Interview with Rhonda Pettit

Rhonda Pettit at Split This Rock 2012

                        ...Swimming was always

                       half water, half air;

                       half hold me

                       half get away.

    — from “The Invasion,” Rhonda Pettit

Rhonda Pettit, Ph.D., is a poet, scholar, and amateur musician who teaches writing and literature at the University of Cincinnati Blue Ash College, where she is also editor of the Blue Ash Review. In addition to her chapbook Fetal Waters, and poetic drama The Global Lovers, she has published poems in online and print publications across the U.S. Currently at work on two manuscripts and a series of collages, she has been awarded writing fellowships to Hambidge Center, Hedgebrook, Hopscotch House, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. Her scholarship includes two books on the poetry and fiction of Dorothy Parker (A Gendered Collisionand The Critical Waltz), and articles about a range of poets and poems. She also served as a poetry editor for both volumes    of the Aunt Lute Anthology of U. S. Women Writers.

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I first met Rhonda Pettit at a monthly meeting of the Greater Cincinnati Writers League where she served as the poetry critic for the evening. She spoke of our poems in intuitive and comprehensive ways, posing questions that invited the poets to think about ways to deepen them. We both grew up and continue to live in Northern Kentucky, where we sometimes see each other at poetry readings, workshops, and writing retreats. 

—Karen L. George

(This interview was conducted via email.)

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What inspired you to write poetry in the beginning, and have the reasons changed over the years? 

RP: I grew up with poetry in the house. My father had saved his mother's scrapbooks which were filled with old newspaper verse. My mother, a talented pianist at one time, had several anthologies of poetry on her bookshelves. She read poems to me -- a favorite of mine was "The House That Jack Built." She bought me my first poetry book -- Poems for the Children's Hour. In this atmosphere I started writing poems as a child for the sheer joy of rhythm and rhyme, then broke into free verse in high school. Later I got away from writing poems when I became focused on how to make a living. I got back to it when I faced what James Still called "the then-what days." After you have your job, your house, and all your pretty little things, Still said in an interview, "the then-what days will come." I took this to mean: What will your life and life's work be about? What will be their significance beyond mere comfort and survival?

Which poets and/or particular books have been your poetry touchstones?

RP:  In my early twenties, Blake and Whitman were important, and then I was fascinated by the Beat poets and novelists. Later, as I took workshops with James Baker Hall and the visiting poets he brought to UK, the poems of W. S. Merwin, Adrienne Rich, Denise Levertov, and Louise Gluck were essential to me, all for different reasons. Dorothy Parker was important to me for scholarly reasons when I began working on my PhD. More recently, Muriel Rukeyser and C. D. Wright, especially her books One Big Self and One with Others, continue to inspire me. But I'm also drawn to the narrative poems of Philip Levine and B. H. Fairchild's The Art of the Lathe, as well as the land-rich writing of Jim Wayne Miller, Ron Rash, and other Appalachian writers. And of course, I drop into an Emily Dickinson swoon periodically -- wait! -- I feel one coming on now!

Do you write poetry with a specific audience in mind? What do you envision or hope readers receive from your poetry?

RP:  Wow. The audience question is a provocative one for me. As a reader, I think it's wonderful that there are so many different kinds of poetries -- styles, tastes, voices, traditions, poetics. But I think it is dangerous for a poet, a word artist, to think much -- if at all -- about audience when she works. For me, part of the noise I need to turn off when I sit down to listen within, i.e., write, is all the talk about labels, trends, "schools," and what editors or contest judges want. If some idea of what the audience wants guides your writing, then you're writing niche verse, regardless of its technical merits.

I wanted to ask you about your poem “The Transposition Blues (with dynamics),” which I found to be a complex, challenging, haunting poem—one I wanted to read many times to tease out new connections, new layers of meaning. I’m thinking it’s what I’ve heard termed as a contrapuntal poem, which involves two separate poems that relate in some way to each other, as in music where you have a counterpoint—two relatively independent melodies sounded together.  This went along with the titles of the two columns of the poem:  “Key of C” and “Key of E.”I saw the poem as a series of images that gained momentum as it went, just as the titled parts did: from the first (“Pianissimo”) a musical term that means “very soft” to the second (“Mezzo piano”) which means “moderately soft” to the fifth (“Crescendo”) which means “a gradual increase in loudness.” The “Key of C” side of the poem contained images of the more privileged life or state of being while the “Key of E” side held images of a more stark and underprivileged way of life, for example “How the couple calls / their love:  deeply igneous” vs. “This goat and sack of grain / for a twelve-year-old wife.” Or “June and the sonorous bodies / glide in the pool” vs. “Starvation’s eye / holding you for the whole note.” A great sense of tension was created by these contrasting images and sides of the poem, which I interpreted to represent a portrait of the current world—countries such as America vs. third world countries—and all the inequities that exist between the two, and the tensions that can result from this imbalance.

Can you talk about how you came to write this poem in this particular form and ways in which you intended or hoped the poem would be read?

