Friday, March 9, 2012

On Creativity (featuring Marly Youmans)





In this series of posts (which I’ll occasionally post on Fridays), I will feature an artist, writer, blogger, singer, or thinker. I’ll include a little information about them, and their answer to a question about creativity.

Marly Youmans is a prolific writer of both poetry and prose. I’ve long admired her work (here is a poem of hers that I love, from Qarrtsiluni) and collaborations with all types of artists.

Her new novel, A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage (Mercer University Press) will be available on March 30 (more info about the book after the Q & A), and tells the story of a Pip Tatnall, a road kid wandering America during the Depression.

My question for Marly:

When you write, what does it feel like? Is there a different mode or experience for fiction vs. poetry?

Her response:
I am afraid that I must be a rather secretive writer because I don’t want to answer the first question. The answer seems as secret as the answer to a question asking what happened to Tam Lin while he was with the Queen of Faery.  However, I will admit that my sense is that my poetry and fiction come from the same springs, though my “feelings” as I write are as variable as they are about any other repeated activity.

Nevertheless, I’m with Tom Disch on his remark in The Castle of Indolence (hat tip there to James Thomson) that nothing in the realm of writing feels better than “the lyric gush.”  But even in a novel or a very long poem, where one could not possibly rely on a sort of lyric uprising, there are portions that seem to have that same sense of outpouring and rightness during composition. In A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage, the first two chapters streamed out very easily, and it was not till I passed that mark that any of the writing moved more slowly.

In both prose and poetry, a writer—well, my kind of writer--hopes to be always ready for a waterfall of words that feels as if it sweeps to us and through us from some higher, more powerful realm. But with each, there is the work of grinding and polishing—and with prose, sometimes a good bit of patching and gap-crossing and some practical moving-characters-about-a-setting writing is needed. The differences between the two may be obvious, but what is less obvious to readers is that both call for the writer to abandon self and get lost.  Yet when I do, somehow I feel more myself and more in my rightful place than before.

---
A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage is the winner of The Ferrol Sams Award for Fiction. Ron Rash calls it “a vividly realized, panoramic novel of survival during The Great Depression. There is poetry in Youmans' writing, but she also knows how to tell a riveting story.” For more information, visit Marly’s blog, The Palace at 2 AM.


Thursday, March 8, 2012

58008

58008

In high school math, we learned
that there is something called
an imaginary number. I eyeballed
the lower-case i on the board, turned

it into a 1 by squinting. Aren’t all
numbers imaginary, like any marks
we scuff slates with. We know sharks
by one piece of their bodies, a small

fin poking through the ocean like a tooth.
A thing is real if you can touch it or
use it in a sentence or draw it for
your fridge. You can calculate truth,

math says. Type 58008 into your TI-83.
Turn it upside down for your friend to see.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Wolf

Wolf

Sometimes, a wolf gets in.
At first, his intentions for you
are unclear. He noses through
the cabinets and eats, but
leaves your flesh unmangled.
You go to work, to the bank.
When you return home, he
is still there, draped across
the sofa. He looks up at you
as you drop your keys onto
the end table, as you turn
from him to twist the bolt.
He sleeps on your clothes
because they smell like you,
the pile of them on your
bedroom floor. You let him.
The next day, you find gray,
wiry hairs flecking the sleeve
of your black sweater. You see
them, cactus barbs, and remember
the wolf. You nod at one another
when you pass in the kitchen,
hello, wolf. When you talk to
your friends on the phone, you
consider mentioning him. Do
they have an unspoken wolf
in their home, too. The wolf
is the best thing about you,
his choosing you is. Why me,
you would ask him if you
knew he would answer.
After a month, you wake up
alone. No wolf. You leave
the door ajar, his favorite
shirt of yours on the porch.
Now that he is gone, you
can’t remember how you let
him in.

Monday, March 5, 2012

All Language Does

All Language Does

The sharp click
the thumb encourages
from the pen’s end,
the click the mind
fills in. Where is
the sound. We want
to gobble it down,
file it in the Repository
of Noises, Available
and Ordinary yet
Powerful. The best-
selling birdcall
is made of cast zinc
and red birch wood.
When you twist
the metal peg in
the wooden chamber,
the squeak attracts
birds. Not because
it sounds just like
a bird, but because
the sound makes them
wonder what it is,
just like you, when
you hear a chirp
coming from your
cousin’s clasped hands.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Text-Based Art: The Paper



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