Ep.124 – Caleb Klaces & Jess Chandler

ep124 Caleb Klaces

Episode 124 is now available to download wherever you get your podcasts. In this episode I chat to Caleb Klaces and publisher Jess Chandler. This will be the penultimate episode of the series that I produce and I will stepping down as producer after episode 125.

The new producers, headed by Peter DeGraft Johnson a.k.a The Repeat Beat Poet, will begin producing new episodes later this year. More information to follow.

Below is a transcript of the latest episode, minus the readings by Caleb. For a full transcript please download it here.

 

TRANSCRIPT:

Host: David Turner – DT

Guest: Caleb Klaces – CK

            Jess Chandler – JC

 

Intro:

DT:      Hello, welcome to episode 124 of Lunar Poetry Podcasts. My name is David Turner. How are you lot doing? In a break from the norm I am joined for this intro by PJ a.k.a The Repeat Beat Poet. Hello PJ.

PJ:       Hello David.

DT:      In accordance to social distancing measures, we are recording this intro via video call. So it will be a little bit glitchy, I’m gonna fade PJ in and out as we’re chatting just in case there are any hums from the Internet. The reason for PJ’s presence is that this episode is to be the penultimate episode which I produce and will in fact be the last that I introduce. I’ll be standing down completely after episode 125 and what will be just about six years of my life. PJ, I think the best thing is for you to introduce yourself a little bit.

PJ:        Thanks for having me on like this. By way of introduction, I’ll just say that I’m 25 years of age, at time of recording and I’ve been a poet for five-and-a-half of those years. Almost about the same amount of time that you’ve been producing Lunar Poetry podcasts. For the full amount of time that I’ve been a poet I’ve been listening to these Lunar Poetry Podcasts, so it’s informed a lot the way I approach thinking about my own work.

Broadly, I’m a poet, a DJ, a Hip-Hop artist, I’ve spent the last three years on a kind of permanent tour and gigging at a high rate to help me think about my performance style. I’ve always loved podcasting and journalism, I was a film writer and journalist for around three or four years as well… so what I’m hoping to do with the Lunar Poetry Podcasts in the short term is just, more of the same really.

I love how clear this podcast is and how much freedom it gives poets to talk about their work, so this is the sort of thing I’ll be doing when I take over the good ship Lunar Poetry Podcasts.

DT:      As regular listeners may know, PJ has already been part of the series, both reading his own work in some of the special episodes, he has appeared as a guest and he has also interviewed Thomas Owoo at the time we were able to have guest hosts.

Had I done my research properly and prepared for this intro I would have found and listed all the episode numbers that you’ve been part of, PJ, but I will put them in the episode description. So if anyone wants to check out your time as guest or guest host they can just click those links.

I think the important thing to say at the moment is that there won’t be any massive changes immediately when PJ takes over but I will be stepping away completely and as time goes by PJ will be free to develop the series in any direction that he wants.

Just a rough timescale, it’s gonna be around October-time that you start producing your own episodes and this will be around the sixth anniversary of the series.

PJ:       Yeah, October is when we planned to move back to a more regular schedule. We had this planned before the global pandemic and so we’re making some readjustments to the pre-production but to you, the listener, the end result should be the standard and high quality that you’ve come to expect from such an esteemed podcast.

DT:      I don’t want to drag this podcast out too much because I know people are here for our guest and the new episode, so I just wanted to introduce PJ so that you knew his voice and when he popped up in what will be my last episode, the next episode number 125, it wasn’t some massive surprise. I hadn’t just walked out on all of you.

To today’s episode, back on the 7 February, I met up with Caleb Klaces and publisher Jess Chandler to talk about Caleb’s latest book, Fatherhood. This conversation was recorded before Covid-19 hit Britain so is refreshingly free from any virus chat.

Fatherhood was published by Prototype Publishing in 2019 and was longlisted for the Republic of Consciousness Prize and is Caleb’s debut novel. After reading Fatherhood I became a little bit obsessed with the book and its combination of fragmentary prose and sequences of verse. It took some planning but I was very excited that Caleb and Jess could make it over to Walthamstow to chat with me.

As always you can download a full transcript of this conversation over at www.lunarpoetrypodcasts.com and you can follow me @Silent_Tongue on Twitter. There will inevitably be some new social media accounts to follow once I step away from producing the series but I’ll let PJ tell you about that in the next episode. That sounds alright doesn’t it PJ?

PJ:       Yeah. It sounds good.

DT:      Anyway, that’s all from me and PJ, but I’ll be back at the end of the episode with some more information. One last thing, if you enjoy this episode then do tell people about it. In light of recent events it’s become even more difficult to reach new audiences so do shout, or even whisper about us. And lend PJ as much support as you have to me over these years.