RP:  Thank you for reading this poem so attentively -- which is all any poet can ask of a reader. A conglomerate of factors helped produce this poem. I began drafting it during the George W. Bush administration, not long after my mother died. She -- Opal was her name -- is alluded to in the poem. I was learning to play the guitar, and had fallen in love with not only the instrument itself, but with the playing of instruments of all kinds, the internal and external physicalities of making music. I was playing a lot of blues during the Bush years! I was also working on The Global Lovers, a collection of poems in the voice of a sex slave that eventually became a poetic drama, so social and political issues were close at-hand. And I had a stash of images from failed drafts, poem notes, and journal entries that I wanted to build poems around or otherwise use. C is the first note in the natural scale, so the images in that key of the poem suggest moments to be expected or possible in the natural course of nonviolent events. I wanted to see how these images might change under stress, i.e., how they might appear if transposed into the key of E, the key most associated with the blues. There are image echoes across the two columns of the poem. You are right that some of the "E" images capture suffering that occurs outside of the U.S., but some of them allude to the shortcomings of American leadership under George W. Bush -- "Moment that signals / a nation in menopause" and "The 21st century / coming home to a crying house." I was thinking of Dick Chaney accidentally shooting his hunting buddy in the face when I wrote, "Caged birds / released for the hunt."

I saw your powerful poetic drama about sex slavery, “The Global Lovers,” performed at Grailville a few years ago. You delve into that same topic in your chapbook, for example the poem “Enfant Terrible” written from the point-of-view of a woman forced to work in a brothel. Can you talk a bit about what drew you to write about that subject?

RP:  Again, a combination of muse energies at work. I was on academic leave to work on a collection of poems about my mother's experience with Alzheimer's. In the course of staying generally informed, I had read an article by Nicholas Kristof about Aisha Parveen, a kidnapped Pakistani girl forced to work in a brothel. One morning, while working on a poem exploring dementia, I heard the voice of a young sex slave; I wrote down what she said to get that voice out of the way, thinking I'd return to it later, but the voice kept returning with more things to say, and it dominated the last six weeks of my leave, and the next four years afterward. This confirmed for me that, after taking in experience and impressions, writing poetry is first an act of listening.

Many of the poems in your chapbook touch on social issues such as segregation, war, and sex slavery. What do you think about the poet’s role as activist?  Do you feel the poet has a responsibility to address social injustices in their work? 

RP: I think a question behind this question might be: are social issues the most important issues for poets to write about? They are when a particular poet in a particular moment needs to write about them, feels that authentic need from within, in concert with the language and voice to explore it. The heavens and hells of humanity are always with us. We need poems about both.

You teach creative writing and literature at the University of Cincinnati Blue Ash. Does teaching impact your writing, and if so, how?

RP: The most direct example concerns The Global Lovers. When I returned from my academic leave in 2006, I taught the playwriting workshop in the fall. That's when I began to think about converting the sex slave poems into a dramatic performance. This generated a lot of new writing, and a fantastic creative experience working with my director, E. Charlton-Trujillo, for the staged readings and Fringe Festival production.

What advice would you give to a beginning poet about writing poetry?

RP: These days it would be: trade in some of your time with online, virtual experiences for physical interactions with people, nature, urban environments, the arts, and any other subject that interests you. Read -- not just poetry but history, science, philosophy, mythology. Go to live performances. Visit museums. Walk, watch, listen, breathe deep. Learn to play an instrument. In other words, get tactile.

You’re an editor of the literary journal, “The Blue Ash Review.” What are some of the qualities you look for in the submissions you read? Can you give us some examples of what you might reject a poem for?

RP: Most of the work we publish is by our students, who range in age and experience, and may be taking a workshop for the first time in their lives. I look for interesting subjects, vivid imagery, and other applications of techniques, but if I know the student, I also consider the writer's growth as demonstrated by the poem. Has she lived the struggle of writing the poem, learned from it? Has he explored rather than explained? As for what I reject:  clichés, bad rhyming, predictable surface responses to the subject or situation of the poem. 

What poets and/or collections are you currently reading, and can you tell us what you particularly like about them?

RP:  This summer I read Muriel Rukeyser's Elegies, and Claudia Rankine's Citizen: An American Lyric -- a fascinating montage of poetry, essay, and visual art. A timely one. Everyone should read and discuss it.

What writing are you currently working on?

RP: I have several projects in-progress. I'm revising a manuscript of poems, Shore to Shore, for submissions this fall. I'm also working on what looks to be a book-length series of narrative poems about a World War II veteran, using my (deceased) father as a model. This project requires research, so much of my reading time this summer has been taken up with that. Then last year something new popped up. As part of a collaborative, creative arts faculty learning community, I began working on a series of call-and-response poems, scat poems, scatifestos, and collages, some of these with my collaborator H. Michael Sanders, as part of the Gaps & Overlaps exhibition at the UC Blue Ash College Art Gallery. This work will continue into the 2015-16 school year. I also have several poetry sequences that need work, as well as some play ideas I'd like to get to. And this summer, for the first time, I broke into a personal essay stemming from a "Write Your River Autobiography" prompt from Richard Hague. I thought it would be a poem when I started typing out my notes, but alas! Prose!

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To read Rhonda Pettit's poem "Epistemology" visit Tipton Poetry Journal.

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Karen George, MFA,retired from computer programming to write full-time. She enjoys traveling to historic river towns, mountain country, and Europe. She is author of Into the Heartland (Finishing Line Press, 2011), Inner Passage (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014), Swim Your Way Back(Dos Madres Press, 2014), and The Seed of Me (Finishing Line Press, 2015). You can find her work in Louisville Review, Tupelo Press 30/30 Project, Wind, Permafrost, Blast Furnace, qarrtsiluni, Found Poetry Review, and Still.

An Interview with Poet Nicelle Davis

My myths crossed when I was four. I mistook the pastel picture
of Jesus hung in every Mormon home for John Lennon. Both
called the Prince of Peace. Was encouraged to talk to him. Offer
up suffering. Let him carry my scabs in his satchel; red letters
addressed home. Inside the paper-wrapped package: a six-string
guitar interpreting lyrics. I still talk to John when praying to Jesus.

