Your poems, at times, read like a key to unlocking a secret code. Do you think poetry, in a way, is the translation of a personal language?

Crap. Do I do that secret code thing? I guess I do. It’s probably a bad habit, one which sometimes annoys me in other poetry I read and one that I’m unaware of when I am in the process of writing, but I don’t try to be intentionally obscure. Words have a texture and a weight to me—sounds especially bring forth a range of associations through the senses and then images, like paintings, vivid and colorful occur in my own head when I’m writing, so how does this translate? I don’t know if my poetry is a secret code to a personal language; it should be a matter of communication and by communication I’m not thinking in a linear frame or perhaps even in a logical one. I try out a wide range of styles from traditional forms to experimental and I guess I’d say I’m largely influenced by art, the processes of creation, especially painting, and painters like Salvador, Matisse (and too many others to mention) but in the back of my head or in the bottom of my heart there are also all the poems I have ever read and though I often do write from personal experiences, when I write I pull from this history. I gather these symbols, words, metaphors, images and I replay them or spin them out in my poetry.  I also believe that there are universal sounds and rhythms, primitive perhaps, that as human beings we all respond to. There are certain sounds, vowels especially which reach under our skin and bones (all the variations of “o” and “a,” the oo and the ah for example) and rhythms (longer iambic lines interrupted by a shift to shorter spondee lines, two beat, three beat, four beat movements) that may in fact be imbedded into our very genetic code. (To explain what I mean more clearly, think of the sing-song, la-la we hear from the cradle, the rise and fall of the voice used to soothe a child.) A dash of that “LA-la” in language is what I feel we react to, and we recognize these symbols (words are symbols of sounds, the sounds become symbols of objects, certain words/objects and rhythms we seem to recognize from birth without the need for an explanation as to why) perhaps the recognitions is not on a conscious level but subconscious, or instinctive even.

In my poetry I am not going for something that needs to make sense or the click of the door when it shuts to indicate “this is the end of the poem.” Many of my poems are open ended, or maybe doorways lacking a door perhaps. There is no need for a key to them as they are just meant to be experienced or ignored, one or the other. It doesn’t bother me when someone doesn’t like a poem I’ve written, they aren’t all meant to be liked. I think a lot of my writing is a gut shot, or the visceral cut to the quick, yet schizophrenically they turn into themselves and seek the balm to that cut at the same time. Poetry can be a translation of a personal language, but I honestly don’t see my own writing as such—or rather, I’ve never considered that before, but how much more personal can you get, really, writing is of course a personal experience. I hope it also remains connected to larger, universal themes. My mind is always in the cosmos and the flowing of energy, it’s that energy, both positive and negative, that makes up life, and just the living of it, simply said—a sense of a peace and acceptance is what I try to find through language (and often fail) to capture on paper.

What role does poetry play in your life?

I read poetry every day even if I’m not writing. It’s become my church I guess. I believe in this like I believe in nothing else and yet it also frustrates me, disappoints me. It’s a very strange relationship. I’ve turned to poetry in anger, in despair, in hopelessness and I’ve always, always found…hope, peace, laughter, joy, relief—communion. I read a passage from Warren’s Audubon at my father’s funeral. I wrote pages upon pages of prose and poetry after the suicide of a friend. Oddly enough, Milton was a comfort and a distraction during this time. Poetry is expansive and it makes me feel connected to the world and others. It’s reductive too though, and makes me feel at times so completely deliciously isolated and alone; it makes me more aware of everything, more grateful, more attuned to grace and kindness, more attuned to everything. That can be annoying also. Often it feels like I am living in the world but not with the world. Do I trust poetry? It’s just words on paper after all, language. So, probably not. Basically I think I am saying that I have no idea what poetry’s place and purpose is in my life. I’m just happy to have it. I know this makes me sound like a fruit-loop, but eh, I guess that’s true enough too.

What advice would you give to a new poet?

Don’t do it? No. Wait, I’m not sure what “new” means, if you mean to a poet newly trying to become published I’d say first of all if you want others to listen to what you have to say you sure the heck need to start paying attention to what other poets have said and are saying. As I mentioned above I think poetry is a conversation, one that has been going on for years and if you jump in without paying attention to that conversation you will probably fall on your face, or get a kick to your shins, or be ignored. Be polite. Oh, and if you are writing poetry actually thinking of making a career in poetry, you should know Poets and Career Poets are different creatures, of the same gene pool probably and I’ve yet to determine all the differences. I think you have to at some point decide which you’ll be. I don’t think one is better than the other, I think perhaps Career Poets are just savvier at selling themselves. But saying Career Poet is like mentioning a Three Toed Sloth, rare and slow moving. Being a poet, a publishing poet, is most like being a mom though, late nights, few rewards, no appreciation, snotty attitudes, little validation, sibling rivalry, messes everywhere. If this sounds like a good deal to you, have at it then.

If you mean a “new” poet as in new to writing poetry: Write a lot. Then, read. A lot. Stop writing poems for a while. Keep reading. Anything, not just poetry. Start writing poems again. Read the masters. Read the canon. Read obscure unknown poetry. Read poems written on bathroom stalls. Read some criticism. Try not to roll your eyes or vomit. Some of it is actually very good and if you have read this interview and are still reading and you really want to know about some of those craft essays or books you can contact me via e-mail and I'll send you a list. (A personal request: Please never ever use the words “soul” and “hole” in the same poem. Never. Really, don't do it. Please.)

Realistically speaking, poetry, at its best, is a work of art and it supposedly takes 10,000 hours for any specific craft (from woodworking to painting) for a person to become a “Master” at it, so even if you don’t have an MFA if you’ve read, written, put the time into this art form…you’ll be where you want to be. Or become who it is you want to become. Maybe. On second thought, might be better to take up golfing or origami.

To close out the answer to this question I think I'll refer to a couple of quotes.

From Donald Miller, who is not a poet, as far as I know:

“We live in a world where bad stories are told, stories that teach us life doesn’t mean anything and that humanity has no great purpose. It’s a good calling, then, to speak a better story. How brightly a better story shines. How easily the world looks to it in wonder. How grateful we are to hear these stories, and how happy it makes us to repeat them.”

– Donald Miller, Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life

And another quote from Oliver Miller’s article “How to Be a Writer” (I do not know if Oliver Miller is related to Donald Miller, nor do I know if Oliver writes poetry either, I haven't asked.) The article is a great one, I recommend all writers of any genre and emerging or beginner writers too:

“[Y]ou’re going to have to realize that your writing sucks. Otherwise, you’ll never improve. But you also have to believe (against all hope, sometimes) that your writing is awesome. If you think you’re great from day one, then you’ll never improve and you’ll never get published. But if you always think that you suck, then you’ll get discouraged, and you won’t write for five to six hours a day like you need to.

“And that’s the awesome/sucky dichotomy.”

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