Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Interview with Poet Djelloul Marbrook





















Michael T. Young: Thank you, Djelloul, for agreeing to an interview.
 
You were a journalist for many years. Your first collection of poetry came out in 2008. How do you think your many years as a journalist influenced your efforts as a poet?

Djelloul Marbrook: I started out at The Providence Journal-Bulletin as a reporter-photographer, so it heightened my perception of place and circumstance. I had to notice people and their circumstances more closely, not as a matter of survival, in the manner of a battered child, but as a professional observer whose work depended on noticing what others missed. For example, there came a time when a wealthy blue-blood WASP decided to contest our Irish-American governor in a primary. The newspaper was hostile to the governor, as it was to most Democrats, but in my personal encounters with the governor I noticed that he took notice of the ordinary circumstances of ordinary people and interrupted his schedule to engage them, while the patrician noticed only the most important hands extended to him. On another occasion I came late to a horrendous house fire. It was raining. The headlights of the emergency vehicles made each raindrop a kind of candlelight. Under the circumstances a decent photo was almost impossible. But I walked around and saw a man in a bathrobe holding a cat and consoling it. It was the owner of the house. Using the police headlights I photographed him from his starboard stern quarter. The photo ran six columns in the next evening paper and it won an Associated Press prize. So yes, my experiences as a journalist have had a profound influence on me as a poet. But there was more to come. When I went to work as a metro editor for The Elmira (NY) Star-Gazette,a heavily unionized newspaper, the composing room people knew I was a sympathizer and they allowed me to hold sticks of type in my hand. There I was among these fellow unionists holding words—words!—in my hand. It was an alchemical experience. By then I was writing headlines and thinking about Walt Whitman working at The Brooklyn Eagle. Headline-writing had a profound effect on me. You need terse, muscular words to convey ideas. You intuitively understand the nature of line break. And you know, if you’re any good, that a good headline has a certain meter. You whisper it to yourself as you compose it. How does it sound? “Yale’s Viking Map Knocks / Wind Out of Columbus’ Sails”—I wrote that two-column 24-point headline for The Baltimore Sun. It won a prize. Or consider this banner headline: “Fleet steams, Qadaffi Fumes.” But there was a downside to journalism that I would have avoided had I remained a sailor. The press composes the authorized version of everything and is insufferably smug and uninquiring where it should be inquiring. The press is a prime conveyor of the dread received idea. Only in old age have I been able to make this understanding work for me as a poet.

Michael T. Young: Brushstrokes and glances opens with the poem “Shabtis,” the Egyptian figurines in funerary rites. Throughout the collection, the dead and ghosts appear. What do you see as the significance of the dead in the collection? What are they to bring our attention to?

Djelloul Marbrook: Death is in some ways incomprehensible to a child. Having said that, let me go back to my infancy. My mother’s story was that my father had been fatally shot in a hunting accident while she was pregnant in Algeria. She later embellished the story to say a cousin may have shot him and called it an accident. But in truth he lived until 1978. So I had to deal with this death myth. When my mother took me to Brooklyn via London in my infancy she left me with her younger sister, Dorothy, and her mother, Hilda. Understandably I bonded with them. Dorothy was my idol. I was crazy about her. She used to take me skating. She made an orange-crate scooter for me. At age five my mother took me away from Dorothy and Hilda, away from my nanny, Peggy O’Connor, whom I also loved dearly, and sent me to boarding school. Nobody explained why. Several years later I was told Dorothy had died. So now I had two deaths to fathom, and I couldn’t.
 
As for the shabtis, we lived near the Brooklyn Museum, which has a famously good Egyptology department. That’s where I encountered the shabtis. I drove Peggy to distraction with questions about the shabtis. How were they? Did they have enough to eat? Where did they sleep? She and her brother Junior took me again and again to see the shabtis. I dreamed about them. I think in a certain way the people I lost, the people my mother was always separating me from, became shabtis. They guarded me, they accompanied me into the netherworld. As I grew up the list of shabtis became quite long. But I was afraid to go back and visit them because I felt somehow I had betrayed them, I had abandoned them. They had been everything to me and I had failed them. So I was always failing as I grew up. Poems consoled me. I could see loss in them, betrayal, courage.

Michael T. Young: The poem “Francisco de Zurbar├ín” says, “I mourn for what the dead give up;/they mourn for what I fail to see.” Do you think this failure to see could be corrected? Do you think non-artists could benefit from a basic artistic course in how to see with the focus and precision of an artist? If so, in what way would it help?