Here’s Caleb.

Conversation:

[We are unable to reproduce this reading here. Please download the full transcript here for the full reading.]

DT:      Thank you very much. For the listeners, I’m no doubt repeating what I just said to you in the introduction, which I am going to record in two months’ time from now, but in a break from the form of the last few episodes, I am joined by two guests today, rather than one. I always say it’s because they do a better job, but it’s more that I don’t have to do the research. I’m going to let my two guests introduce themselves. We’ll begin with Jess.

JC:       Hello. Thanks very much for having us. I’m Jess Chandler and I run Prototype, publishers of Caleb’s novel Fatherhood.

CK:       Hello, I am Caleb Klaces and I am the author of Fatherhood, which Jess has published.

DT:      We’re mainly meeting because I bumped into Jess at, which book fair was it? Was it the Small Publishers Book Fair?

JC:       I think it was the Small Publishers Fair.

DT:      I asked Jess what she would recommend from the table. Without putting you in an embarrassing situation to your other authors, you did slide Fatherhood towards me first. It’s because we’d been talking about my own writing and you thought it might interest me. Not only did it interest me, it really blew me away. It’s one of the best books I’ve read in a really long time.

More than that, it hasn’t left me since the first time I read it. It’s really been haunting me in a lot of ways and I was really desperate to talk to Caleb about the book, but I thought it would be really nice to bring on a publisher and chat about how these types of books get put together and why. I’d like to begin by asking you, Jess, how do you sell this book to people? What description do you give it?

JC:       Good question. It is a novel, although its form is experimental in many ways. I haven’t had any problem in simply selling it as a novel with a narrative, with many of the traditional, novelist elements about it, even though it combines prose and poetry. When I was sent the manuscript, I had been thinking about poets who had been writing novels and that was one of the things which drew me to it, because apart from just the fact that it does have sections of poetry, I think it’s written with a kind of ear and care for language and rhythm of a poet, which Caleb is as well.

So I think that’s something I would emphasise when describing it to people as well, that it’s a kind of hybrid of forms. I had also just become a mother when I read it and I think that obviously meant it resonated with me in lots of ways, although I think I’m also careful to tell people that it’s not just a novel that will feel relevant to people with children, because it’s about so many other things.

DT:      I don’t have any children. I enjoyed it, even though my wife and I have decided we are going to do the horrible thing and not give any grandchildren to our parents. Caleb, that description from Jess, how does that sit with how you feel about the book?

CK:       I’m very grateful to Jess for taking that responsibility away from me because I wouldn’t necessarily know how to describe it. The nice thing about the novel as a form is that it’s capacious enough to withstand quite a lot of internal difference and still qualify as that thing. Is there anything I would add? No.

DT:      I was thinking about that today, as I was sanding a table-top, because I’ve been at work and doing my normal routine, but I had a few jobs which allowed me to think about what we might talk about today, which is not always afforded to me when I’m at work. We briefly touched on Sanatorium, which is the new book by Abi Palmer, who regular listeners to the podcast will know.

She’s been a guest a few times. I’m looking at the cover of the book now and the tagline is ‘memoir, creative non-fiction’. I suppose if I was trying to describe Fatherhood to people, I’d be tempted to use the word memoir, but that loads it with this idea of it being truthful in a way I don’t feel is perhaps that important to you.

CK:       No, it’s not, and I think that’s partly where coming from poetry, and initially large sections of it were written as stand-alone poems with their own integrity, and I think it was probably written with the sense that comes from poetry where perhaps that question of fidelity to reality, is it fiction or non-fiction, doesn’t quite pertain in the same way.

So then when it evolved into becoming a novel, or when that seemed necessary, to write it through and give it the momentum of prose, those kinds of assumptions then carried over for me. I think maybe there’s a distinction, I was reading something recently which made a distinction between the personal and the intimate, and I think it’s a very intimate book, but it’s not necessarily personal. I kind of know what’s fictional and what isn’t, but it’s not that important to me.

DT:      That’s a really brilliant way of framing it, the difference between the personal and the intimate. I read Fatherhood just after finishing my own book and talking to Abi about Sanatorium. We were both trying to find ways of explaining to people that whilst aspects of our own writing seemed very truthful, the realness or the truthfulness of it is not what we’re aiming for.

I think both myself and Abi are both aiming for intimacy in our writing. Fatherhood is intimate from cover to cover. I really want to know if it’s the truth or not. Before we go too far down that, how did this manuscript fall into your lap? Was it a submission?

JC:       It was actually sent to me by Caleb’s agent at the time, but I kind of knew of it because I’d published Caleb’s poetry in the Test Centre, which is the former incarnation of Prototype in our magazine. Caleb had sent us what essentially was the early manuscript, which was a poetry collection.

