange County, NY where I reside, is another great friend and has been instrumental in supporting me with readings and events. I also host a monthly poetry salon in my home that focuses on strong feedback and critical analysis of our work.
MHR: You have a poem titled, “Out from Calaboose.” Why did you choose this as the title of the collection?
KCH: A calaboose is a small, local jail that, to me, represents self-imprisonment from wounds we carry with us that require healing. So much work I’ve done over the years has led me to the door of my calaboose. But stepping over that threshold is a daily process, moment by moment, and we must remain ever vigilant. The poems are an impetus to that vigilance.
Out from Calaboose can be purchased via Amazon or at Karen’s website: www.karencorinneherceg.com
Karen Corinne Herceg graduated from Columbia University and has graduate credits in editing, revision, and psychology. A recipient of N.Y. State grants, she has featured at major venues such as The New York Public Library, The Queens Museum, The Provincetown Playhouse, St. John’s University, Binghamton Community Poets, Calling All Poets Series and many others with such renowned poets as Pulitzer Prize winners John Ashbery and Philip Schultz and poet William Packard, founder of The New York Quarterly.
Her first volume of poems was Inner Sanctions. Nirala Publications released her second book, Out From Calaboose: New Poems, in November 2016. She publishes poetry, prose, essays and reviews in a variety of magazines and literary journals here and abroad including the prestigious American Book Review. Her work is read on various radio broadcasts. Karen has been working with Khalilah Ali, writing her memoirs as the former wife of the legendary Muhammad Ali.
Karen is listed with Poets & Writers and is a member of The Academy of American Poets, PEN America, The Poetry Society of America, The Woodstock Poetry Society and CAPS. Her website is: www.karencorinneherceg.com and you can also follow her on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
MHR: Your chapbook, Benign Protection, (Cervena Barva Press), is dedicated to your deceased parents. How were these poems beneficial to your grief process?
AEP: Writing the poems was the grieving process. My father died at 91 in 2004; my mother at 92 in 2012. When I was a teenager my mother and I made a pact; whoever died first would let the other know what death was like. I imagined that she would appear to me in a dream shortly after her death; she didn’t. The poems became the dream.
MHR: The chapbook opens with the poem” The River Styx.” On this journey you set upon, we are with you. You take us into myriad griefs. Can you tell us about the process of sequencing which lends itself very well to the reading experience of these poems?
AEP: The first part of the book is about my mother – the second part about my father. I wanted to play with their life-times and insert those poems into the liturgical calendar, but make the movement circular and not linear. The reader crosses over in the first poem – into the memory of life in Brooklyn – then into the Virgin Birth – and the journey into Christmas/Epiphany/Lent/Easter – leaving that for the secular – back to memory – lost family members (“Matryushka” is for my maternal great-grandmother – whose name is long forgotten) and leads to the supreme dream – “I have been to Samarqand.” “Fog,” the last poem is the reprise – it is gentle – we cross over in the first poem; we roll over with the world in the last one.
MHR: The poem “Without Form” is a poet’s eye, looking always to the unknowable. Can you speak to the mystery and mysticism in which you ground the dish, plate, brush, house, and kitchen so well? Maybe a few words of how the ordinary is essential when writing the extraordinary.
AEP: The ordinary is always extraordinary. I wrote the poem a few months after my mother died – it was summer – it was very hot – I was alone in my house looking at items I had taken from her apartment – things she had touched, used, loved. My house is haunted. The ghosts were noisy that day. It was a perfect storm.
MHR: We embrace the experience of your longing in a poem like “East 16th Street.” The business of the aftermath of death is its own heartache. Can you speak to the way you weave the “necessary business” experience into a poem, which holds emotional impact?
AEP: I like to play with line breaks – read the poems out loud to see how they move – this poem came easier than others. I was in Brooklyn – staying with friends who live 2 blocks away from East 16th Street. I walked to the supermarket – bought some item my mother would have had and then walked back down East 16th Street – hoping to see her ghost. It was a powerful moment – spring – beautiful fragrant April – no one was walking there but me. I wanted to capture that experience of profound aloneness in the poem.
MHR: Seasons and religious seasons are knitted into the shape of the book. Are you personally oriented by these seasons?
AEP: Yes – I live in New England where we have 4 seasons – the religious seasons naturally follow.
MHR: Your family’s complex Russian culture is deftly described throughout. Can you speak to some of the held beliefs about death in your personal heritage and upbringing that many readers may not be familiar with, limited to the scope of this book?
AEP: I have to answer this outside of the church. My parents were spiritual – they believed in God – were Orthodox Christians – but they did not attend church. My mother was allergic to perfume and the Russian Orthodox Church uses incense in their service. My father had escaped death several times during WW II – he believed God had spared his life. My father also believed that after he died, my mother needed to wait 7 years (as she was 7 years younger) before she died so they would be the same age when they met again. She died 2 months after her 92nd birthday. I wouldn’t be surprised if their ghosts were living in apt. 2E. They believed in a deep rich life of the soul – the eternal Easter.
MHR: On a personal note, do you have a sense, a prescience perhaps, that envisions your departed beloveds?
AEP: Yes, and that prescience ties into the life of the soul, but sometimes I think my parents have come back as my two parakeets, Fin and Gertrude, and their cage is apartment 2E. We laugh about that in my house.
MHR: What is the period that these poems were written? Can you speak about how the chapbook came to be?
AEP: From 2012 – 2015; there were more, but I edited them out to make the book tighter. I sent them to Gloria Mindock and was very happy when she agreed to publish them.
MHR: Thank you for indulging our questions. How can someone buy your chapbook?
AEP: Thank you! I have copies available. Readers can contact me at: email@example.com
Cervena Barva Press
Anne Elezabeth Pluto is Professor of Literature and Theatre at Lesley University in Cambridge, MA where she is the artistic director and one of the founders of the Oxford Street Players, the university’s Shakespeare troupe. She is an alumna of Shakespeare & Company, and has been a member of the Worcester Shakespeare Company since 2011. She was a member of the Boston small press scene in the late 1980s and is one of the founders and editors at Nixes Mate Review. Her chapbook, The Frog Princess, was published by White Pine Press (1985), her eBook Lubbock Electric, by Argotist ebooks (2012), and her chapbook Benign Protection by Cervana Barva Press (2016). Recent publications include: The Buffalo Evening News, Unlikely Stories: Episode IV, Mat Hat Lit, Pirene’s Fountain, The Enchanting Verses Literary Review, Mockingheart Review, Yellow Chair Review, Levure Litteraire – numero 12, The Naugatuck River Review, and Tuesday, An Art Project.