#30xlace

[30xlace]

Kenji Liu

Describe yourself as a poet in three words: Anise, cartographer, salt

What is your chief misery as a poet: At the moment, having to write mostly in English.

What you appreciate the most in a poem: The will, capacity, and skill to address social justice issues in some way while avoiding cliche.

If not a poet, what would you be? A sweet red bean coffee mochi pan with a tall peach green tea.

Who is your poetry hero and why? I don't really subscribe to heroes, but I greatly admire the work of Don Mee Choi and Bhanu Kapil, among others.

What is your idea of happiness? To be able to discover joy in almost any situation.

What is your present state of mind? Contemplative.

Your favorite poem, ever: Dictee by Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, the whole book.

Read Kenji’s “Deconstruction: Citizenship” at The Rumpus

[30xlace]

Nikki Darling

Describe yourself as a poet in three words: image hungry, soul rippy, wet

What is your chief misery as a poet: Nothing. Poetry is one of my misery free activities. I write poetry to avoid misery, to makes sense of it. Essay's and criticism bring me misery.

What you appreciate the most in a poem: Does it gut punch me. Does it take my socks off and fuck me.

If not a poet, what would you be? I became all the things I wanted to be performance artist, feminist, essayist, poet, stripper, novelist, dancer, actor, lover.

Who is your poetry hero and why? Nikki Giovanni. She packs that Gemini power wisdom realness magic solution based word beauty. Truth. She is her own everything.

What is your idea of happiness? Spending the day with friends or lovers engaged in activities that bring joy. Aka, Disneyland high on an overcast day with the person I love.

What is your present state of mind? It's rainy in LA, I'm high and listening to Barracuda by heart. I feel gravy.

Your favorite poem, ever: Couldn't choose, but my favorite books of poetry are, The Awful Rowing Toward God, by Anne Sexton and Those Who Ride The Night Winds, by Nikki Giovanni. If I could make a cradle between them, I'd live there. Oh, and Adrienne Rich, Diving Into the Wreck. Each is necessary for my philosophical life and sanity, but there are so many!

Read Nikki’s digital collage/poetry chap Ascension at Light and Wire Gallery

[30xlace]

Adam Atkinson

Describe yourself as a poet in three words: Painstakingly imprecise!

What is your chief misery as a poet? There's that famous Oscar Wilde quote: "When bankers get together for dinner, they discuss Art. When artists get together for dinner, they discuss money." Perhaps only in this one respect does my life feel like one long dinner. Even as I type this, I suspect another ancient Mary Poppins banker has died, mid-sentence, discussing art, with no young banker stepping in to steward that crucial first half of the quote. Meanwhile I am quite the dutiful steward of my half. I was born there.

What you appreciate the most in a poem: Poets often describe poetry as a distillation of language, and I can hear that case--but it's too easy when I can trace a poem's methods in the moment, as I'm encountering it. No thank you to a language distillery tour with free samples of wisdom at the end. Instead: language that seems like an uncanny double of the language I know and use every day, an uncanny double of the language I suspect others might know and use every day, an uncanny double of the language of colonization, an uncanny double of feelings or thoughts I can identify as human. I speak, read, and write in English, and I don't have time for the ethical/historical implications to be glossed over by familiarity. Sylvia Plath's "The Applicant" comes to mind. So do poems by Douglas Kearney that are just this absolute war zone of language that (in Sarah Smith's words [http://gulfcoastmag.org/journal/25.1/no-explode/]) seems to be throwing its voices from afar. Or no, maybe I mean from deep within? Once I am trying to locate that, I am forced to try and locate myself too.

If not a poet, what would you be? In all seriousness, dead maybe? Dead maybe. I remember being 18, closeted, discussing Rilke in Yona Harvey's intro class and quaking with anxiety about whether I would ever sufficiently need poetry. I didn't have to wait long.

Who is your poetry hero and why? Lillian-Yvonne Bertram, Zachary Harris, Ben Pelhan, Anne Marie Rooney, and Sarah Smith. Also known as Line Assembly [www.lineassembly.org]. Naming one of my own poetry crews might be self-promotional, but after my last answer I feel momentarily liberated from caring. We toured the midwest and northeast in 2013, but well before that we were sustaining each other in clusters of hope and hustle. Which is really the 'why': Very slowly, starting in 2001 for me, we coalesced into a micro-community in Pittsburgh, and these people taught me what literary community is all about, what labor goes into that, and why I need it in my poetry life.

What is your idea of happiness? The end of institutionalized state violence. Touring with Line Assembly and meeting more of the millions of extra-academic poets in this country. Kissing boys between readings and workshops. Fashion without capitalism. (For now, such happiness is not present. But José, I will keep feeling for the warmth of a radiant horizon line!)

What is your present state of mind? Coffee.

Your favorite poem, ever: Right now I'm hot on Marion Mackles and Emilia Scifo from Kenneth Koch's Wishes, Lies, and Dreams. It's a photo finish, and my heart is a lens cap.

I Wish

I wish I was a beautiful chick who could be in any period of life

In the future in the past would be nice

Being Cleopatra in Egypt with handsome men at my feet

How about Annie Oakley putting on a show

Or being a pirate enjoying the gold

Even the first woman president in 3002

Also a bloodthirsty vampire scaring the men

Or Einstein inventing a potion for invisible guys

Maybe the first to live in an alligator plane in 2026

- Emilia Scifo, sixth grade

[untitled poem with the prompt "Lies"]

I am in New York in a cow's head.

I am still in New York in a cow's head.

I am still in New York in a cow's head.

Now I'm in New York in a flower.

I'm now in New York in a cow's head.

Now I'm in Spain taking a bath.

Now I'm in Spain taking a bath tub.

Now I'm in New England eating my friend in the bathroom.

Now I'm still in the bathroom eating my friend but I'm on a cow.

Now I'm in New York in a cow's head.

- Marion Mackles, fourth grade

Read Adam’s work at The Volta. 

[30xlace]

Mary-Kim Arnold

Describe yourself as a poet in three words: undone by longing What is your chief misery as a poet: all the poems that have moved me, but that I've now forgotten; all the people and things I have loved and now forgotten; forgetting. What you appreciate the most in a poem: long, slow burn. accumulation. sonic texture. music.  If not a poet, what would you be? for a time, I thought I might be a dancer. Who is your poetry hero and why? I think often of Carole Maso, and a little slip of paper taped to her office door that read "no heroes." I didn't understand what she could have meant at the time, but I think it is about trying to see people that we admire as whole, flawed, complicated; that to see them as heroes perhaps diminishes some of their humanness, their complexities. All that having been said, having had the chance to see Marie Howe, Anne Carson, and Claudia Rankine on the same stage at AWP was pretty great. Marie Howe read from her series of poems in the voice of Mary Magdalene. Anne Carson read the The Albertine Workout, and Claudia Rankine read from Citizen. To see these women radiate their power; it elevated us all, I believe.   What is your idea of happiness? sharing a lovingly-prepared meal with people I love; talking about art; reading, talking about books. knowing love. What is your present state of mind? well, the winter has finally released us, and I was surprised by daffodils in my front yard yesterday, so I am feeling rather fine; hopeful, like the future is rich with possibilities. Your favorite poem, ever: oh, well if one way to think about "favorite" is "familiar" or "deeply-felt," I will say "First Fig," by Edna St. Vincent Millay:http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/3298 My candle burns at both ends;   

    It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—   

    It gives a lovely light!

Read Mary-Kim’s “The Vanishing” at So and So Mag

[30xlace]

Mike Young

Describe yourself as a poet in three words: Orange bus socks What is your chief misery as a poet: The way every poem you feel good about is itself so desperately gulping that it believes it's the last poem you'll ever feel good about, and you always kind of think it's right. What you appreciate the most in a poem: There's a particular highway you can drive down in Northern California where you exit the redwoods and you're suddenly on these cliffs above the Pacific. Some poems also do that, and that's what I appreciate. If not a poet, what would you be? If I were to swap tuned language for something else, it would probably be for a tuned body, which means I would play tennis. 

Who is your poetry hero and why? Hard to pick one! I'm inclined to think of people alive, for one, who have sweated and spread poetry in the most graceful and inclusive ways, so I'm inclined to think of somebody like Dara Wier, for instance. What is your idea of happiness? Even harder than heroics. I'm on a train right now through a rain soaked Washington, where all the early blossoms are taking their oops-one-more-round-of-Winter bath. I'm happy toward some visions and less happy toward others. When the sky gets busier, people get shyer. One meditation technique is you check in with your body, starting with your feet and moving up, but I would hate to be the muscle I forget about. Luke is on the phone with Philly, but it's a person named Philly. It might be Filly. Last night, I said "Oh I don't think I'll ever have that 'high school friend who ends up later in your world in an interesting way' feeling." And Leena said something like "Yeah, it's like, you look at your feelings and you're all, oh darn, all I got was 'I'm in love,' was really hoping for that 'high school friend reunion' one, oh well."

What is your present state of mind?

Your favorite poem, ever: Haha, impossible! But here's a classic:

A Woman Driving A Stake Into The Ground At Midnight-Frank Stanford God, I have not forgotten you For sending all my children into your old ice boxes. I remember that goat You let them follow with a compass, Those wooden wheels you let them roll And break their first silence on. I watched those beautiful kites you let them glide, Their hearts all balls of string. When they were young and unfucked And old friends with the moon Spreading its cream over their lips As they slept, you came in The window with the light Like a cat on their necks. You leave When you want, the dark honey Of their breath you store In the catacombs of your lungs. Alone and licked, their dreams All rat-bitten and full of fever, They remember your words, Droppings on the white sheets. Where are the dead? In my arms, their panties pulled high, Their eyes and teeth all small and even. I remember your sadness, too. A pan of wash water. I threw it out in the chicken yard each evening. I wanted my love to be an orchard, Rows of thornless berries. I wanted my love To be death for the suffering. Like you, I knew a woman once. She was carrying a child. One night she cut it Out like a vine With her husband’s razor. I didn’t want you To forget my love Is a dark and rotten fruit on the ground, A deathbed for your dreams, And I don’t know you, now, Your sadness or your mark On everything we bury.

Check out Mike’s book Sprezzatura from Publishing Genius.

[30xlace]

Ginger Ko

Describe yourself as a poet in three words: I testify against

What is your chief misery as a poet: Unkindness, cruelty--whether active, or in the form of apathy or myopia

What you appreciate the most in a poem: When a poem is built with the personal as politicalIf not a poet, what would you be? A baker, or a dog trainer, or owner of a therapeutic cat cafe with sliding-scale services (this might still happen one day, Bastet willing)

Who is your poetry hero and why? Oh, this may be my favorite question, and I will unfortunately give a cop-out answer. I'm at a time in my life where I feel myself still on the brink of many things: I'm about to get married, about to start grad school, and still working towards what I'd like to do with my poetry. So when I meet women poets, and read their books, take their classes, meet their beautiful partners and children, and watch them persist against the capitalist racist patriarchy with a really good sense of humor, it is the most soul-bolstering, heart-feeding thing. They are all my heroes.

What is your idea of happiness? family, community

What is your present state of mind? restlessness

Your favorite poem, ever: Audre Lorde's "A Woman Speaks"

Read Ginger’s poetry at Twelfth House

[30xlace]

Oki Sogumi

Describe yourself as a poet in three words:

Sloppy, in conflict

What is your chief misery as a poet:

CAPITALISM KILLS MY FRIENDS

What you appreciate the most in a poem:

Interest in sabotage. Time-theft & understanding urgency. The ability to extract and then smear shit onto a page. Maps that don’t make sense to surveillance, but send all their triggers off with warning bells.

If not a poet, what would you be? Living in a warmer place.

Who is your poetry hero and why?

Not one person, but everyone I want to have a feminist sleepover with, all in one place and time. The feminist sleepover is the protagonist, holding that time and space, without dissolving contradictions. We’d live there a lot. Poetry would be more possible.

What is your idea of happiness?

The Paris Commune, but not in Paris and not over, etc.

What is your present state of mind? Like I want to wrap my body in a pink fringe and pretend that is clothes. A few nights ago I had a dream that still seems to be in the air--

A dream where you make out with so many friends. And you hold their hands. And make them cancel their other plans. And you make ravioli, watch them go from translucent to golden, and eat them for breakfast and eat it while touching their face. Just walking around the cities from friend to friend to friend. Everyone else who’s an asshole just might as well not exist. You politely shrug and the friends all know about waiting for them to leave, and then if they don’t, gently pushing them out the door. You forget to do basic things because of just being in love. You ride the bus and keep sliding the card but it's always the wrong way oops. And again and again but it doesn't matter. When you haven't seen someone in forever, there is a kind of mutual pouncing, in the grass full of clovers and daisies, but the pounces are slightly off time so as to recognize the hesitation and then the affirmation in the other person. Like everything had to be a little off balance to be just right.

Waking up it feels like a nice transmission of affection, from everywhere I guess. It's sunny outside finally.

Your favorite poem, ever:

A tie between--

Dictee by Theresa Hak Kyung Cha

&

People gathered around a riot video, gleaning and whooping.

Read Oki’s “Notes on Glazy Places (seeeeeeing like that), Part 3″ at Drunken Boat

[30xlace]

Sara Woods

Describe yourself as a poet in three words: milky orange trying

What is your chief misery as a poet? Tiredness

What you appreciate the most in a poem: Thick rubbery qualities

If not a poet, what would you be? More tired than usual 

Who is your poetry hero and why? Renee Gladman, because her poems got so long and thick they became a series of novels that lived in themselves

What is your idea of happiness? A world without fences, without people on top controlling others below. 

What is your present state of mind? I just left a beach.

Your favorite poem, ever:

Short Talk on the Truth to Be Had From Dreams by Anne Carson

Seized by a sudden truth I started up at 4 a.m. The word grip pronounced 'gripe' is applied only to towns, cities and inhabitations; the word gripe pronounced ‘grip’ can be used of human beings. In my dream I saw the two parts of this truth connected by a three-mile long rope of women’s hair. And just at the moment all the questions of male and female soul murder, which were to be answered as soon as I pulled on the rope, broke away and fell in a chunk back down the rocky chasm where I had been asleep. We are the half and half again, we are the language stump.

Read Sara’s work at Be About It