To my part shame but probably for the right reason, I think now proven, we decided not to publish it. It hadn’t quite found its voice and form yet, which probably Caleb came to agree with. I absolutely loved it, there was no doubt I wanted to publish it and I was so excited when Caleb said yes.

It came to me as a prose manuscript, although I knew its history, which made it even more interesting, I think, as somebody who publishes both poetry and prose.

DT:      I don’t normally write many notes. I try not to because I find it – I was going to say ‘ruins my interview’ style, but I don’t really have an interview style – but I feel like once I’ve written a note, I should read it. There was one thing that kept coming over, and this is definitely a question for both of you, how relevant was it that such an overwhelming series of subjects was confined in such a small book?

Was that a consideration? The stuff that happened was so massive, but it was really interesting it happened in such a neat and confined object,

CK:       I think maybe I’ve got two answers to that question, one of which is to do with craft and one is much more psychological. I became aware, at the point when I realised it needed to be a prose novel, that there were all these parts which were pulling in different directions and I realised that I needed something that was in a way as simple as possible to hold it together, because it was on the verge of collapsing under its own, not weight exactly, but under the divergence of its parts.

So there was a need for something simple that would sustain the intensity, because the one thing I wanted was…I was interested in ‘what’s the highest resolution you can write something?’ Particularly this experience, which seemed so much about a different perception of time, or a new kind of intimacy, that I couldn’t quite accommodate.  Time.

Those kinds of questions then seemed… I seemed much more able to contain them in a very simple, fictional frame and then I could write that through. In terms of brevity, I think that idea of containment, which comes up a lot in psychoanalysis, how do you contain an experience and how can you provide a containing experience for an infant?

I think the book, to some extent, took that on for me, like it was a way of containing certain things. I’d never really thought the smallness might be a part of that.

JC:       I hadn’t thought of that either, but I suppose it is incredibly profound things, parenthood being one of them, but also big issues facing us all, climate change runs throughout, incredibly big things, but it’s also small in some ways, dealing with quite a specific moment and time and characters, so it doesn’t feel like it’s squashing things or that it’s too constricted, I think. That’s not to make it sound too small. There’s a smallness, a kind of privateness, a roundedness to it that suits that.

CK:       One of the things I was really aware of when writing this was this feeling of a world that had, being a father, become very small and very happily so. That’s quite literally, broken open, like a flood that breaks down the walls between the outside and the inside. So those were the things I was very interested in, what’s in the foreground? There was this feeling of there just being this almost all foreground until the background ruptures that.

DT:      I found it fascinating, that idea of bringing a child into the world, but also being fearful of the world around. So at the same time, the father in the book is trying to teach his child about the world around him, while also trying to completely protect it from the world around it. That conflict between these massive subjects.

I suppose because it does cover climate change and becoming a parent, both of which are enormous subjects, but are very, very much the personal experiences of the narrator. It’s not a selfish tale or a selfish individual, but it’s very much in the moment. I’ve seen my friends go through having young babies and they don’t seem to have much time for anything else other than making sure that this little person doesn’t come to any harm.

I found it fascinating, the work the lead character does on recording systems and how that really mechanical view of recording the data, without really having any emotional attachment to it until a flood almost destroys their whole home, is a really interesting, blinkered way of being very, very acutely aware of the facts without realising it’s coming for them until it’s too late.

JC:       The need for a feeling of control, whether or not it’s actual control, but ways of feeling you are able to measure and understand, that becomes so important when everything is slightly in chaos.

DT:      In typical fashion for Prototype, it is a beautiful book and it’s really nicely put together and looks fantastic. I suppose such a chaotic and fragmented story is contained really well. As you’re saying, Caleb, it could have gone off in so many directions and it feels like you’re constantly pulling it back as the author. I suppose it makes sense to work with a publisher who’s so neat and regimented.

JC:       And the simplicity, as you were saying.

DT:      We’ve spoken so much before, Jess, you and I, about books as objects and not just as reading material.

JC:       Which is weirdly relevant for the novel, not to give anything away. I suppose we can explain that notebooks, in particular, are very important in the novel and are something impermanent or things that can actually be lost.

DT:      We mentioned the floods. I keep wanting to say ‘you’, we’ve just established it isn’t necessarily you in the book, I should say the narrator of the book loses a book he’d been previously working on to the flood. I did have a note on that. I’m always wondering, I’m quite keen to shed myself of possessions every now and again.

I’m quite happy when I lose a notebook, it frees me up a lot. A question for both of you: how do you feel about lost work? A different question for you, Jess, because it might mean losing someone else’s work.

JC:       That responsibility might not be good.

DT:      I suppose the attachment to your own writing and how you move on from it.