Djelloul Marbrook: I’m hot for this question, Michael, because I’m in the midst of a project of learning about poetry from my camera, just as I’ve spent a lifetime learning from paintings. My mother was an artist, and so was my Aunt Irene (I. Rice Pereira, the geometric abstractionist whose painting is on the cover of Brushstrokes and glances). The Navy taught me photography, although it wasn’t my rating. I was first a boatswain’s mate and then a journalist. Recently I bought a compact camera capable of taking RAW images. The RAW image contains thousands of details the photographer doesn’t see in his viewing lens when he clicks. They can be introduced to the final image in computer software. This, for me, is a powerful metaphor. We always take in more than we’re capable of processing at the moment. That’s true of the painter, too. And it’s true of us when we view the painting. There are thousands of recognitions awaiting us. But as we enter into these recognitions, as we engage them, we must also engage the artist, not what we know about him but what we intuit from the work we behold. Did Jan Vermeer love the maid with the pearl earring? Almost certainly, but that over-the-shoulder glance at him, what about it? Is it the very moment at which the girl herself recognizes the artist’s love? Or is it, as someone has suggested, the moment Jan’s wife enters the room? We don’t know. We don’t have to know. But we do have to know something, something we choose to inspire us, to enlighten us, to amuse us. I have always talked to paintings, and they talk to me—some of them, anyway. Some remain mute, perhaps knowing I don’t get them. Historically, especially in the Francophone world, there is a long tradition of artists and poets interacting. But I think poets would benefit incalculably from more contact with musicians, scientists, athletes and others. This was one of the splendors of the Convivencia in Arab Spain. So many of its Arab, Berber and Jewish poets were also astronomers, doctors, mathematicians, because the Arabs tended not to pigeonhole the disciplines the way we do. They saw no reason, for example, to parse alchemy from chemistry; alchemy is merely an adaptation of their word al-khemya for chemistry (khemya) with its article (al). This is why they were able to discover that surgery requires perfect antisepsis—their most brilliant minds spoke with one another, and their most advanced disciplines were often married to poetry in one skull.

Michael T. Young: The poem “Picasso’s bull,” opens with “We need a museum to show us/we can unbind our captive lives.” What do you see as the source of our captivity, what’s its nature and what is the means of our release?

Djelloul Marbrook: I think we live in a world of authorized versions, of Flaubert’s received ideas. No Child Left Behind is a perfect example. We tell the child what to learn, not how to learn. But museums are about how to learn. They open vistas. They’re hospitable laboratories for our own wildest speculations. At least that’s what the best of them are. What is Gauguin doing in Tahiti? Why does Corot return over and over to Ville d’Avray? Is Caravaggio angry, is he mad? Museums are in many ways what our schools ought to be, like the Montessori and Waldorf schools. They guide us. They suggest meanings. They give us history. But we’re on our own when it comes to arranging what we have recognized in our own minds. Increasingly we go to schools to have the furniture bolted to the floor, to have the windows barred. But in museums we rearrange the furniture of our minds. Perhaps more importantly, we are reassured that beauty and the individual’s way of perceiving it is crucial to life. Nothing is dying in a museum—everything is coming to life. But that is not what our pedagogical ideas of education are about. The press and the politicos and the corporados are our captors. They’re invested in our seeing things in certain ways. The museums are invested only in our seeing things. They’re helping us, not pummeling us, not bending us. That’s overstatement, of course. The Museum of Modern Art has often been accused, for example, of diktat.

Michael T. Young: The poems “Manhattan Reef,” and “By the pool of The Frick,” suggest an apocalyptic outcome, such as rising sea levels, if we don’t face what art confronts us with. What do you see as that confrontation? What connects the problems of climate change to the insights of art?

Djelloul Marbrook: I think I’m saying that our greatest treasures must not be taken for granted. They can be swept away; they can be drowned. The earth is always shaking off our ill effects, always trying to repair the damage we have inflicted. I don’t see apocalypse in the end-time context that fundamentalists do. To the Romans their fall to the barbarians was apocalyptic. To the Byzantine and Amazigh cultures the arrival of the Arabs was apocalyptic. To the Arabs the advent of the Mongols was apocalyptic. I see an ongoing alchemical process in which the cosmos tries to ennoble the elements, the species, over and against our childish notions about religion and significance. I look for the elixir, and in that poem, “Manhattan Reef,” I mean like Magritte or, more aptly, de Chirico, to transform the world by turning it on its head and inside out. I don’t mean it as a doomsayer. I don’t mean it as warning. I mean only to say, It happens; how will we be ennobled by it? “We” in this instance becomes a problematical word, because “we” may not survive in our present form. I believe, for example, that “we” are evolving towards androgyny.

Michael T. Young: The poem “Distraction,” in the first section and the poem “A naming spree,” in the second section both address naming as a vital, although perhaps ambiguous act. What do you see as its importance in the collection and how does it relate to art?

Djelloul Marbrook: It was my experience as a journalist that heightened my awareness of naming things. And perhaps it was my own difficult experience of bearing my “foreign” name in our society; it was certainly a trial, and not the trial of a boy named Sue either. It was a standing invitation to be disinvited. I think our culture not only names things, it pigeonholes them, and once a thing is named and pigeonholed it’s as if it had become unimpeachable, inarguable. For example, terrorists belong to Al Qaeda, never mind the Arab meaning of the word (the base) or the fact that reputable intelligence people doubt its existence. The same is true of the national debt; it’s a disgrace, a threat to our peace and security, even if it has been cut in half, even if we did have this debate at our inception and decided we must carry a debt. We are a society that does not choose to revisit what it has decided, what it has named. Americans should look like the Marlboro Man or Marilyn Monroe, and that’s that. That’s what our childish ethnocentrism is about: we have decided how Americans should be named, how they should look and behave. Naming is dangerous business, serious business. We ought to be at least as careful and mindful as the good poet in choosing words. But we have chosen instead Emerson’s bugbear, foolish consistency. That’s why we have entertained the stupid flip-flop debate. Dwight Eisenhower is famous for changing his mind about the military-industrial complex, but we have chosen to forget that in our zeal to label the inquiring mind a threat to society.

As for the place of this consideration in the collection, we’re influenced by the titles of paintings and sculptures, and we’re influenced by the names given by critics, curators and historians. Clement Greenberg says, This is Abstract Expressionism, so it’s no longer allowed to be anything else. Even worse, if the Clement Greenbergs of the world are thwarted in their efforts to categorize a work of art or an oeuvre and it may languish in neglect simply because the hot shot of the moment couldn’t pin it down, like a captured butterfly. We’re reckless namers and categorizers, and we’re always tripping over our own handiwork.

“A naming spree” consists of only three couplets, but it’s an important poem to me. I spend a great deal of time contemplating classical and Islamic containers in museums. The idea of containment is crucial to civilization, and predictably it has a dark side. Without amphorae the Greeks, Romans and others were unable to transport things. The unique shape of the amphora conforms to the curvature of their galleys. The Arabs, whose ship designs foreshadowed modern ships, had to rethink the idea of the container. The Arabs were concerned with elixirs and alchemy, so their containers began to take on strange new shapes. I deal with this at some length in Guest Boy, the first novel in my trilogy, Light Piercing Water.The dark side of containment in metaphorical terms is that it seeks to limit and therefore readily becomes a received and suspect idea. For example, the church may be perceived as the container of religion. It limits, defines and controls, the message on its own being considered volatile and dangerous. This is my view of many Christian churches.

So the idea of containment is crucial to understanding civilization, and the way we look at containers is crucial to the way we allow civilization to develop. The Arab view was wholly different from the classical view. The Arabs sought to ennoble what was contained. It would be facile but tempting to say the Greeks and Romans had a more practical view, but the Arabs were great merchants, travelers and seafarers, so they can hardly be accused of being impractical.

My poetry is rather obsessed with the contemplation of this issue.

Michael T. Young: You are quite politically conscious and I think this shows in the collection. What do you think is the poet’s responsibility to society? Do poets have a political responsibility? If so, what is it?

Djelloul Marbrook: I am politically conscious, but I certainly wouldn’t require that of other poets. I see a lot of writers deploring the lack of political and social engagement among poets and other artists. I think the complaint is as bogus as the many obituaries of poetry I’m always seeing. A poet does what it’s in his or her nature to do. A poet uses the resources he or she chooses to use. It’s a matter of respecting the gift as it was given. To require this or that of a poet or any artist is an ostentatious display of egocentrism on the part of the person requiring it. It’s also intellectual slovenliness. It says, in effect, I will not inquire into the nature of your work unless it conforms to my ideas. It’s akin to No Child Left Behind— intellectual regression. I think growing up in a boarding school and having a badly fractured family made me aware of politics at an early age. I’ve never been politically adept myself, but I am a keen observer. I found much to admire in small-town politics when I was a reporter. I grew up thinking I would be a great traveler. But the truth is I have not traveled well since leaving the Navy, and I find life-sustaining beauty wherever I am, most recently in reflections in manhole covers after storms.

Michael T. Young: What is your favorite poem in the collection? Why is it significant for you?

Djelloul Marbrook: My favorite is “The Fountains,” the last poem. Not because it’s the best, but because it best expresses my sentiments about museums. I’m haunted by what goes on when they close. It would be easy to say “Basquiat,” because then I could talk about how amusing I find it that the New York Police Department formed an entire squad to suppress his work. But “The Fountains” expresses my conviction that nothing is what it seems to be and all settled notions about art are suspect: nothing is settled or ever should be. That’s why the determinism in so much of our art and literary criticism turns me off. The hubris of the critics gives criticism a bad odor. They put on pageants of referential knowledge to make a point that arrogates to them more importance than the art they’re discussing. That isn’t true of all critics, of course. But it’s common enough. “The Fountains” also expresses my whimsical view of life. I like to think of the beasties partying at the urinals and bidets. I like to think of the artists making notes and sketches.

Michael T. Young: Are there any prose works that have noticeably influenced your work as a poet? What are they? Can you say in what way you feel this work or works influenced your poetry?

Djelloul Marbrook: Yes, Mark Helprin’s Winter’s Tale, for one. As you know, it has recently been filmed. A.S. Byatt, Iris Murdoch, Doris Lessing, Margaret Atwood, Glenway Wescott, Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, E.M. Forster—all are big influences. I should mention Mary Renault’s Fire From Heaven. I’m something of an amateur Alexander scholar, and I find his life haunting in many ways. As a child I suffered from an Alexandrian mindset. I was always asking, Why not? That, and my difficult name, got me in a lot of trouble. I love the story of the Gordian Knot, whether apocryphal or not, because it reflects my own characteristic response to education, which has never served me well in the presence of big egos.

Michael T. Young: What do you like to do that has nothing to do with poetry or writing?

Djelloul Marbrook: Photography, walking, bird-watching, gardening, reading, chatting with my wife, Marilyn. We both used to sail and lived on a sailboat for ten years, but we can’t handle the sail bags anymore.

Michael T. Young: Thanks for your time, Djelloul. Let’s close with your favorite poem from Brushstrokes and glances.
 
The Fountains
 
 
What of the urinals at night,
the demons that slurp
at these Alhambras?
 
What of the books and mannikins,
Spanish dukes and Polish riders,
are we a sub-species annoyance
 
after their revels and secret rites?
The race of janitors is mute,
as befitting acolytes.
 
In every painting a green-eyed wolf
whose keen night vision arrests
ghosts we leave behind.
 
Into the sun we go diminished,
having left behind a self
that chose four legs.
 
In every painting a twitching snout
parsing our most elusive scent
where we do not doubt.
 
I dream of beasts and otherlings
cavorting around bidets;
I envy them.
 

I would highly recommend Djelloul Marbrook's website: http://www.djelloulmarbrook.com/.  And following him on FaceBook.  He will keep you well informed not only of poetry but give you many alternative perspectives on current political, social and economic events reported in the mass media.



Review of Brushstrokes and glances

http://www.amazon.com/Brushstrokes-glances-Djelloul-Marbrook/dp/0982810016/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1392142161&sr=8-1&keywords=brushstrokes+and+glances
Click on the image to order
Brushstrokes and glances from Amazon
Brushstrokes and glances. Djelloul Marbrook.
Cumberland, ME: Deerbrook Editions, 2010. 88 pages,
ISBN: 978-0982810019
 
By Michael T. Young
 
It would be easy to laud this collection for its lively engagement of art, its history and beauty.  But to do only that, as the note from the publisher, the forward and the blurbs all do, would be to miss a large part of what it’s about.  Brushstrokes and glances is not only about art, but about how through art we see ourselves, how it stands as an indictment of much of modern society and how it might redeem us, if we opened our eyes and paid attention.
 
Like good poetry, the poetry in Marbrook’s second collection, is dynamic, engaging us on multiple levels at once.  It weaves his love for art with his love for his mother who was an artist, it threads the implicit ideas of permanence with the persistent reality of our individual and collective transience, and, to me, most importantly, it sounds the vacuity of modern society against the meaningfulness of paintings and other artworks.  This seems the most important because our culture needs but does not often celebrate or produce poetry that simultaneously engages sociopolitical realities and maintains high aesthetic standards.  
 
There are two sections in Brushstrokes and glances and the first could stand as one of the more elegant sociopolitical criticisms of recent years.  That’s not all it does, of course, but it is undeniably there and strikingly good poetry.  Such poems as “A Government like Caravaggio,” “Goya in iPodia,” “Basquiat,” and “Manhattan reef,” force use to look at the failures of our society while at the same time being pleasing poetic accomplishments.  
 
Some of the poems seem to say that the failures of government and those governed rest on the inability to challenge norms.  Governments plod along with the status quo and the governed shrug it off with the complicit assumption that it could always be worse.  “A Government like Caravaggio” concludes,
 
if it had his irreverence
for dogma and popes
it would help somebody.
 
This same assertion is more positively put in the poem “Painted Out” in the second section where it says, “the kingdom of heaven/rests on heresies we dare.”  
 
Our cultural failures reinforce this problem.  “Our diseases serve the system” (“Basquiat”).  We are encouraged to look at nothing deeply, but rather surf and skim so we are blind to anything that isn’t obvious.  Yet, that means we are blind to reality for in our world, as “Manhattan reef” declares, “More always rises than meets the eye.”  Or as the speaker of “Basquiat” exclaims, “one thing I always knew, always,/is that things aren’t what they seem.”  In the context of art, this means deeper meaning and commentary on our humanity, in politics and society it means layers of lies and betrayal.  The poem “The Color Black” asks, “what is it we don’t want to see/in a Ray-Ban world of anti-glare?”  And “I saw Mona Lisa once,” concludes, “image runs a gauntlet of lies/until one or the other dies.”  
 
Taking the time for a second look, slowing down to consider, observing closely is what both art and civilization require.  The collection is suffused with images playing behind the eyes and the need for a second look.  “Pierre Bonnard’s Late Interiors” asks, 
 
May we come in?
Only on second thought
perhaps. 
 
“I saw Mona Lisa once,” opens with “Everyone is worth a second glance.”  It is most elegantly stated in “Goya in iPodia,”
 
Someday, Francisco, we’ll follow you
into the dicey realm of doubletake
where nothing is as it seems and we know less
than we think we do and in that less
find the simple elegance of a second look.
 
Following Francisco is what the second section of the book is all about.  The collection’s title poem concludes
 
It isn’t much of a testament,
but it does suggest we never know
exactly who we’re looking at
or, just as important, what.
 
It is the wisdom of never presuming to fully know anyone or anything, which is different than living in the ignorance the collection decries.  But if art in general asks us to step back and look at our humanity or lack of it, the second section of this book steps back from culture and society to see the larger context of time and nature.  “Accordion of worlds,” which also titles the section, is a kind of Ozymandias poem that declares all civilizations come to an end, where a Roman statue of Athena is observed in an Arab garden
 
and you have some idea
how foolish we are
to exalt ourselves
in the nebulae
of light and dark.
 
Or, more simply, as “In a time of spin” puts it, “Civilizations come and go.  For all we know/so do worlds.”  So the apocalypse, usually in the form of flooded museums, and the danse macabre thread the collection with their threat, or perhaps, more accurately, with their imminence.  This way, the collection tries to arrest us in the time we have, suggesting that we take the time to see as fully as we can both what is before us and ourselves for “Not even zero helps to count/the ways there are to see us.” 
 
If, at times, the music falters or feels like an afterthought, it is redeemed by what seems the stated aesthetic of the poet in several places.  
 
. . . I don’t sing well,
but things have a way of tipping me off
to their true identities.
(“Basquiat”)
 
The diction here shows that Marbrook was for years a journalist and his need for clarity and truth align him poetically more with an ontological poet like George Oppen than a musical poet like Richard Wilbur.  What resonates is not the beauty of a phrase but its clarity, it’s aptness to tell us what we know but don’t have the ability or courage to articulate.  So when he says, “the danger of UV/is not as great as seeing well,” we know the environmental dangers of ozone depletion are a consequence of our own failure to seize the day, and know it clearly from the abruptness of the comparison.  
 
Comparison is a variety of contrast or perspective, one of the great elements of drawing which this collection employs to create emotional clarity and depth.  Marbrook’s relationship with his mother, a painter, provides contrast to the larger context of culture and society.  In that microcosm, the heart comes into play and gives rise to lines that are masterful for their poignant simplicity, such as “Art my mother never saw saddens me” and “No one can comfort a broken child,” and even at the edge where mind and heart meet, “intimacy’s more private than we think.”  In fact, in one of the more intimate poems of the collection, “My Mother’s Paintings,” there lies that which unlocks the collection’s suggested cures to our societal illness.  Speaking of his mother’s painting he says,
 
I am, God help me, the husband of this work
and must take better care of it
than I took of the hopes that haunt it;
now let them glisten in museums. 
 
The poet claims his past with all its faults, for only through that act can the hopes be realized.  This may speak, in the context of sociopolitical poems, of our culture doing the same.  In the longer arc of the collection, it speaks to admitting even the animal side of our spiritual struggles.  As the final poem, “The Fountains,” says,
 
Into the sun we go diminished,
having left behind a self
that chose four legs.
 
In every painting a twitching snout
parsing our most elusive scent
where we do not doubt.
 
I dream of beasts and otherlings
cavorting around bidets;
I envy them.
 
I’m reminded of Blake’s spectres, those entities that emerge from the repressed aspects of the psyche.  Here, those things in our nature we don’t face when we enter the museum, remain behind to prowl its halls after we leave.  The epigraph to the collection provides insight, a quote from Chapman’s magnificent “Shadow of Night.”  In the quote, night is “blacke in face and glitterst in thy hearte.”  These beasts are the glittering heart, what we must reclaim if we are to reclaim our humanity and perhaps stop our glide toward self-destruction.  This collection is another such glittering heart, offering to us a mirror wherein we may reclaim, if we dwell long enough, part of that image that is the best version of ourselves. 

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Interview with Poet Joe Weil


Michael T. Young: Thank you, Joe, for agreeing to an interview.   

Your most recent collection is called A Plumber’s Apprentice.  Unlike many collections out there, the title doesn’t have a title poem from which it comes.  The phrase doesn’t even appear in the collection.  I wondered if you could comment on it: why you chose it, what it’s meant to draw our attention to as we enter the collection and read through it.
 
Joe Weil: Well, there was a poem, “The Plumber's Apprentice,” published in Lips Magazine.  The story is rather involved but the friend who chose the poems for The Plumber's Apprentice decided “Plumber's Apprentice” the poem should not be in the manuscript.  It will be appearing in my New and Selected due out soon.  I never argue with editors.  I look at it this way: if they're wrong, they'll look wrong in retrospect and poor innocent me will look terrific.  If they're right, they just saved me a world of hurt.
 
 
Michael T. Young:   If you don’t mind my saying, I feel the descriptor on the back of the book doesn’t do it justice.  It reduces the voice to that of one that tells the hard truths as a mere bargaining ploy but it seems to be much more profound than that, more genuine.  That is, without a governing purpose for the honesty, collections that tell hard truths are themselves a kind of false stance like any other.  This collection seems to suggest poetry and beauty really have the power to redeem and save us.  As one poem early on says, “each beautiful thing is reprieve,/and stay of execution.”  The final section reasserts this, especially the final poem, “Filthy River,” which concludes “Sing in the river/until only the song remains”—certainly a kind of redemption.  Could you comment on this theme within the collection, i.e. the redeeming power of beauty and poetry?
 
Joe Weil: I was homeless for a while.  I was young and healthy and not rip-roaringly mentally ill (I was depressed as you might suppose).  No one talks about the sense of endless drudgery involved in poverty.  In my case, I was taking long walks to nowhere—just walking for miles.  One day, I found a ten dollar bill on the ground which in 1978 was worth far more than it is now.  Cigs were 75 cents.  I could get pork fried rice.  I could eat well that day, and I sat in thickets by the railroad tracks, smoking a cig, and seeing this bird I didn't know climbing down the trunk of a tree.  It bothered me that I didn't know the bird, so I went to the library and looked it up: Nut Hatch!  And then I started looking up birds, and trees, and weeds, and my long walks became a sort of ongoing urban nature lesson plan.  One day, I'm sitting there and I think: “Does anyone know I am a guy who knows the names of the weeds?”  And I cried.  I couldn't stop crying.  I thought only God knows me, and a few other nobodies.  I thought the real God is a nobody and the one people think they worship is just their social world.  When you leave that place where you know and are known, that social God disappears.  The weeds have names and nothing is without its history, but the world is all about pretending most things don't exist.  All you have is that God I think Emily Dickinson addressed when she said: “I'm nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody, too?”  I felt I had this God as my companion—this God of weeds, of things that are considered ugly, of no consequence.  It became a persistent theme of my work: not the beauty that is agreed upon and mass produced—but the beauty that ambushes us, that shows up in unlikely circumstances.  When my poems are good, they are exactly someone who is smoking a cig and sees a bird, and goes to find out its name.  Everything proceeds from there.  That's the seeking, the quest we deny exists in some horrible conditions.  This is why the communal sin of how we treat the poor is so egregious.  We are not just shunning people.  We are destroying consciousness itself.  The most revolutionary thing I ever did was cling to my right to look up a bird.
 
 
Michael T. Young: There is a very complex view of lies and falsehood within the collection.  There are lies we need against the horrid fact of death, all “the loving falsity Cordelia could not manage,” but then there are those “bogus spiritual comforts” that make one grateful to those who don’t mind appearing callous when trying to avoid touch.  Do you feel there are certain lies that are helpful or justified and others that are not?  What distinguishes them?
 
Joe Weil: It is arrogant to think we are capable of the truth.  We are capable of seeking it, hoping for it, and welcoming it as a possibility in our lives, but an old Persian saying submits that truth told without compassion and without fully understanding its consequences is not truth at all.  Compassion and the wisdom to know how to “tell it slant” are important.  Cordelia loved her father, and, in the end, reconciles with him, but her lack of tact and guile sets a shit storm into motion.  If Cordelia had had just a dose of her sisters’ poison—just a touch of the illness they suffered—enough to inoculate her against their worst tendencies—she may have been capable of realizing her father was old and wanted to make a grand gesture and hear, “well done,” before he died.  This is a play written during the Elizabethan era in which virtue in its pure form, its most extreme form, is considered a form of madness (See Henry the 6th).  To Elizabethan thinking, the saint is as much a cause of calamity as Satan.  That play, that wonderful play, should warn us that the extremes make civil life impossible, but then, there are times when civil life ought to be made impossible: storms clear the air.  When the civility of mere seeming, of fake goodness has grown too all pervasive, the saint, the mystic, the poet, the great comic, must expose such lies.  It is a balancing act, and my Grandmother was right: Life is a king sized bed with twin sized sheets. You'll never cover it all—with lies or truths.
 
 
Michael T. Young: There is an amazing layering of desire, want and lust within the collection.  I was especially interested in the couplet that closes “Clap Out Love’s Syllables.”
 
Stocks fall, leaves fall, we fall, yet, falling, praise
the fields of lust on which our bodies graze.
 
It is such an unusual stance to take with lust.  I wondered where you place lust as a manifestation of our basic needs or how you relate it to spiritual needs, if at all.
 
Joe Weil:  That poem was written right after the economic crisis of 2008.  I wanted to take some of the words of banking and trading and apply them to desire—to lust, not as a moral precautionary tale, but to find some meaningful coordinate for how different terminologies (banking, trading, lusting/loving) could share a new dynamic.  It was an experiment with the metaphor and with what I suppose is called “the trans-valuation” of values.  We don't see lust as sacred, but it is.  It drives the life force.  What I was saying was that desire in its sacred context trumps the market—transcends stocks, and bonds and all that.  Every complicated thing we do is done very often just to win some moments of abandon.  I also am interested in the courtly poets, and in word play.  That poem had a lot of word play since both the courtship of lust and that of the market is learning the art of play—of smoke and mirrors.
 
 
Michael T. Young: The poem “Dead Things” says “perhaps misremembering/is a form of prayer.”  Another poem in the collection is called “I Am What I Remember” and includes the line “Memory lies.”  I’m curious: what do you see as the relationship between who we are and the weave of false and accurate memories?  Additionally, since the tradition is that memory is the mother of the Muses, what do you see as the relationship of false memories to poetry and its creation?
 
Joe Weil: I tell my students that their day begins with a selection from existence (what they give their attention to) and then the part of the brain that puts these perceptions into a coherent pattern of being is activated.  In dream states, that part of the brain that gives coherence is shut down.  The memories of the waking mind and the sleeping mind are privileged by different structuring strategies.  These different strategies do not live in isolation one from the other but meet, and merge, or almost merge, or almost resist each other.  That dynamic is part of our being, and so memory is never truly loyal to our selected narrative of what actually happened or to our un-selected narratives.  The snow you did not notice melting into your Navy blue coat might become a former lover melting into the oblivion of a blue landscape, or you might dream you melt like a snow flake on her tongue.  But memory, waking memory, might exclude all these possibilities, and all you remember is that you went to the store and bought a six pack of beer.  The procedural: just the facts sort of writing we consider closest to the plain truth of things, is little more than a series of lies by omission.  As Kafka said, the minute you write that she opened a window, you have already begun to lie.  Miss-remembering is a form of prayer.  It is supplicant prayer.  It represents our desire and our “Way” of wanting things to be—being towards a hoped for meaning to our lives.  “Memory lies” is also true, but the lies carry their own emotional truths.  You can learn a lot about a person by knowing what they lie about—and not just intentional lies, but what I call the lies of the adamant—that which they would swear is the truth upon pain of death, but which is really only a resolving of  their cognitive dissonance.  People lie to stay in their comfort zones.
  
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The Plumber's Apprentice
Michael T. Young: In such lines as “I obey//only to annihilate you” or “a newness/in the east!/a vermillioned somethingness/of which we are too/distantly a part/in 'I quit,' 'That’s it,'/'fuck you!'” there is a startling meld of amor fati and carpe diem, ways of refusing and embracing simultaneously to assert the self in a hostile situation.  Do you relate this stance to anything philosophical or do you see it as purely a psychological reaction to an oppressive situation?  Do you see this stance in any relation to the questions of memory and failures of memory which the collection addresses?
 
Joe Weil: First, I was having fun with Wallace Stevens in that poem. Instead of vermillioned nothingness of which we are too distantly a part, I changed it up.  Second, to me all philosophy helps make life more portable—to be carried in this or that conjecture, in this or that situation.  In so far as it is situational, true philosophy is not consistent, but it speaks in emphatic ways toward the moment of a verity with the hope that something in it is eternal, or universal, or final.  If one truly obeys, the system is no longer necessary for one has embodied the whole of the law; so true obedience destroys the law.  We are incapable of true obedience.  In that poem the speaker seeks to “annihilate” God by absolute obedience.  There's a term for that in psychology where one sublimates and expresses aggression by being extremely compliant and even slavish.  In this poem though, I believe this is the high and mysterious hurt of the true lover.  In the most extreme situations of being, the contradictions are unavoidable.  To be in such cognitive dissonance and to not resolve it is the true advent, the true faith.  It is agon, birth pain: I will not solve, I will wait in this place where waiting is impossible.  I can't go on and so I will go on.  This is not a space that is easy for human beings to accept.  It is absurd.  We resolve the cognitive dissonance—almost always with a lie, a compromise.  In that poem, the speaker is telling God he will absolutely not resolve the dissonance.  His love and hatred for God are both unstable, both absolute in their instability, and the greatest integrity is to remain in that awful state until God speaks from the maelstrom or the speaker of the poem dies.  It is someone saying that even his no is a yes, and even his resistance is an act of obedience.  It is absurd, and contradictory.  Memory can either reconcile contradictions (lie) or it can hold them steadfast (suffering towards truth).  Keats’ negative capability gets at it, except I don't believe one remains serene in that negative capability (except with writing) as Keats himself showed in his life.
 
 
Michael T. Young: In the first section there is the poem “When I Was Twelve,” and in the closing section there is the poem “Poet as a Young Voyeur.”  What do you see as the significance of your younger self in the collection?
 
Joe Weil:  A lot of my younger “self” in these poems watches—witnesses, getting it wrong and right at the same time.  “Poet as a Young Voyeur” is all about noticing what the world might consider pedestrian (a bald man watering his lawn at dusk) and making the pedestrian into a thing of wonder.  What I call the wonder-making “sympathy of the detached.”  It is a comical, almost cartoon rendering of how we are never or seldom in our lives.  We are always above or below them, but seldom in them—for a brief moment the 8 year old notices Venus, the evening star, and it seems the man he has been watching notices it, too.  He thinks the man looks up at the sky as if his real life were there where the dark “swallows them whole.”  “When I was 12,” is about the narrator's first crush and how it expands his sense of the significance of all that surrounds him.  The girl, rather than being the focal point, is more the catalyst in the speaker experiencing an intuition of the enormity of life.  Both poems represent an expansion of being.  This is important in the book.
 
 
Michael T. Young: Do you have a favorite poem in this collection?  Which one is it and what is significant about it for you?
 
Joe Weil:   “Poem for Advent” is my favorite.  When the speaker insists he is both “Con and evangelist” that pretty much sums up the strategies of contradiction these poems are fascinated with.  Con means “with” in Latin and Spanish, but in English and American English it connotes a situation in which you are conjuring someone, creating a false expectation with someone to your advantage.  The confidence man is a great figure in the American mythos: he sells hope of riches.  He gains your confidence.  We don't consider him a creature of grace, but he can be.  I am playing with how close true spiritual belief is to the con.  The angel says “fear not.”  The angel draws us in.  It's a sales pitch.  Grace is getting something for nothing, gratis, and the greatest cons, including one who shares my name, Joseph yellow kid Weil, say all cons are perpetrated on someone thinking they are going to get something for nothing (usually money).  This poem “For Advent” is my most complex poem in terms of meaning.  In it we “despair” more deeply into joy, this dark thing that comes to save us from our “truths,” meaning those that are grounded in false epiphanies, in their own self-deceit.
 
 
Michael T. Young: You are very conscious of social and political issues and inequalities.  I’m curious, what do you see as the poet’s role in society?  How should our poets rise to that role and take part in shaping our culture both socially and politically?
 
Joe Weil: The role of the poet is to write well.  That is, his mitsvah (love of neighbor), his shema (love of God or ontological truth) is to somehow believe that writing well has worth beyond what he can deliberately institute or know.  I don't think political issues are at the heart of my poems, but the sermon on the mount, the reversal of values, and the idea of Eucharistic reality in which the king and the beggar are one certainly is at the heart of my poetry.  When you insist there is infinite value in what is sacred and what is Grace under the appearance of the thrown away and the broken, this makes your poems political without trying.  Ferocity is too often avoided in our spiritual poems.  I hate that.  The poets of serenity are too often selling a noxious brand of “feel good.”  Serenity junkies mistake serenity for God.  They seek the understood peace of nice things, and happy silences, rather than the peace that surpasses all understanding—peace in the maelstrom and without rejecting those who have no peace.  They refuse to admit their serenity and spirituality is built on the exploitation, starving, and oppression of millions.  It is a spirituality privileged by affluence.  It costs a lot of money to be serene like that.  How many slaves did it take so that we could sit in the garden at evening listening to the fountain, drinking good wine, having lofty thoughts, and talking about how awful slavery is?  How often do we make our heaven from someone's Misery?  I am political in the way Simone Weil was political: one should choose to give one's will freely and without reservation to God and to surrender the self into God, but that is not a free choice for the poor.  The poor are compelled by affliction.  They suffer most by having necessity become so overwhelming.  A monk makes a choice to be impoverished, and that is a world of difference from someone who is forced into slavery or prostitution or injustice at an early age and is robbed of the right to choose the poverty to which they are condemned.  A poet must return or give true value where it has been taken away.  This the poet must do by writing well.  Bad writing kills truth deader than a lie.  The poet must write well.  That's the imperative—the whole of his or her mission.  That is the first and last.  Then, the shemah of a writer is the hope that good writing has an effect and a usefulness he or she will never be able to manipulate or foresee.
 
 
Michael T. Young: Are there any prose works that have noticeably influenced your work as a poet? What are they? Can you say in what way you feel this work or works influenced your poetry?
 
Joe Weil: My favorite form is the short story.  “Gimple the Fool,” “For Esme with Love and Squalor,”—just about every story by Flannery O’Connor.  All the stories of Chekhov, and Gogal.  Nabokov's “That in Allepo Once,” Joyce's “The Dead,”  The Death of Ivan Illyich, Williams Carlos Williams' zany and wonderful, In the American Grain, the stories in the Bible, Bernard Malamud's amazing and forgotten collection The Magic Barrel.  Winesburg, Ohio.  You Know me, Al, by Lardner; The Great Gatsby; Day of the Locust—Eudora Welty's stories.  Grace Paley, Philip Roth, James Baldwin, Buber, Kenneth Burke, Susan Sontag.  All of these works or writers have reflected a sense of hard earned empathy and compassion, but best of all, a mastery of style and enchantment—a sense of humor and double-consciousness.  George Bernanos had a profound effect on me.  I am a comic poet.  My music is broken to a purpose of comic consciousness—what my dear Kenneth Burke called perspectives by incongruity.  I never worried about categories too much.  I found paragraph structure limiting, and so I put stories into lines, but I don't think having prosaic elements in a poetic context is an aesthetic blight.  I hate purist sensibilities.  These works have given me a strong sense of a speaking voice, and of using different registers of speech.
 
 
Michael T. Young: What do you like to do that has nothing to do with poetry or writing?
 
Joe Weil: I like to play the piano.  I like to google things like the history of White Castle, or the life of Jack Benny.  I love youtube, and fishing.  I enjoy digging, and carting as long as I don't have to do it for a living and a foreman isn't standing over me.  Love walks, eating oysters—but, hey, everything has to do with writing.  I like to misuse face book.  Love Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  Love to sit around a kitchen table and yack until I am sleepy with good talk and I have to go to bed, leaving the conversation to continue somewhere else in the world.
 
 
Michael T. Young:  Thank you, Joe, for such an amazing wonderful interview.  Let’s close with your favorite poem from The Plumber’s Apprentice.
 
 
Poem for Advent
 
 
The world takes us at its leisure
slowly, by increments of infamy
or “virtue”
 
and beyond that taking
we wager freedom
against our corpses,
trick ourselves into living
 
fully—whatever fully means.
I am writing this in the dust
of an old Chrysler,
its lascivious grill, its chrome
freckled with rust,
 
its front end grinning
like Burt Lancaster
in Elmer Gantry.
 
What do you mean?
 
A million dollar grin,
the atavistic power of healthy teeth
 
might convert a nation (see Joel Osteen),
might make us believe
in the power of “abundance.”
 
But suppose I write:
 
“Lack is the necessity of being.”
 
The nation will turn against me.
 
The sun is a used car salesman.
To get something for almost nothing
is the pitch of grifters and of angels.
And I have been both
con and evangelist.
 
“Fear not” says Gabriel,
the usual line
(See Britannica, 1962: how an angel gets one foot in the door)
“For the Lord of Lords has chosen you.”
 
And the little girl inside us nods her head.
 
“Yes.”
 
The birds cheep.
Bird twitter and angelic hosts are all around us.
 
I am postponing the inevitable
until further notice.
 
Pregnant with God,
I write in the dust of an old Chrysler,
all the sins of the ones with stones.
 
Slowly they turn away,
and I am left with the woman
taken in adultery,
and I am left with my own
trembling girl, who kneels
in the deepest part of my sarcasm,
beyond all cons, who cries
 
Maranatha! Who waits
that the spirit might shadow her,
that the womb might not be empty,
that, even in despair, the soul might
feel its worth, and, feeling it,
despair more deeply into joy—this dark thing
that comes to save us from our “truths”
 
this dark season where poverty is blessed.

 

 
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