In Conversation with Ricardo Maldonado, Managing Director @ the 92Y Unterberg Poetry Center, and Accomplished Poet in the N.Y.C.
Booklr caught up with Ricardo Maldonado, Managing Director at the 92nd Street Y Unterberg Poetry Center, poet extraordinaire in his own right, and gem of a man. Over drinks at KGB Bar, where writers and booze mingle lovingly, we Romanced deodorant, talked baseball, and conceded the lovable sentimentality of humans.
Our conversation dabbled and brushed around these corners:
On sentimentality vs. digitalization: "I’m uncomfortable with e-readers. I feel like an octogenarian ... I guess as a writer I’m trying to find excuses not to like it ... But I do like that publishers are embracing this kind of technology; poetry isn’t just for the elite, and this technology is democratizing literature and art in a wonderful way ... I can’t even make up my mind about this; we’re all about to dive, and we just haven’t done it yet."
On a love of baseball: "Baseball seems to be a sport that welcomes all these metaphors from all camps and all kinds of literature. I can think of many writers that equate writing with baseball, and they all come from different schools ... I was really stunned by [baseball]--I just sit there and watch and ponder and think about the game as it has been played and my memories of the game ... It feels like the romantic sublime."
On intuitive writing: "Most of what I know about structure I’ve learned from fiction, not necessarily from poetry. But I rarely write prose, although I would love to. At this point I’m learning how things should unfold on the page--learning how to cultivate a sense of intuition or feeling towards [prose]."
For the full discourse, and the premiere of a new poem "My Book Report on Deodorant"...
My Book Report on Deodorant (a new poem by Ricardo Maldonado)
Welcome, vigor--and naked, dreaming of Eastern Parkway
and the Palisades,
we would welcome the scent of each other:
plaid shirt, ice-pack, California wine red
and detergent fumes. Impotence will the young
who are looking for guidance
in our sums and deviations, courting
efficiency.
Flab is fault, is transient, is frail
with its trends
and elastics, which shirts distribute.
Reflux ushers fix, ushers levity and fervor.
Men turn to romance in times
without sport, with flair and slight miscalculations.
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B: So what are you reading these days?
RM: I'm actually reading eight books.
B: At the same time? Eight books? How do you do that?
RM: Well (laughs) you dabble.
B: And it never gets confusing? Like intertwining dreams?
RM: No, well think about it. You’re working: you open your browser and you have eights pages in front of you and you switch back and forth between tasks.
B: You make reading sound like work, and it’s supposed to be an escape of sorts...right?
RM: As a writer, it’s both. It’s an escape, but also I like to think that every writer has something to offer in terms of craft or strategy. Of course I still enjoy reading a good yarn, but I’m more interested in how things are built. I derive a lot of constructive pleasure from reading about structure or thinking about structure or how things unfold. Most of what I know about structure I’ve learned from fiction, not necessarily from poetry. But I rarely write prose, although I would love to. At this point I’m learning how things should unfold on the page--learning how to cultivate a sense of intuition or feeling towards [prose].
B: Do you think your personal intuition can be crafted and tweaked?
RM: Yes, I think it’s more about developing an awareness to it--how it conducts itself; what underlies it; how psychology grapples with that motive being--and welcoming its quirks and colors and scents. Growing comfortable with it.
B: So, what are these eight books that you’re reading?
RM: I’m really loving Netherland, it’s kind of wonderful and sedate, but very exciting. I see some danger in it, like something is about to happen. And you know he’s reminiscing so you get the feeling that something triggered these memories, and I’m really interested in that [trigger] as a way of talking about experience. I’m really curious about it. I just read a book on quitting smoking, and I’m also reading a series of oral histories from baseball players who played in the 1920s, and the early 1900s.
B: Is this a recent trend? Cricket fiction and now baseball fiction?
RM: Well I haven’t read The Art of Fielding, but I had been watching the documentary on baseball by Ken Burns. After I was done, I was really stunned by the sport--the art of it and the grace of it. I used to play baseball when I was in high school, briefly, and I’m fascinated by the quietness of the sport. It’s a demanding sport--demanding of your time and your patience--and I’m not someone who is very patient, but for some reason I allow the sport to enter my world for a good four hours, and I just sit there and watch and ponder and think about the game as it has been played and my memories of the game. I went to college in Boston, so my experiences in Fenway were unique. (Pauses) Maybe not necessarily unique because I assume everyone who falls in love with baseball through the Red Sox assumes that their experience at Fenway is unique, but it’s like the sublime. It feels like the romantic sublime.
B: In what way do you consume or analyze baseball in relation to literature?
(RM indicates, with a lift of his eyebrows, that I clearly did not word a comprehensible question...)
B: I mean, do you love it in relation to a particular genre or author or some facet specific to “baseball fiction”? I’m thinking of something like Infinite Jest that requires every ounce of its reader’s patience and focus--this strenuousness is a major component of the act of reading it...
(RM: I’ve never read [it], partly because of the physical requirements of carrying that book around.
B: Which is why we have e-readers!)
RM: Baseball seems to be a sport that welcomes all these metaphors from all camps and all kinds of literature. I can think of many writers that equate writing with baseball, and they all come from different schools. It’s also just very American but at the same time, not necessarily American. It’s the national sport, and it seems to be very democratic now, as opposed to the 20s and 30s when it was bourgeois, white men on the field.
B: Speaking of change and democracy, how will the e-reading, e-publishing whirlwind affect poetry.