JC:       It’s painful to read about. It feels devastating, as I’m sure it would if it were your work. It’s sort of generative as well.

DT:      Reading Fatherhood and reading about the flood, I didn’t have any feelings of ‘oh no, what if I lost my work?’ But I know how devastated my wife would be if she lost her writing and it really got to me, that’s what I mean about the intimacy, in the book there are elements outside of parenting that are very relevant to [me].

CK:       Yeah. That’s a really brilliant question and not something I’ve really thought about. That part of the story is largely true. I did lose… Or at least, there was a flood in which the only thing I cared about in the house, which was all of my notebooks going back to when I was five, were in drawers, which were flooded and I couldn’t look at them for like a year. I didn’t realise I was not looking at them until I realised ‘oh, why?’

Actually, a lot of this book was written in that kind of lacuna, written in the period between the flood happening and me looking at the notebooks again to see what might be retrieved from them. I don’t know what I feel about that, I genuinely don’t, but I think something happened, there might have been something liberating by that.

I think the other thing is the kind of metaphorical breakdown, that was also the moment when I was watching a child develop language. We’ve just been talking about this. There was a weird correspondence between losing a load of literal text and watching a child build something up. It’s something to cherish, but I also found it weirdly challenging.

I don’t quite know why. I think I felt a loss of her babyhood. There were all the things you gain from talking to someone, but also I felt like it was separating her from the world in some kind of spooky way that I now don’t care about, but at the time, it really mattered. I think all of those things were maybe mixed up.

JC:       Yeah, that discovery and development of language, suddenly you become aware of this understanding developing and that knowledge and a different way of viewing the world that is more real and open to pain. I don’t know, there’s something kind of scary about it.

DT:      I don’t know if this links, but if it doesn’t, I’m going to cut it out. I started writing again in my early 30s. I spent five weeks in a psychiatric hospital in South London and that is not the only time I’ve been in a hospital. It’s the most recent time and I started writing again. I was encouraged to keep diaries and notebooks. I have a box of those notebooks and they feel like they’ve been in a flood.

I’m wondering now, just to hear you talk about not necessarily wanting to approach them, but eventually you do. I wouldn’t mind if they were lost, but whilst they’re there in semi-permanence, and they are very real, but they’re in a strange state because of the way they were written, I’m now wondering whether that was why that part of the book remained with me, as well as other aspects of it.

I’ve spoken to a lot of writers, who have unfortunately lost notebooks or hard drives or computers or had their phone stolen or whatever and whilst it’s sad for them, and I can empathise, it doesn’t really bother me. But there was something about the flood.

CK:       One of the strange things about the flood, and I don’t know if this is quite relevant, is how much life it contains. You think of it as something that destroys human life, but it’s full of bacteria and slugs, and your house is full of creatures afterwards. I was very aware of these things growing mouldy and there was another kind of life that was coming out of this.

I was very struck by that at the time I had chosen to procreate and generate more life. The feeling of who gets to decide these things. It does seem quite arbitrary and of course, knowing the profound destruction that humans are causing, that made me feel very ambivalent about it. It stopped me from feeling too sorry for myself, you know what I mean?

DT:      Now would be a perfect time for a second reading.

CK:       OK. I’m going to read a new poem from a collection which Prototype will publish, I think, next year, which is really exciting.

DT:      I thought you meant you think as in at all. I thought you might get a live rejection.

JC:       Don’t worry, we knew about it.

DT:      ‘We appreciate your submission.’

CK:       Exactly! OK. It’s called;

[We are unable to reproduce this reading here. Please download the full transcript here for the full reading.]

DT:      Thank you very much. I will have to be quite strict with myself and ignore that and stick to Fatherhood, otherwise we’ll be here all afternoon. We didn’t cover it at the beginning, Jess, so maybe it would be good to explain to the listeners which strand of Prototype that will be published under and how it might be different.

CK:       Is that OK? Would you like me to read something else? I don’t want to knock things off course.

JC:       So Prototype publishes quite a range of different things. Fatherhood, the first book, was in the prose strand. I’ve called it ‘prose’ so as to keep it open, because I am open to things that aren’t so obviously classified as fiction. The next book we’re doing will be a poetry collection so that fits very neatly into the poetry strand.

We publish other things that are more interdisciplinary, that’s the best word I can think of for it really, but often collaborations with artists, things that are combining different art forms and would probably not find a home with more traditional publishers, where the definitions of genres are more defined.

This will be a poetry collection, which is really exciting, and it’s how I first knew Caleb’s work – as a poet. So it’s really great to be able to see and support both of those aspects of his writing.

DT:      I’m bringing my angry fist down on the poetry now.

CK:       I don’t Google myself, but I just saw on Good Reads, somebody had written a review of this which says: ‘Warning. Contains stretches of poetry.’ I thought that was so good. Like ‘watch out, guys.’

DT:      My next question could need that warning as well. I wanted to talk about the fragmentary nature of the book itself, how that developed in your own writing. I obviously want to bring Jess in on the conversation as well, but how did the book develop after you submitted the manuscript? What was the editing process?

JC:       The final manuscript? We didn’t do very much editing. Sometimes I think things benefit from my input or somebody’s external input, but it was very finished, I think maybe because Caleb had been working on this piece for a long time and it really had found its form.

I don’t think you should edit just because you feel that’s your role and therefore you should make changes because it makes you seem more engaged. The main things we discussed were to do with the format and how to best convey that into the physical form. Those are really nice discussions. A lot of things that would appear very boring to an outside observer, but like ‘should we indent this paragraph?’

DT:      I think you’ve got a captive audience, people who actually give a shit about all that.

JC:       Small decisions and many emails can…

DT:      Based on your response there, if we begin with Caleb, could you tell us how the book came together … sorry, I’m laughing about what we chatted about before we started recording… how the process of writing the book came together? Then we can talk about how you worked together, the form of the book and what the  final object is. So, go.

CK:       It really did start in July or August 2014, when my first daughter was born. I decided I was so overtaken with this experience, I should probably write something discrete to get it out the way so I wouldn’t just write about it all the time. Of course, that totally backfired. Both were something that felt vital to me as writing, but also felt like a practice that I was interested in seeing how it affected my life.

So parts of that were published in sympathetic journals. At a very early stage, it was useful to have my suspicions confirmed that wasn’t right and then it developed into a pretty full-blown poetry collection and then there was a point at which I realised it was not quite pulling all in the same direction. It had started to become prosier and prosier, but it didn’t have momentum, didn’t have something pulling it through and that was when it changed. I pulled it together in a summer.

DT:      What was the main aspect of the narrative that you thought was key to tying everything up?

CK:       I think there were these two fixed points. There was the birth and then there was the flood and it was writing through them and then beyond. It was the discovery I could do that and then that was quite quick.

DT:      It’s interesting to hear you now say the poetry collection initially wasn’t coherent enough and was pulling in too many directions, to then end up with a book that is still pulling in many directions. But it doesn’t feel like it’s disjointed in any way.

CK:       To me, when I was writing it, I wanted to get to a point, it’s that tension that’s interesting, like is it going to fall apart or is it going to carry on going? That was where it felt exciting to me.

DT:      So then how did the process work between the two of you?

JC:       It was quite a seamless process really. As the first book in this new series, series in that each book will follow certain aesthetic rules, they will all be different, but same the format, this simple cover with an illustration. This book helped us establish that format, which was nice, but it also meant we had quite a bit of freedom because nothing was yet set.

We had quite a bit of fun choosing an illustration. We found a great Norwegian illustrator called Marianne Arnesen, who had published some of her paintings in another book we did, and saw these illustrations that were on her website. They were weird and abstract and surreal. We tried a few out and chose this image which seemed to speak to a lot of things in the book, although it was something we had just found, it wasn’t made for the book.

Then it was just a case of working out how to typographically represent the different tones, because the narrative does move between bits of dialogue, bits of poetry, bits of almost stream of consciousness prose, where it’s long, unbroken passages. So we just wanted to make sure those would be visually represented so the readers see where these changes are. It was quite a nice creative process.

DT:      I quite enjoyed the use of indentation and italics in patches throughout the book, which then linked you into longer passages of what seemed more like stream of consciousness or, if we say poetry, just for this conversation. However you want to define it, it’s quite filmic, cinematic in the use of sound, where you give key signatures to characters and you don’t realise at the time you’re reading it or hearing it, but later on, once those voices become more prominent, you’re already used to this, that it’s not a sudden attack in change of style.

JC:       Great that that worked. Perfect.

CK:       What a beautiful description. Really interesting that was the extended period of the process, really nitty-gritty and tying up. I thought I had consistent ways… because the typography is really important as a way of navigating and signalling different kinds of prose. I knew it was going to be difficult, moving in and out of these different tones and moods and ways of reading, so I’m really pleased if that’s the case, that it feels you’ve got these footholds.

DT:      I’m not saying other publishers or authors aren’t aware of this and I know there are different constraints in terms of budget, but I think too often it’s forgotten how much trust you’re putting in a reader to hold with you when you’re trying to do something that doesn’t just follow the standard form of a book.

If you’re asking someone to jump between three different voices, you perhaps need to give a handle, especially if you want people to engage immediately.