- from "Disclaimer: Assumptions Made by This Homemade Religion" by Nicelle Davis

*   *   *

Nicelle Davis is a California poet who walks the desert with her son, J.J., in search of owl pellets and rattlesnake skins. The author of two books of poetry, her most recent book, Becoming Judas, is available from Red Hen Press. Her first book, Circe, is available from Lowbrow Press. In the Circus of You is forthcoming from Rose Metal Press in Spring 2015 and The Walled Wife is forthcoming from Red Hen Press in 2016. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Beloit Poetry Journal, The New York Quarterly, PANK, SLAB Magazine, and others. She is editor-at-large of The Los Angeles Review. She has taught poetry at Youth for Positive Change, an organization that promotes success for youth in secondary schools, and with Volunteers of America in their Homeless Youth Center. She currently teaches at Antelope Valley College.

*   *   *

I met Nicelle Davis twice, most recently in Ireland where she and I both attended the Ireland for Writers workshop. The workshop was beyond delightful, not simply because of the magic that is Ireland, but because of the amazing people in the workshop. Early on, we all decided to connect on Facebook. As it turns out, Nicelle and I were already Facebook friends. And after a bit of sleuthing, we deduced that our first meeting must have been at an AWP Conference. The poetry world is a small one indeed.

The workshop was held at Inish Beg, a ninety-acre island estate with gardens, trails, and woodlands. At one end of the island happens to be a white bird cage large enough to hold a woman. Nicelle and Annette, a writer/artist/singer from Minnesota, came up with an idea for performance art: to create a dress out of the stuff of Ireland—feathers, moss, curios. Nicelle and Annette, and any of us who wanted, would then take turns wearing the dress while sitting in the bird cage reciting poetry.

The idea for the performance was my first glimpse into Nicelle's wildly creative spirit. As the week progressed, her encouragement that we be brave in the making of our art—whatever it might be—was inspirational and continues to impact me personally.

Unfortunately, the performance was not to be. Nicelle and Annette worked tirelessly on the dress. When the day came for the performance, something interfered; I don't remember exactly, perhaps that was the day it rained. But we did get some fascinating photographs. The one here is of Nicelle wearing the Ireland dress, looking like a goddess, perhaps Circe or one the Muses, rising from the moss.

After I returned from Ireland, I read Nicelle's most recent book Becoming Judas and found it totally engaging—thought-provoking and smart, as well as evocative. I wanted to share her work with others and asked if she'd consent to an interview, to which she kindly said yes, despite her busy, busy schedule. You're in for a treat, folks. Hers is a fascinating interview, sure to intrigue.

But before getting to the interview, as a way of introduction to Nicelle's work for those unfamiliar, I'd like to leave you with a quick overview of Becoming Judas from the publisher, as well as one of her poems from the book.

—Nancy Chen Long

Becoming Judas (Red Hen Press, 2013)

"The second collection by Nicelle Davis, Becoming Judas, is an "elemental bible-diary-manifesto," that weaves together Mormonism, Mamaism, Manson, Lennon, Kabbalah, and the lost Gospel of Judas into an ecstatic, searing meditation on raw religion. Nicelle Davis is a poet with an eye towards the spiritual. Loosely based on Davis's upbringing in the back-room of a record store in Mormonville, Utah, this unexpected fusion becomes a "spontaneous combustion" of matter turning into energy. In these poems we encounter Jesus, Judas, YouTube, Joseph Smith, Hollywood, the Knights of Templar, Missouri, Utah, a prostitute, turnips, libraries, and God. Spirituality and faith eventually become, like Mallarme's "Dice Thrown," a game of chance: "I know only chance. My feet will / won't hit ground." Instead of choosing a faith based in the material world, which becomes a roll of the dice, Davis embraces the non-material of a pure energy: Let there be light."
Reviews of   Becoming Judas can found at:  Mom Egg Review, Ampersand Review, The Mockingbird Sings


When I was a Boy by Nicelle Davis

My mother bent a Lamborghini on a hydrant, crossing the street in a pair of stilettos.
Men couldn’t stop looking.

She knew the values of being wanted. My bowed nose concerned her. She always
asking if I'd been touched. Yet.

Where I shouldn't. I cut off all my hair—lived on the highest branch of a tree. As a
tomboy I gave her less to worry

about. Out-wrestled the sixth-grade. Taught myself, no. Ding-dong, a Sarah-Jane Adams
Elementary boy said, pushing my ten-

year-old nipple. Opening a door. You’ll appreciate being wanted one day, mother said,
rubbing the bump out of the rim of my nose.

What I wanted was her—the way I wished for a branch to grow past where I climbed—
to be lifted without others spading for our roots.


first published in [PANK]
© Nicelle Davis, Becoming Judas (Red Hen Press, 2013)

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[This interview was conducted via email in August 2014.]

I recently finished reading your second book of poetry, Becoming Judas. It’s a tour de force, a remarkable book really, braiding and conflating the various story-myths of Jesus, Judas, John Lennon, yours, and others. Please tell us a little about the book’s becoming.

ND: Becoming Judas was written while I was a student at the University of California, Riverside (URC). It was the first complete manuscript I’d ever written; it taught me that a manuscript is more than a collection of poems—it is an unfolding of ideas. One poem tells the poet what to write next—and in this way, the book takes the author on a journey. Becoming Judas revealed to me that a poet doesn’t write a manuscript, the manuscript rewrites the poet. 

There were three factors that lead me to this realization. First, I had my son while at UCR—this experience literally tore my body in two; this physical reality mirrored my interior divisions. I was coming undone, falling apart, and in this space, my past, present, and future began to violently collide. Second, I was surrounded by incredible people while working on this book. As a new mom, my only time to write was late at night; I would stay up all night at a Riverside Denny’s to write Becoming Judas. My cohort took turns staying up with me. Over bottomless cups of coffee and shared sunrises, I fell deeply in love with my fellow writers; we became a family. Third, I had mentors who were willing to guide me through the darkness. I’m trying not to cry right now—because they (especially Kate Gale and Mark Cull) would all call me a wimp for tearing up—but without them and the help of Maurya Simon, Susan Straight, Goldberry Long, Juan Felipe Herrera, Robin Russin, Christopher Buckley, and Chris Abani, I wouldn't have been able to navigate the emotional toll of a first manuscript.

So here (without all the blah-blah) are my five steps to a book’s becoming:

1. Let the book be what it wants to be—even if it is or isn't pretty or popular. 
2. Let the book rupture you—let it change you forever. 
3. Let the sun rise on your work (in other words, work all night / write your ass off.) 
4. Let your cohort be your family—build a writing family. 
5. Let others be your light. There are gracious people who are willing to help; let them, even when you don’t understand how or why they are helping you. Pray that their grace will teach you how to be gracious.

Grappling with the spiritual and transcendent in light of the human condition seems to be pivotal in Becoming Judas. Could you talk a little bit about that aspect of your work? I found The Gospel of Judas [a gnostic text first translated by National Geographic in 2006] to be fundamental to the book. When did you first encounter that text? What attracts you to it?

ND: I love the National Geographic’s documentary The Gospel of Judas—I love how they made Judas into a sort of religious Mickey Mouse—the commercialism is grotesque—which is delightful. The film is full of gangsters and backstabbers who, through violence and deception, allow us to encounter The Gospel of Judas. Leave it to Judas to be resurrected by thieves and brought to light by marketers.

I also enjoy Tobias Churton’s Kiss of Death: The True History of the Gospel of Judas, which does an excellent job making fun of the National Geographic documentary. His book however, mainly focuses on the concept of authenticity—what makes a gospel a gospel?— what makes a disciple a disciple?—what makes a kiss right or wrong? The “this or that” of the Churton’s book is a little difficult for me. Even so, this book was one of my dearest companions while writing Becoming Judas—so much so, that now six years later I find my son’s “lost” ultra-sound photos wedged between the pages. So it seems, Churton's book continues to help me explore the idea of “lost,” “saved,” and everything in-between.

There are many code phrases that distinguish authentic believers from non-believers. In the Christian community, I am often referred to as fence rider; Judas might be called a fence rider too. Fence riders believe but don’t do what they're told—or they do what they're told but they don’t believe in it; they are considered dirty because they are indecisive and noncommittal. But Judas never struck me as uncertain or unfaithful; he seemed a man born into a world of flux—his is the story of when all the stories collide—he wasn't riding a fence—he is the moment of impact—he is / was a kiss. Judas (in his historically and / or mythical form) betrays and saves us with a kiss. We all save and betray each other with a kiss.

I have often felt like a religious tourist; I grew up in Utah, but wasn't raised Mormon. This isn't to say that I didn't go to several Mormon events and attend church(es) regularly. I’d often take myself to church, any church, and watch. If I have any authenticity it is that of a spiritual voyeur, which in my later years, I encounter more in tattoo parlors and trapeze class than churches. (Though, I still love churches; I’m drawn to them.)

In addition to churches, I’m drawn to religious texts, same as I am a devout reader of Rolling Stone magazine and tabloids. I’ve poured over the Gnostic texts for years; Gnosticism is one of the few places where women are seen as active spiritual beings. Pop-culture tabloids are also a rare resource for visible and active women. (We take our models where we can find them.) So, I pounced on the text as soon as I heard Judas (the most feminized of the male apostles) had a gospel. (This gospel, ironically, was published around the time I was working on a book about being a rotten-no-good snitch.) I started to enjoy the synchronicity of things—started looking for synchronicities—I wanted to feel all the stories collide.

What attracts me to Judas? We are both rotten-no-good snitches; we are tabloids. I believe every writer must come to terms with being a tattletale—every snitch has to take their stitches before they can really begin to write. This book is what I needed to become a writer. It is an awkward position to be in—to attempt to save the moment while betraying it. As a writer, I want the ephemeral to become everlasting; this is problematic. Judas and writers are problematic, but what I love about Judas is that his love seems greater than his failings. Because he loved Jesus as he betrayed him, we have a story that transcends time; this betrayal is as present today as it “was” before or after the kiss occurred. I can only hope to be a Judas.

Both Becoming Judas and your first book Circe include illustrations by Cheryl Gross. Tell us a little about how that collaboration process worked. Will there be visual art in either of your forthcoming books?

© Cheryl Gross, an illustration from
In the Circus of You

ND: Cheryl and I were recently interviewed by the amazing Liz Bradfield for the Alaska Quarterly Review. We submitted our responses separately, and yet there were these astounding moments of overlap which highlighted for me how lucky we are to have found each other. At one point in the interview Cheryl announces, “Nicelle and I are rebels. We care more about the art/projects and pushing boundaries.” Cheryl's statement was one of the few times that I felt proud to be a writer—that I belonged to something larger than myself. We are friends who push boundaries and this is because of collaboration.

We started collaborating on a book called In the Circus of You, which will be released from Rose Metal Press this spring. After this experience, it seemed natural that Cheryl and I make more art together. We have started other projects that I’m very excited about; I can not wait to see where our collaborations take us.

You’ve also done collaborations with Cheryl and others on trailers/motion graphics for your books, including motion graphics for five poems in Becoming Judas, trailers for both Circe and your upcoming book The Circus of You, and a video poem “The First Hour of Being Buried Alive in the Walls of a Half-Built Cathedral.” The idea of video poetry and moving/motion poems is fascinating. What kind of responses have you been getting from those who “watch” your poetry? What has been the most surprising thing for you about making these?

ND: Motion Graphics are great! Great!

As the famous Shakespeare quote goes, The play's the thing. I couldn’t agree more. The “play” of twenty-first century is the Motion Graphic; these films allow multiple artists to gather and return to their roots—to a place of performance. The Motion Graphics feel like pure art to me; they are so collaborative by nature that no one person is in control; in this way, such projects are as terrifying and exhilarating as live theatre. I feel so grateful to live in a time when artists from across the globe can virtually gather to create a very tangible performance of art, poetry, music, and dance.

The most surprising thing about making these films is how well people work together. Very serious artists are given a space to play, and they do play with diligence. This is a sort of work that adults rarely get to participate in—it approximates how, as children, we created imagined worlds together—it feels like falling in love, but without any of the complications.

I’m also surprise at how far the Motion Graphics travel: they have been shown in film festivals across the globe. My poems go places I’ve only dreamed of. I hope they are leading the way—teaching me how to be a resident of the world.

In addition to visual art, performance seems vital to your connection to the word and to poetry, such as your reading at Pasadena Central Park. While I’ve heard wonderful, dramatic readings by poets reading their own work, I’ve never seen a poet perform her poem at a reading. You do so, complete with costumes. It must take a tremendous amount of work to perform a reading like that. How do you prepare for such a reading from an energetic standpoint? From a practical standpoint, who creates your costumes? Does the performance aspect ever come into play for you when you’re in the first stages of creating a poem? Could speak a little about costumes and poses on the cover of the Becoming Judas. 

ND: It takes hours and hours and hours of work. It requires the efforts of many people.

All this effort and yet it is met with mixed reviews. Not everyone likes performance art for a host of reasons. I love performance art because it’s hard to ignore; it’s raw and it’s experiential; it is often awkward and uncomfortable, in other words it’s human. The documentary, Women Art Revolution, is a great introduction to the role performance art in women’s rights. When women are visible, raw, and experiential, people can get mean; I find this interesting and at times difficult. However, I find it much more difficult to be invisible. There is a group of performance poets whom I appreciate for their efforts and process, including, Lauren K. Alleyne, Ching-In Chen, Kate Durbin, and Sierra Nelson. These ladies are inspirational to me, as I am sure they are for others.

Costuming is one of my favorite art forms. I’ve spent years obsessing over the history of fashion. Clothes create a silent conversation; costumes amplify this dialogue. My favorite costume artist is Pavlina Janssen; I consider her my art sister because we know each other’s secret language. As a collage artist, Pavlina doesn’t just make a dress, she creates layered stories. She made the dress for the cover of Becoming Judas.

For this dress I brought her all the remnants of my failed marriage: a feather comforter, a fox coat, a negligee, bones, and teeth. She mended these things into a dress that brought the dead back to life. Dennis Mecham took the photos. He has an incredible knack for conducting light; his tones are so intense that they seem to sing. I was so anxious to work with him that during the photo shoot I didn’t notice that the fox claws were shredding my legs; it wasn’t until the next day that I realized my thighs were scratched and bleeding from the little fox paws.

At this point there have been hundreds of costumes and dramatic events—I wish there was time to go into each of them at length, but events are not meant to last. I owe a great deal to photographers Jason Hughes, Marcelles Murdock, and Lauren Marquardt who have helped document the making. Making is the best part of any art; it brings people together—it is an organic magic. The puppets used for the Pasadena LitFest were a joint effort of Brandon, Natasha, and me; we stayed up late talking and carving. Brandon is an amazing craftsman and Natasha is an intuitive designer. It was fun to perform with the puppets, but the real benefit of this collaboration was spending time with these two friends. Making helps me form relationships and forge meaning in my life. The artistic products (I feel) are just an invitation to join in the making.

For example, I was delighted this summer (dear Nancy) by our writing group, who accepted the invitation to make and foraged for feather. We made a dress out of Ireland. I feel like the feathers gave us permission to touch the landscape in a way we wouldn’t have otherwise. We are so lucky to be makers.

Of all of the poems you’ve written, what is one of your favorites? 

ND: My favorite poem is always the one I’m writing; once the writing is over, the poem doesn’t belong to me anymore.

When your first full-length manuscript was published, were there things you thought would happen, yet didn’t? unexpected things that did happen?

ND: It is difficult to write a book, twice as difficult to publish a book, and infinitely more difficult to gain readership. On the surface poetry isn’t very practical—there is less than no money in it (I’ve hocked all my jewelry and skipped many meals to afford poetry)—however, there are treasures in this pursuit that exceed the monetary. I feel that this difficult process has shown me the best of people. My teachers and editors have shocked me with their grace and loyalty. I’ve watched my publishers risk everything to sponsor a book; seeing their dedication to art (or rather, their efforts to extend the world of ideas and imagination) is humbling to say the least. Also, after going through the “publication” process, I have cultivated a great appreciation for readers.

As a first time author I wrote a book to create a gift—a tangible item that could be handed to another person. When I was younger I privileged the giver, but now I recognize that the receiver carries the bulk of this intimate exchange. It is the intangible actions (such as engagement and acceptance) that sustain us. I now recognize that time spent with a piece of art costs a portion of a person’s life; I’ve learned (maybe the hard way) that I will never write a book worthy of a person’s time—but I can try, I will try, and hope that the effort bleeds through the pages—I try to create art that fights to meet readers half way.

