by Brittany Witters
Q. One of the first things I notice throughout How to Make a Mummy is that you utilize rhyme, particularly end rhyme, much more so than I have seen in modern poets. It seems that in the scope of modern poetry, rhyming has lost its edge or, dare I say, worth. What does rhyme bring to your poetry (that perhaps other modern poets are missing)?
A. While the majority of poems in the book do not possess end rhyme, enough do that I need to own the use of end rhyme as one way of getting at a poem. Some of this is a matter of aesthetic predilection. My concerns are primarily formal, so I am inspired most strongly by the complications and satisfactions of process. (For several years, this has led me toward more unfamiliar forms, such as my anagrammatic chapbook, Anagrams of America. In that series I anagrammed sixteen works by familiar writers. And I’ve recently completed a bestiary, Multiverse, in which every one of the 24 poems is an anagram of each of other poems in the project.) But I continue to be open to the new possibilities of older forms. "Alienation can breed intrigue, and I know I prefer those poets who seem to anticipate and reject my own presuppositions." What I like most about formal constraints, familiar or strange, is the big window they open for Chance to enter. For me, an evolving constraint in the work allows for the better hidden stuff to reveal itself. I think that even traditional formal patterns permit more accident than, say, the (still!) dominant organic lyrics of mid-twentieth century American poetry, in which, often, nothing comes through to me more palpably than the poet’s desire to maintain a novelist’s control over materials. Given an overarching scheme, isn’t it possible that aleatoric elements might fill in some of the particulars? They are very much welcome in my poems when they do. Also, two centuries ago, readers expected English-language poets to write in forms of meter and rhyme. For some time now, this hasn’t been the case. So perhaps that circumstance plays its part in my predilection, as well. Alienation can breed intrigue, and I know I prefer those poets who seem to anticipate and reject my own presuppositions. But I think I’ve overreached, and partly answered your second and third questions as well.
Q. Much of your rhyming also comes about in classic poetic forms, like the sonnet and couplet. How do these classic forms of poetry influence your writing?
A. The sonnets in the book are burlesque, of course, but I hope in all the recognizable, long-lived (undead?) forms that I employ, a sense of my sense of what’s already been done comes through.
Q. Throughout the book, I notice your penchant for experimentation in structure and forms. There is your sometimes scattered use of parentheses, as in "Caprice for Violin," the completely italicized stanzas of "Franklin. Swimming." and the side title technique of "Aqua-man." What fuels these experimentations? Are they aesthetic only, or are they also meant to reinforce the poems meaning?
A. Shit, you caught that! I’m afraid the absence of a concluding parenthesis in “Caprice” was a typographical error, though hopefully along the lines of brightness falling from the air. I did intend that the arrangement of subtitles and text in “Aqua-man” would contribute to the overall experience of reading the poem. I put them on the left-hand side, not quite level with the prose block text to allow the center white space to function as a fulcrum, a see-saw. Given that the poem orbits around the idea of transformation, this seemed fitting. Also, I didn’t want the subtitles to have quite the authority of titles, but more the authority of marginalia.
Q. You precede three of your poems with epigraphs, and given the variability of your poetic subject matter, I wonder what inspires you as a poet most in the world around us?
A. Yeah, I do get a lot from books. Most often, though, coming up with a system is more than half the struggle. Life is long, after all. Materials last longer than concepts, which too often announce themselves to me the way that I’ve imagined and envied killer rejoinders come to those quiet ones at parties who speak right before they turn to leave.
Q. One great thing about the poems in this book is that so many of them end on a solidly beautiful note. One of my favorite ending lines is from "How to Make a Mummy."
Don't get me wrong: answers matter,
To me, this reads as great advice on life, but more specifically, to writers and poets. Does this accurately describe your process of writing as a poet?
but belong in a book on a shelf,
not in your head. Process must guide
you now, to the end, to the thing itself.
A. Thank you very much. But the tone in this particular poem is intended to be comic. My daughter will tell you that I’m full of advice, but I certainly hope it doesn’t barge into my poems.
Q. Now, for some fun questions. These can be answered in a short phrase or sentence. What writer is currently making you jealous?
A. Prose: Stephen Burt for the sense of Close Calls with Nonsense. Poetry: Geoffrey Hill for his range of achievement (and cover photo).
Q. What is your relationship with rejection like?
A. An unfathomable God.
Q. Where is your favorite place to read?
A. Bed. Preferably mine.
Q. Which do you consider yourself--a reader who writes or a writer who reads?
A. A writer who reads to write.
Q. What did you have for lunch today?
A. A short stack with syrup, a cheese omelet, bowl of fruit, hashbrowns, biscuit, coffee and juice. (I burned a lot of calories answering your kind questions!)
Mike Smith was born in the mountain town of Philippi, West Virginia and now lives near Raleigh, North Carolina with his young daughter and son. He holds degrees from UNC-G, Hollins College, and the University of Notre Dame. He has published three chapbooks and has had poems appear in over forty journals, including the Carolina Quarterly, The Iowa Review, The North American Review, and The Notre Dame Review. How to Make a Mummy is his first full-length collection.