JC:       You really miss something if you don’t give it that attention. I should also acknowledge the really brilliant designers and typographers I’ve worked with for many years. They were very much involved in this process and it’s really great to be able to leave certain decisions to them, which we did. They have an eye for what works visually.

Having that third voice is really something that adds a lot to the books and perhaps it’s a luxury in the process that not every publisher goes into. Often, you have a standard typesetting process, but this is very much a design process, the interior is designed as well as the cover. I think for a novel like this, where it really is important, you’d really be missing something if you just pasted it all in.

DT:      So who is the second author in the series?

JC:       The next book coming out just before you’ll hear this podcast is a collection of short stories by Jen Calleja, whose poetry collection I published about four years ago. She’s also a translator, poet, it’s a really great collection. It’s called I’m Afraid That’s All We’ve Got Time For. Caleb was saying earlier, I showed him a copy, it’s kind of weird looking at the two side by side because they are the same, but different.

DT:      What do you see as the theme through the series? Or is it still in development?

JC:       In terms of content, there isn’t particularly a theme. Intentionally, I want it to be open. I suppose the privilege of being a publisher on your own is you can really choose things you love and believe in. I think often they will be works that are doing something unconventional, which some publishers might find more risky, but my hope and conviction is that by continuing to take those risks, it becomes established and people trust your choices, therefore the risk becomes less, even though they might be doing something daring in their form.

DT:      For the listeners’ benefit, Caleb has to catch a train, so I’m conscious of not running on for too long. We might wrap up there, other than to say, does your new poetry collection have a title yet?

CK:       It’s called My Little Finger.

DT:      I don’t know whether I will ever manage to do this fully, but I will put links in the episode description to things we’ve been chatting about. If I say that now, remind me to put it in the outro, or I will be kicking myself when I forget to put it in. Thank you so much for making the effort to come to Walthamstow to chat.

CK and JC:       Thank you.

DT:      You’re really welcome. I’ve been wanting to chat to Jess for a long time about Prototype and then this book came along and it was great to be able to wrap the two things into one. I hope it’s given people some sort of insight into how books go together, but then you’ll have to learn about your own book, won’t you? Because they’re all different and none of this will be relevant to your book!

We’ve just wasted an hour, but it’s fine. Nothing’s a waste, is it? I wrote a note in really big letters: ‘How do we let go?’

CK:       I’ve seen that question written there and I’ve been trying to think about it. What it makes you think is, one of the things that still I don’t quite understand about this book is the anger in it. I knew it had to be there, I knew it had to be where it was and I knew it had to kind of explode. I still don’t quite understand about that, but that seems to me to be about letting something go.

There was something withheld, and held on to, that sort of needed to come out for me. I also think for me, in my real life, but also for the shape of the book and for the narrator in the book. I think that’s partly about letting go of certain expectations that you live with, particularly because I am a man, so I perhaps know better about certain ideas about what it is to be a man.

When those ideas come into conflict with a very, very confused sense of what care might look like for a man, I think there was a kind of ‘where does this go?’ There was a collision that had to find some safer outlet, right? I don’t know how we let go, except that in this novel, I think there is a large letting go, somewhere in the middle.

DT:      I think there are aspects of the fear and anger of not having control over things and the reconciliation of recognising you won’t ever have that and then perhaps, you have to let go. There were other things I wanted to talk about first, but yeah, the anger in the book is fascinating. I would say there were high levels of frustration, it’s not raging, but you can see there’s an anger.

I don’t want to use the word bitterness either, but there is a combination of all those things and it struck me as though it was a losing of control or a lack of control that was the root of that. That was my reading. That might reflect more what’s going on in my head.

 CK:       This just occurs to me, but it’s the only point in the book where it becomes metrical. The verse is not iambic pentameter, but it’s essentially iambic. There’s a point at which it’s highly structured, metrical verse, exactly what you say, where there’s a kind of loss of control and so this acts as some net for that.

DT:      I’m glad we got around to that as it was bothering me. OK, we really should wrap up. We’ll take a third and final reading, but before we do that, we’ll say goodbye, because we’ll fade straight out. Thank you so much, it’s been really fascinating.

JC:       Thank you so much.

CK:       I’m going to read a passage from towards the end of the book when the father and his daughter are on a train and the only other people on the train are a blind woman and her dog.

[We are unable to reproduce this reading here. Please download the full transcript here for the full reading.]

Outro:

Hello, you hung around to the end… grab a Jaffa Cake. As you will have guessed by now that was Caleb Klaces and Jess Chandler. If you’d like to buy a copy of Fatherhood then the best place to do that is over at the Prototype website, simply follow the link in the episode description. There is currently free UK postage included on that title until 12 April so just do it already.

While you’re over at their website you might also check out their latest prose offering, I’m Afraid That’s All We’ve Got Time For, a collection of short stories by Jen Calleja. And as mentioned in the conversation, Caleb’s  second poetry collection My Little Finger will be out with Prototype in 2021.

As mentioned in episode 123 my debut poetry collection Contained was published by Hesterglock Press in February and its release into the world was a little blighted – first by a pretty destructive storm which meant I had to cancel my Cardiff book launch and then the Bristol book launch had to be cancelled because of the global pandemic. I did, though, manage to get at least one launch event in before all this trouble started so I fared better than some.

If you’d like to support me and my wonderful publisher, Hesterglock Press then follow the link in the episode description to buy a physical copy of the book for £10 plus packing and postage or just £4 for a digital copy in the form of a pdf. The book is also available as a series of recordings over on my personal SoundCloud page.

Another writer whose book launch was affected by recent events is Abi Palmer, mentioned a bit during this episode. Her book, Sanatorium from Penned In The Margins is just great and if you like the sound of Fatherhood then you’ll love Sanatorium. This is the blurb –

A young woman spends a month taking the waters at a thermal water-based rehabilitation facility in Budapest. On her return to London, she attempts to continue her recovery using an inflatable blue bathtub. The tub becomes a metaphor for the intrusion of disability: a trip-hazard, sat in the middle of an unsuitable room, slowly deflating & in constant danger of falling apart.

Moving between these contrasting spaces – bathtub to thermal pool, land to water, day to night – Sanatorium braids fragments of reportage, poetry, and found and posed image, to form an immersive exploration of the female disabled body. In the space between gravity and weightlessness, waking life and out-of-body experience, readers are invited to question if water is a means for rehabilitation, or if their narrator is simply dissolving…

That’s probably enough from me now. Please do welcome PJ when he introduces the next episode and show him lots of support when he begins releasing his own episodes later this year. My dream for this series is to see it reach its tenth anniversary but all I’ve got in me is to drop it off at the doorstep of its sixth. The series needs a new shot of energy and I think PJ is just the person to provide that. I’m sure he’ll do a great job of guiding you through a world of fascinating and innovative poetry.

Much love. Stay home and stay safe.

End of transcript.

Episode 122 – Steven J Fowler

Ep122 SJ FowlerEpisode 122 is now available to download/play wherever you get your podcasts.

For this episode I’m in central London talking to experimental poet and artist Steven J Fowler. The pair discuss Steven’s approach to writing and editing (or lack of it), whether it helps to sometimes be ignored as a writer and his work as a curator of European and international literature events.

Below is a transcript of the episode minus Steven’s poetry readings. If you’d like to read a full transcript then you can download it here.

 

Transcript by Christabel Smith

Guest: Steven J Fowler — SJF

Host: David Turner — DT

Intro:

DT:      Hello, welcome to Episode 122 of Lunar Poetry Podcasts. I’m David Turner. All right? It’s been three months since I last released an episode and you might imagine there would be some news or updates for me to give, but no. Nothing has really been happening. I’m still in the process of finishing what will be my first full-length book of poems. The word ‘poems’ there has enormous air quotes around it as they’re just getting weirder every time I work on them. It will be out through Hesterglock Press in 2020. If you’re listening, Paul, my editor at Hesterglock, the manuscript will be with you soon, I promise.

What else? I’m learning to play the piano, so lots of practising scales and trying to teach myself how to play Moondog’s ‘Elf Dance’. I’ve been making a prototype of a chair this week, so I’m fighting the urge to tell you how annoying that has been and I’ve been dreaming about how to make the underframe. The life of a joiner, eh? Oh yeah, I or we or Lunar Poetry Podcasts no longer uses Instagram as it bores me, so in terms of social media, you can find us at Lunar Poetry Podcasts on Facebook and @Silent_Tongue on Twitter. You can of course find lots more information over at lunarpoetrypodcasts.com, where you will also find a full transcript of today’s episode.

This week’s guest is Steven J Fowler. Steven is a multidisciplinary artist that works in the muddied waters between poetry, theatre, film-making, visual arts and performance. He’s also the curator of hundreds of live literature events around the UK and Europe. Steven appeared in episode 33 of our companion podcast series, A Poem A Week, hosted by my wife Lizzy. In that, Steven reads his poem ‘Old Time Wrestles New Time’, which doesn’t feature in today’s episode and you should definitely check out that recording and the other 70 poets that are on Lizzy’s series. Links in the episode description line.

Steven and I met up at his studio round the back of St Pancras station in a very busy part of London, so apologies in advance about the traffic. I don’t think the noises are that intrusive. Also, it gives you an insight to the soundtrack of Steven’s creative process. Imagine him sat at a paint-spattered table as the black cabs pass slowly below. We discuss whether work is ever really finished, or is it just published, so beyond our grasp. Whether or not there is any benefit to just being ignored as a writer and being content with the way you work, regardless of the advice of others.