RM: It definitely will, but I’m uncomfortable with e-readers. I feel like an octogenarian who has just encountered this new technology sent over by Martians. I guess as a writer I’m trying to find excuses not to like it. I like the idea of books. I like that books and literature and words exist. I don’t necessarily feel that’s true of an e-reader...But I do like that publishers are embracing this kind of technology; poetry isn’t just for the elite, and this sort of technology is democratizing literature and art in a wonderful way. As someone who works in a literary center, I’ve seen people of all races, all economic backgrounds engaging in poetry--whether they are wiling to spend $20 or $9.99 for an e-book, people are reading (yay!). I think people are afraid to engage with non-novel forms of literature and call it reading. We read blogs, we read The New York Times, and we read all kinds of listings via the Internet. This digital age has seen the creation of many online journals that are really great, and they exist on the Internet. My work, most of it has been published on the Internet and will be out there forever. For someone to discover them many years from now, there’s something very humbling about that. And it’s fantastic that someone in Argentina can read my works and engage with it or even think about it for five minutes. I don’t necessarily need someone to produce a book on my behalf for this type of interaction to occur. But for me, most of my reading has been either in book form or with a computer, not an e-reader. That said, I just came across the most recent Amazon product (Kindle Fire), and the fact that it allows you to read not only literature, but other kinds of writing, watch films, browse the web, etc. makes me very curious. I’m curious about the technology, but I hesitate to embrace [it] because I’m also afraid I might get addicted.
B: So do you think that maybe some of the hesitation people have toward e-readers is not necessarily a product of literary elitism but literary sentiment?
RM: Exactly. Maybe you have noticed that I can’t even make up my mind about this (ha, perhaps). I think that we’re all about to dive, and we just haven’t done it yet. Something is keeping us, me. Maybe it’s a little thing, but as a writer, I would like to have a book to send to my mom--something physical.
B: How do you feel about being one of New York’s premier emerging poets?
RM: Whether I’m one of New York’s emerging poets or not (he IS), it’s very humbling that people have read my work and liked it, not because I don’t think it deserves to be read, but because a large percentage of it is solitary. It’s just you and the page. It’s not like we write to communicate things directly, but it’s great when you realize someone has read your work, or they know it, or that a line meant something to them.
B: How do people convey that experience of kinship to you?
RM: Emails, Facebook messages. It’s funny, we create these personas through Facebook, and it’s almost like that becomes part of the artistic process: presenting ourselves as a certain individual online. It’s always surprising when you get messages online about your work; it makes you realize, wow, I do exist to them and for them and because of them. But at the same time you don’t...This funny tension between writers and readers in which your legitimacy as a writer exists because of readers’ engagement, but you don’t produce your art or craft for the readers. As a writer, you have a responsibility to your experience. Sometimes you write poems that end up pissing people off or causing harm, but is that always relevant to you? Isn’t this a historic struggle that writers ultimately face? But it’s been a fun experience writing for the past ten years. This is my life, and it’s how I consume the world. We’re all consumers: if anything, the Internet has revealed that.
B: When did you feel your career taking some sort of turning point? Or a sense of success?
RM: Probably the day I started publishing, oh, three or four years ago. Or maybe when I was admitted to Columbia’s MFA program...or even before that when I realized that I could engage with the world as a writer, in a specific writerly way--constructing sentences in a structured way. When that clicked, my life turned. In terms of success and or being recognized, every writer will say, “That’s not what I do it for,” and that’s true, but we all like to be recognized. The need to be loved, which every human suffers or enjoys or indulges in. But how to measure that? I don’t know. This year I have been very lucky. I’ve had many publications, a grant, and hopefully something great will happen in the next year. (contemplates) A book would be great, but I don’t know if I’m ready for it yet...
B: How often do you publish?
RM: I had two poems taken in the summer and published in August, but it comes and goes. The thing with most publishers is they accept work and then it can take awhile for the work to come out. A year where I don’t get anything published is then followed by a year where five or six poems are published. I don’t usually submit queries anymore, but if I do, it’s mostly like applying to a job cold: You have a small introduction, “Hello my name is Ricardo. I’ve been working on this project for the last few months, and here are some poems.” And then you wait. Every journal is a bit different, which goes to show that research is essential. You need to be sure that the journal will be open to what you send, not only thematically but also stylistically. It’s a little insulting to the editor to send work that’s blatantly not suited for the journal. I make hundreds of submissions for every one taken. I’m trying to think of all the competitions I participate in yearly. I would say 30, at the very least. Essentially, I have two jobs: my main job, I work from 10-6, and when I get home, I work for one to three hours and then start sending. If you’re a serious writer, you owe it to yourself.
Ricardo Alberto Maldonado was born and raised in Puerto Rico. A recipient of a 2011 Poetry Fellowship from the New York Foundation for the Arts, he is the Managing Director at the 92nd Street Y Unterberg Poetry Center in New York City. He loves hearing from people at [email protected].
A selection of his published poems:
1. “Where we are. Sometimes” published in Sidebrow
2. “Love Poem” published in Diagram
3. “America! America!” published in Boston Review
4. “Aquatics” and “Self-Criticism as an Act of Love” published in LATR: Love Among the Ruins
5. “Selenography” and “Envoi” published in Perihelion
A selection of his current reading list:
1. Netherland by Joseph O'Neill
2. The Glory of Their Times: The Story of Baseball Told By Men Who Played It by Lawrence S. Ritter
3. The Summer Game by Roger Angell
4. On Murder, Mourning, and Melancholia by Sigmund Freud
5. Poemas Humanos by César Vallejo
6. Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh