Friday Mar 29

Pasiuk-Poetry Andrew Pasiuk currently lives in Connecticut. He earned his bachelor's degree from the University of Richmond. He loves learning about people and the influence they can have on each other, how we can affect another person's frame of mind.  For him, communication is art.

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Andrew Pasiuk Interview, with Nicelle Davis
 
 
I love how you have recreated the historical “New World” experience to be something that emotionally resonates for readers. I truly thought that the sentiments expressed in these poems were timeless. Why do you think this particular time in history is able to spark the human imagination and psyche?
 
This particular time in history, a time of great experimentation and exploration, was intensely exciting and frightening at the same time. There were great opportunities to learn about this world around us. Understanding more about our world would allow us to understand more about ourselves. We were beginning to use our reason and our instinct to question beliefs and challenge the established system. It was enlightening. It was empowering. But also quite terrifying.
 
For what if we discover something that contradicts our beliefs? Beliefs that we’ve clung to for so long? What could this do to our nice, comfortable foundation upon which we have built our lives and framed our understanding of the world? Sometimes liberation is not so easily accepted. It could force our world to change dramatically. And being creatures of habit, we usually don’t take too kindly to disruptions in our routines.
 
I think this idea resonates loudly with a lot of people. Do we really want to know what else is out there? How much do we really want to know? A part of us is curious to know more, and a part of us is frightened about how that knowledge will alter the way we think about ourselves and the world around us. There’s always a gamble. For better or for worse, there would be no turning back.
 

If you could ask Christopher Columbus one question, what would it be?
 
I guess I would want to know if he had any alternate plans if he was wrong. I mean, what if the world really was flat? What then? I am curious if he ever seriously considered this question, or if he was just absolutely positive that the world was round. I can’t imagine how you prepare yourself for the possibility of falling off the edge of the world.
 

I love the lines: “The world was once flat. Life was simple then. / One could walk forever in one direction and never / see the same thing twice. Life is different now. We / train ourselves on curves, on the cusp of the finite.” What is left to discover once we realize the world is round?
 
What did the discovery of the “new world” do to the “old world?” It abated our role in the universe. It shrunk our world overnight. All of a sudden the world became round; it came full circle; it was finite. The world was no longer flat. We were forced to ask, then, what other beliefs of ours are also false? How much can we really say we know? How can we be sure if we are ever right? Ironically, the more we discover about this environment around us, the less we realize we actually know about any of it. Soon the earth would no longer be at the center of the universe: we would orbit the sun, which itself would be only a moderately-sized star among the peripheries of the universe. These discoveries may have opened our eyes to a “new world” of exciting ideas; but exploration of this “new world” has eroded our innocence and our importance. How small we truly are amid such a vast unknown.
 
This is what I am trying to capture: that while we are continually and excitedly searching for the “truth,” our new discoveries often break down our old beliefs and present us with even more questions than we began with. And then we wonder, are any beliefs safe? How do we know when our beliefs are incontrovertibly correct? A growing ambiguity arises between what is and what is not. And with that a growing ability to accept and internalize beliefs other than our own. It has brought us new perspectives—and we become unified in our solitude. As we become aware of our own insignificance in this temporary and finite life in the physical world, we simultaneously recognize the ever-expanding infinity around us, and with it the elusiveness of the “truth.”
 

Your line breaks are great fun; they are full of smart puns and visual allusions. How do you decide on the shape of your poems? Could you please describe your writing process? Do you do a lot of research, listen to music, run and write at the same time?
 
My writing process is rather unregimented. The majority of the times when I write it is unplanned. Very spur of the moment. I’ll get a little fragment of inspiration during the day and just start throwing words and ideas down onto paper. My inspiration is generated largely by my interest in the processes of human mind, which I observe most closely in existentialism, art, history, and language. It can be an idea, a photograph, or even just words that I find to be provocative. I try to combine great sounds with great images. And I want the reader to have to think in entirely new ways when considering the words and ideas they have read. I am drawn to the unusual, the esoteric, the nonsensical; in a word, the abstract. To me, this is the most accurate reflection of reality. Reality is random. It is unpredictable. Much of what we experience on a daily basis would make very little sense to us if we had not trained ourselves to give it meaning.
 
