Lisa Ampleman is the author of a book of poetry, Full Cry
(NFSPS Press, 2013), and a chapbook, I’ve Been Collecting This to Tell You
(Kent State University Press, 2012). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming
in Poetry, Kenyon Review Online, 32 Poems, Poetry Daily and Verse Daily.
You can find her blogpost here (and thanks again, Lisa!).
And my small (if tardy) contribution--
1) What are you working on?
Currently, I’m a syllabi-writing machine, which isn’t
necessarily the art of which you want to know,
but it requires the same balance and honing as any writing project. Creatively,
I’ve been dormant for a bit. I finished my PhD dissertation this year, and I’ve
been patting that putty from palm to palm for a while, trying to mold it into a
book that explores distance as a way to find closeness otherwise impossible.
The personas goes to space, fall in love when they shouldn’t, fall out of it
when they wish they weren’t, love the earth and despair for her, and hope to
find the same proximity from the self that a human in space finds from Earth. The
poems explore spacing and a lack of punctuation in a way that my previous
work doesn’t. They also play with the idea of the pre-lingual versus the
lingual self. Oh, and clouds … lots of clouds.
2) How does your work differ from others’ work in the same genre?
I suppose it differs in the same way as anyone’s work when they are attempting to make genuine discovers inside him/herself. No one else feels the world the way I do (and no, that shouldn’t sound as adolescent as it might), which is to say that I experience joy, sadness, motherhood, loneliness, laughter, death, etc., in the way that only Lisa Fay can, and I hope that translates in the way I build poems. I strive to be honest and harsh and real with myself and my language, which is the only way by which I can try to identify myself and my surroundings, even if identification via sign and signifier is only ever an approximation.
I suppose it differs in the same way as anyone’s work when they are attempting to make genuine discovers inside him/herself. No one else feels the world the way I do (and no, that shouldn’t sound as adolescent as it might), which is to say that I experience joy, sadness, motherhood, loneliness, laughter, death, etc., in the way that only Lisa Fay can, and I hope that translates in the way I build poems. I strive to be honest and harsh and real with myself and my language, which is the only way by which I can try to identify myself and my surroundings, even if identification via sign and signifier is only ever an approximation.
A mentor once told me that I write poems that make people
uncomfortable. I’m certainly not the first or only poet to do so, but it was
never a thing I set out to do. It just so happened that what was gnawing at me
enough to demand the time and attention I give to lines of verse happen to be
things that hurt to look at. In many ways, and I’ve said this elsewhere, writing
(for me) signifies a desire to live, to keep moving through the world, so I try
to chase down and tackle—or sometimes allow myself to be tackled by—impossible
ache and confusion because it’s really either me or it, I guess. And I refuse
to give up.
3) Why do you write what you do?
Don’t you hate it when you answer the next question before you get to it?
Don’t you hate it when you answer the next question before you get to it?
4) How does your writing process work?
My process depends, in part, on whether or not I’m working on a deadline or allowing myself time to ruminate. If the former, I glue myself to the chair and either start tinkering with the line that’s been nagging at me, or I read around in an area of interest (such as clouds), as a way to ignite interest in sound and idea. Very often I get really geeked out on the metaphorical crossover between science and emotion. From there, a poem can almost build itself. Once I’m interested, I’m in. If the latter, well, there may not be a process to speak of, really, but it’s taken me years to get to a point where I can allow myself to go long periods without writing and not feel guilty for it or worry that I’ve lost something.
I guess anyone who knows me might be surprised to know that it’s really one of the only areas of my life where I’ve learned to roll with it and not get my undies in a bunch if things aren’t pouring out of me. I know that I’ll return to myself, to my language, and to the extreme pleasure I take in making discoveries through the process of exploring pattern, expectation, and fulfillment or destruction of such.
(& as a bonus, two of the faces that made me late to post)
My process depends, in part, on whether or not I’m working on a deadline or allowing myself time to ruminate. If the former, I glue myself to the chair and either start tinkering with the line that’s been nagging at me, or I read around in an area of interest (such as clouds), as a way to ignite interest in sound and idea. Very often I get really geeked out on the metaphorical crossover between science and emotion. From there, a poem can almost build itself. Once I’m interested, I’m in. If the latter, well, there may not be a process to speak of, really, but it’s taken me years to get to a point where I can allow myself to go long periods without writing and not feel guilty for it or worry that I’ve lost something.
I guess anyone who knows me might be surprised to know that it’s really one of the only areas of my life where I’ve learned to roll with it and not get my undies in a bunch if things aren’t pouring out of me. I know that I’ll return to myself, to my language, and to the extreme pleasure I take in making discoveries through the process of exploring pattern, expectation, and fulfillment or destruction of such.
(& as a bonus, two of the faces that made me late to post)
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