With your two forthcoming books, you will have had four published in the span of five years. You’re prolific, not to mention hard-working. It takes sustained effort to write, prepare, and promote a book of poetry. Do you have any favorite tactics for promotion? What have you learned from your first two books to help with your next two?

ND: I have found that the same attributes that move a person forward also hold them back; a writer has to work with and against themselves when creating their writing life. For example, I’m a very creative person (I can see the possibilities clearly), but this also means that I have a hard time recognizing my limitations. I have to tell myself no sometimes. Most of the time I rebel against the idea of no. This leads me to do more, which is great; this can also lead me toward total collapse, which is very bad. Because of that quality, I’ve had to learn how to listen to myself and others. In this way, my strengths move me forward as my weaknesses teach me.

I recommend that a writer identify key attributes—the things that make them who they are—and use these characteristics to carve out a writing life that reflects them. My toolbox includes: shamelessness, shyness, awkwardness, and pride. (Not the best tools, but they’re what I’ve got, so I have to make them work.)

I’m shameless when it comes to who and what I love; I love poetry, so I’m willing to try just about anything for it. I’m also shy by nature, so if what I’m doing doesn’t feel dangerous, I know I’m not risking enough. This devotion to risk has guided me past my comfort zones; risk also involves a lot failure, or rather, many awkward moments. I’m trying to embrace the awkward by putting myself out there—I allow myself to experience rejection and acceptance. Getting out there includes asking for publication, asking for readings, asking bookstores to carry books, asking for reviews—asking, asking, asking. I’m a proud person, so asking for anything makes me nauseous—but I have that shameless thing to help me deal with the awkwardness of puking.

I also highly recommend forming a writing community. I have my five; they keep me going—they keep me honest. I keep my core writing family near me: I would be lost without them.

As an editor at The Los Angeles Review and Connotation Press, what would you tell hopeful poets looking to find homes for their work?

ND: Every editor is different, so if you receive a rejection from one publication try another.

What I look for in writing is something that surprises me. Often I’ll read a submission that sounds exactly like the twelve I rejected before it. These can be well-wrought pieces; they just lack a mark of uniqueness. The same way that I’m drawn to brush strokes in a painting or thumbprints in ceramics, I like to see an intrinsic quality in a piece of writing.

If I’m still thinking about a submission an hour after reading it, I feel that writing has done its job and will be accepted for publication.

Who are you reading now? Do you have a favorite poet or poets? What poets influence you?

ND: I’m currently obsessed with Maggie Nelson’s The Art of Cruelty; I love this book. Right now, I have Natasha Saje’s new collection, Vivarium, sitting next to me. I also have, no exaggeration, 100 poetry collections stacked in alphabetical order at my bedside; my goal is to read a book a day—sort of a read-a-thon. (I’ll let you know if I finish this race.)

My favorite poets are Stephen Crane and John Keats (I don’t think that will ever change.) Of course Anne Sexton, Anne Carson, Claudia Rankine, and C.D. Wright are my guiding lights.

When do you remember first being interested in poetry? Was there a mentor who encouraged you?

ND: I was 7; I was annoying my grandmother. She handed me a book by John Keats and said not to bother her until I knew what it was about. I’m still trying to figure that book out.

There have been many mentors. Natasha Saje, Alma McKertich, Charles Hood, Kate Gale, Mark Cull, my instructors at UCR—these are the few who were willing to put up with me. They have been good to me in ways that surpassed my expectations of kindness.

When you write, do you imagine a reader? If so, what type of reader?

ND: I usually write a book with one person in mind. With my latest project, I’m writing for one but editing with a larger audience in mind. I would like to write a book that shows its bones—a book that anyone who is willing can access.

Generally speaking, how do you approach revision? Do you use a checklist or have any tried-and-true practices?

ND: Forming a manuscript is like carving a sphere—you can tell it’s off because it wobbles in motion. I can recognize when a work needs revision, but I get lost in the muck of it. I get too close, too focused on the material to see what the overall manuscript needs. I require smart and honest readers to make a book. I have a handful of readers. Kate Gale and Mark Cull will give me no-holds advice. My dearest reader is Adam Smith; he’s brutally honest and wildly funny. Adam helps me laugh through my shortcomings. He is nothing short of a brilliant editor. Readers and editors are not recognized enough for their contributions to a book.

If you were a place, where or what type of a place would you be?

ND: I try my best to be as many places as possible, but really I’m a southwestern kind of gal. The desert never washes off.

Are you working on a fifth poetry book? When you and I were recently in workshop together, you were working on fiction. How is that project coming along? Could you tell us a little about it?

ND: I’m playing with three poetry projects; I’ve been obsessing over maps, taxidermy, and Caliban. I also hope to finish the Ghost Republic project this year, which involves 20 poets, a photographer, and a concept album by the Willard Grant Conspiracy: we’ve recreated the ghost town of Bodie through art. (I have to finish this project or this project will finish me.)

I’m working on an experimental memoir / graphic novel that will revolve around the concept of social noise. Noise is all the static found in poverty, racism, sexism, and inequities. Noise is the invisible weight that keeps people down. I’m really excited about this because I’ll get to collaborate with Cheryl again. (I love working with Cheryl.)

The fiction project you referred to, currently titled After the Rats, is the most difficult thing I’ve ever tried to do. Long form is so foreign to me, but I love it. The plot is basic: boy meets girl, they fall in love, its all fucked up and crazy, but so is life. After the Rats is a man’s search for meaning in the wake of a horrible catastrophe. Loosely based on the legend of the Pied Pier, this is a love story that happens in the graveyards of dead rats and the empty rooms of missing children. It’s trying to reconcile moments of happiness that are found in the wake of a tragedy. I have a feeling that if I can pull this book off, I’ll believe in a joyful form of love again. I want to believe again.

Is there anything you like to share about any of your books or say about poetry or writing in general?

ND: In general I feel it is important for us to be mindful that we are more than an individual artist, we are a community. To keep this community going—to keep books in the world—we have to be supportive of each other. We also have to allow for mistakes and conflict. Art doesn’t make us human; it challenges us to act humanely. This is always difficult but important work. Art is the place where we are allowed to fail at failing better. There is no winning or success in this space, only a chance for growth.

Finally, what advice would you give to an aspiring writer?

ND: My dad is an artist; he gave me three important pieces of advice:

1. Dirt and gravity can only be pushed so far. You have to push past these limits for it to be art. If you chance the miracle and the pot survives the fire--that's art.
2. Some people are born to play the blues...to love and understand Jazz. Just because your music (poetry) isn't what everyone likes doesn't mean you can't play. Be nice to yourself.
3. Call when you can; those who love you, miss you.

Nicelle’s website: http://nicelledavis.com/

A sampling of Nicelle’s poems on-line:

• five poems from In the Circus of You, A cappella Zoo
• “Instructions to Understanding Mother,” Moulin Revew 
• “The Night Circe Cannot Remember,” The Pedestal Magazine 
• “Hairstylist Sam Villa—Premiere Orlando Main Stage,” Beloit Poetry Journal  
• Studies in Monogamy, an e-chapbook with audio

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Nancy Chen Long received a BS in Electrical Engineering Technology and an MBA, worked as an electrical engineer, software consultant, and project manager, and more recently earned her MFA. As a volunteer for the Writers Guild at Bloomington, she coordinates the Lemonstone Reading Series and works with other poets to offer poetry workshops. Her chapbook, Clouds as Inkblots for the Warprone (2013) was published by Red Bird Chapbooks. You'll find her recent and forthcoming work in Boxcar Poetry Review, RHINO, Sycamore Review, and other journals. 

Proving We Exist: Sorting Out How to Write and Parent at the Same Time

by Ellyn Lichvar

Every writer has an occasional dry spell—those periods of inactivity that bring on strong feelings of doubt/guilt/frustration/fill-in-the-blank. We know we should be writing, we wantto write, but nothing will come. We walk around the block, read, make a sandwich, have a drink or a nap, and tell ourselves tomorrow is a new day.

            In late 2009, I got pregnant. In anticipation of conception, I’d gotten my body ready the best way I knew how: I hit the gym, ate well, took handfuls of vitamins. But I never thought to prep my mind as rigorously as I prepped my body. Feeding my brain with the food I knew it needed—poetry, above all else—never occurred to me. I read the What to Expects and the Birthing from Withins but never once sought out what I now know I craved: poetry (or fiction, essays, anything) that had absolutely nothing to do with having children. After my son was born, my body, the one I’d spent so many hours cultivating for the blessed event, returned to [mostly] its original shape. My mind, however, was a different story. Four sluggish years later, I feel like it might be coming back. Might.

            I know I am not unique. Every parent feels this at some point. Regardless of career, gender, or social status, most of us put ourselves on the shelf in some capacity in order to parent to the fullest of our abilities—whatever that means.  For me, doing so amounted to the driest dry spell I’d ever experienced. So dry, in fact, that I barely realized it was out of the ordinary. I didn’t read. I was tired. I’d forget to feed myself for feeding the baby. How could I write anything, let alone string together metaphors and images about motherhood—because, let’s face it, what other subjects could my flabby mind conjure?—in a way that was exciting for anyone to read besides my mother? Breastfeeding is beautiful and natural and everyone would love to read seventeen straight poems about the dimples on my son’s precious hands as they squeezed every last drop from me, right? Of course not. And that was the best I had. So I just stopped.

            Without discussing time constraints and schedules and balancing acts, how does one relearn how to write from her bones when her bones feel like they belong to someone else? The simple, paradoxical answer is simple and paradoxical: there is no answer. No one can tell you how to do it, you just have to start doing it. In the end, it comes down to the old cliché of balance. You can’t turn off one light in order for another to shine brighter. You can’t stop being a parent in order to be a better writer any more than you can stop writing to be a better parent. Each are integral parts of life and each informs the other.

            Now that my writerly brain has [mostly] returned, I got to thinking: do men have this same issue? Do writer-fathers deal with the same mental blocks that I experienced? In order to answer these questions, I turned to good my good friend and fellow parent-poet, Dave Harrity. His answers to my questions drove home one important point: every parent has to “make it work” and making it work is likely different for every parent because, well, every parent is different. The trick lies in the how you make it work, the balancing of lives and the reorganization of priorities.       

 Dave Harrity is most recently the author of Making Manifest: On Faith, Creativity, and the Kingdom at Hand, a book of meditations and writing exercises about contemplative living, peacemaking, and community building. He is also the founder of the formation/literary organization ANTLER (thisisantler.com). He lives in Louisville with his wife and kids.

Ellyn: My writing came to a complete standstill during my pregnancy and only returned in the last year or so—save some spurts here and there—yet I know several people whose writing absolutely took off the second they became parents. Where do you fit on that scale?

DH: I think I was steady all the way through, but I was never carrying a baby, so I won’t pretend to know what that’s like. The process of becoming a parent and becoming a writer are very similar, but maybe all processes of “becoming” are similar. If there is a way to measure my becoming, it would be in the pages of my journal, which I don’t typically go back and read. I had my big-time freak-outs like everyone who's ever had a kid.

How does the concept of “balance” figure into your life both as a parent and a writer?

DH: Balance is a tough thing for any parent to find, I think. And balancing parenting with writing is especially tough. Before I had kids, I would write for several hours each day—some in the morning, some in the afternoon, some at night—and would balance that with my original baby, teaching, which was far more simple. Once I had kids, however, I was determined to continue writing so I went about redefining what my writing schedule meant to me. I started writing in the morning, and did so with my daughter next to me in her little basket. I’d wake up at about 5 am and go till about 7 am. Once she was old enough, I got her a journal and we’d have “writing time” together. She was maybe 2 and a half when this started. She’d color, I’d write. It set a precedent that morning time was creative time. It’s still holds today. She’s 6 now, has a little brother (who went through similar training!), and now they do journal time together, or simply play.

Explain a little bit about your writing habits. Has your process or approach to writing changed since becoming a parent? 

DH: The process hasn’t changed, but my approach to what I make is different. I don’t feel the pressure I used to, for the most part, to produce, publish, etc. I try to redirect my energy into the process of creating. The frustrations and blunders of parenting seem quiet when I’m writing, distant and small. So I use the daily writing time to work out my personal crap and move on to making poems. Rarely do I write about my children in poems, though, which I still find odd.

What specific difficulties and benefits have arisen for you as a writer since becoming a father?

DH: The benefit is that the pressure is off. There’s simply bigger shit to worry about. The difficulty is the letting go of how you used to love/value a thing (writing) and allowing it to evolve into a new form, a new way in which you interact with others and yourself. But I suppose there are benefits to that, too. I’m glad that I’m a different man than I was 6 years ago. I'm glad for the new meaning.

What advice would you give to an artist/writer who is about to become a parent for the first time?

DH: Remember that the time you have with your children can’t be relived, so take it while you have it. There will always be things to write. Human beings—your human beings—are more important than your writing. Figure out a way to make a little progress with your writing each day and be content with it (it should be noted that that advice is right from the Debra Kang Dean playbook). Good things all take time, children or poems.

Your children are still young. Do you imagine them one day reading your work? If so, does this inform your process in any way?

DH: Oh god, I’d guess they’ll read something I’ve written, though hopefully they’ll be over me by the time they’re of age to care. Ha! I tend to spend a lot of time in my journal, which will be the evidence to damn me or exonerate me should I ever be imprisoned. I do think about what I write and know that they may read it, if they can stomach the boredom. But I resolved myself long ago to the idea that the truth (about anything) sets a person free. And the truth about me—I have to trust—will be no different. They will see the good, bad, ugly, and beyond; some of it shameful, some of it lovely. And, well, that’s who I am and I won’t let it be another way. If I’ve raised them right, they won’t want it another way either. I’d like to think they’ll get a more complete look at the relationship I have with their mother, with them, with friends, family, etc. I like to think they’ll mine the ore rather than fuel a grudge. All in all, I think about myself reading something like this that my father wrote (though I don’t think he ever journaled once in his life) and feel like it would be compelling and enriching for me rather than revolting or damaging, so that keeps me going as well.

What do you feel is the most import thing parent-artists can do to keep their creativity fruitful?  

DH: The reality is this: you can’t chase two rabbits, not well anyway. There’s an ebb and flow that is both necessary and appropriate to transitioning between roles in life. I chose to try jui jitsu with writing, using what many people see as destructive to the time aspect of creative life (having children, that is) and turn it into my strength as a creative—my lesser weight against the titan of having kids. I made writing part of their life, too. Mandatory journal time was my little experiment that happened to work. Other writers I respect made similar adjustments, William Stafford and George Oppen are two that readily come to mind.

Parent-writers need to adjust their standards of what can, should, and needs to get done. The children are the important thing, and a gentle touch with them is what really matters. Rane Arroyo once told his students, myself included, to live first and write second. For me at this point in my life, this means be a parent first and a writer second. Not a sexy idea, really, but raising kids is more important to me than publishing poems. I take my vocation as a parent as seriously as my vocation as a writer and a teacher, and I’ve found that the three work pretty synchronously almost all the time—they inform one another in a really lovely way.

Explain, in a nutshell, why it is you write poetry.  What compels you?

DH: Other than loving to play with words, I like the idea that poetry is the little proof that I exist(ed) in the world. Most days that’s enough for me, though not all days. On days I feel anxious, isolated, or anything like that, I take extra time to be with my family and reengage my own purpose. Over the years the meaning of writing has changed from a thing I do for a job—for relevance, for spectacle—to a thing that helps me stay rooted in the world, conscious of the people around me that need my little presence to feel safe, or whole, or happy. There are a few people like that—family, friends, students—and I see writing as a way to root me in their life, in my own life.

Dave's book, Making Manifest, is available here: http://store.seedbed.com/products/making-manifest-by-dave-harrity/

Ellyn Lichvar, of Louisville, KY, holds an MFA from Spalding University. Her poems have been published in Poem, Blood Lotus, The Furnace Review, Ars Poetica, Silenced Press, and others. She has been awarded an Artist Enrichment Grant from the Kentucky Foundation for Women and was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is the Assistant Managing Editor for The Louisville Review and works on the staff of Spalding’s brief-residency MFA in Writing Program. Her spare time is spent reading, writing, watching horrible TV, and being mama to her son, Otis, and their chubby beagle named Jovie.