I like my poems to have an unpredictable quality to them for the same reason: so they can mirror unadulterated reality. The reality that lacks certain meaning until a human mind experiences it and reacts with it. I want to encourage various interpretations. Relative perspectives. I want people to question their own realities. No right. No wrong. Just an opinion or a thought, no better or worse than the next.
 
It was only fitting that I became quite fascinated with the form of the prose poem. I feel its loose structure is a great way to capture this unpredictability. It is conducive to depicting a verbal snapshot of a hazy, disjointed reality. As we try our best to sift through the chaos, we must consider that the meaning we give to it is derived largely from within ourselves.
 

What creative projects are you currently working on?
 
Currently I am just writing and trying to get my work out there. Some new material, and a lot of sifting through old material to edit and rework it until I’m satisfied with it. Sometimes it takes a while to get it right. Other times it comes out right the first time. There’s no test for it. Either it feels right or it doesn’t. But you can’t force it. It will happen if it’s meant to. Patience is key.
 

If you were stranded on a deserted island and knew no one would ever read your poems, would you still write? And why / why not?
 
Interesting question. So would I write purely for my own sake knowing that no one would read it? I would have to say yes. I do, of course, want to share my writing with others. One of my primary motives is to challenge people to question their realities. But I also derive a lot of personal satisfaction from putting my mind down on paper; being able to capture a brief moment, a thought, an idea in written word.
 
My role as a poet is that of a metaphysical photographer. I want to preserve an image that is beautiful in its own right. But once it is created I like to think that it stands alone, independently. That it belongs to me no more than it belongs to anyone else. That it is there for anyone to experience, whether positively or negatively. It’s living and breathing—it becomes a separate entity.
 
Being a part of this creative process can be magical. It’s creating new life. And this alone is powerful enough to keep me writing for the sheer beauty of it all.
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New World Insomnia
 
 
I am an opinion. Utopia undone. Every vagrant
knows as little. Has whittled wooden ears. Who
hears the Cricket Symphony enough to believe. To
talk to oneself. To make believe.
When I walk abandoned streets. When I yell
through hollow doors. You should see the birds on
the streetlights scatter. Drop morsels of road kill
like red rain.
 
 
 
The Others
 
 
It was getting dark. We were hunter-gatherers
in a city for the blind. We imagined ourselves
sitting before a feast. The table was made of coffins.
The lights were dimming themselves.
In one window there was an exorcism taking
place. The Lord of Gluttony could be seen gnashing
its teeth. Our arms were open, ready to embrace
sailors who had been missing for years.
 
 
 
Inquisition
 
 
The summer we went crucifying
Delinquent ants
And ran off fast
So as not to hear them scream
 
Then found new species
In the cellar after lunch
To evangelize
With forks and knives
 
 
 
Something Austere
 
 
We were exiled to the land of hopeless
romantics. There we saw centuries of maddening
women, the blind school teacher, a beggar
worshipping his pierced heart. There were too
many to count. A growing number gathered
around a hypothetical game of cards. I sat
between jokers holding bloody spades. They
made fools out of every last one of us, including
the ones up in treetops heard screaming at
something not quite there.
To our left there was sobbing, the holding of
heads in hands. To our right much closing of one’s
eyes, much talking to oneself before a vast field of
nothings, of many crucified Jesus’ wearing
earplugs.
 
 
 
Anonymous
 
 
The world was once flat. Life was simple then.
One could walk forever in one direction and never
see the same thing twice. Life is different now. We
train ourselves on curves, on the cusp of the finite.
Here we are with blank faces. Here with black
curtains drawn. We wear the hats of dead pilgrims.
We’re the world’s frightened guests. One could
grow very old just sitting here.