We also get round to briefly discussing the Nordic Poetry Festival that Steven is organising this year in the UK and will take place 11-17 October at various venues. It’s going to be fantastic and I’m lucky enough to be reading in collaboration with Bård Torgersen at Rich Mix East London, 12 October. Maybe I’ll see you there. If you enjoy this episode or any other, please do help us out by telling friends, family members, work colleagues and squidgy cats.

Word of mouth is the best form of advertising for podcasts, especially this one, and this is not for my benefit, but for the wonderful guests I’ve had on the series. They deserve to be heard by as many people as possible, right? I’ll be back at the end of the episode with an outro and obviously all the way through, but for the moment, here’s Steven J Fowler.

Conversation:

Poem Redacted.

DT:      Thank you very much, Steven. Welcome to Lunar Poetry Podcasts. Thank you for joining me and all the listeners, wherever they are, if indeed they are. Starting interviews is always the most difficult bit. Often I don’t know people at all and this is the first time I’m meeting them, but I know you a little bit now, and it’s always a little bit of a worry, the initial questions that always flash through my head first seem a bit inappropriate for people you don’t know.

SJF:      Please ask me inappropriate questions.

DT:      Not even inappropriate. I know you well enough to feel you are resilient to any of these questions anyway. My question, I wanted it to be: Why all the nonsense?

SJF:      That’s a good question. Yeah, I mean I can’t help but feel that that question is not really about poetry, it’s about something wider.

DT:      Possibly, but I felt it was a good inroad into the wider aspects of your work.

SJF:      That’s true, yeah. I suppose my instinct that might answer the actual question that you’ve posed would be to ask why you would ask that question, not to say that I can psychologically analyse why you did it, because I know you a little bit too, would imagine it comes from your own sense of intrigue, your own engagement with a notion of a non-sense. But also, any time anyone has ever asked me a question, unfortunately, because I am painfully sober and hyperaware, I tend to think first, why are they asking me about the nonsense when they’re the ones bringing the nonsense to the table?

Maybe that is the answer to your question, but I think to compress nearly a decade of careful and unfortunate consideration around my work into the answer of a genuinely important and good question that you’ve just posed me, I think that the brain, where my existence resides, is full of nonsense and that the notion I can control the universe’s experience, which is endlessly difficult and confusing, into a kind of sense beyond just the limits of communicating, would be arrogant and maybe stupid, which I am both at times, but try not to be.

And given that I consider poetry to be the language art and we communicate in language, I try to use poetry for something other than communication and it seems like it’s probably more useful than to utilise it for things that are not the sense of talking.

DT:      It’s interesting, I think out of the hundreds of people we’ve had on the podcast now, I would say that by far the majority view is that poetry is an act of communication and it’s really interesting to talk to someone that believes the opposite.

SJF:      I suppose for me, it would depend what we mean by both the word poetry and the word communication, right? It does communicate something, but so does me falling over. All things communicate something. I think this is about the notion of intention for me. All I’m, I suppose, trying to say is if the meaning of a poem can be done in a conversation, it’s a failure and most poems are a bit like that, no? Most poems are communicating something similar to a conversation and that to me is valid, if done with great skill or in a certain tradition, I find it fascinating and interesting. Just personally, as a person who makes things, I don’t find that very interesting.

DT:      I feel these kind of qualifications that I always give are a bit redundant now, but just so we feel a bit more relaxed in the conversation, neither of us are projecting our own thoughts onto what other writers should do. I’d like for everyone, I say ‘everyone’, I’m including the listeners here, to feel like they can talk about their own work without having to- but I don’t mean other people should follow these routes, blah blah blah… Because I often find myself talking about my own work and excusing myself in some way. Other people don’t have to follow the way I think. Do you feel that’s an issue in general around the way poets interact?

SJF:      I think that’s an issue around all human beings and culture in general. For example, a lot of the time when people tell me: ‘God, isn’t poetry quite competitive or tribal?’, I always say: ‘Compared to what?’ I’ve never done a job where people didn’t talk shop. I’ve never done a job where people didn’t sleight others who do it because they do it slightly different from them. I take it as a human condition.

I don’t think the things I think about do put other people down, for a variety of reasons, the main reason being I think my ideas or interests seem to operate on a slightly different, lower level than other people, actually, not higher level. So I think people have a very refined engagement with the idea of literary criticism and how poetry works, whereas I’ve tried to be a bit less theoretical and more instinctual, so I’m interested in, for example, the idea of authenticity, which is a silly and ambiguous idea, but it’s instinctual, so if I see someone who’s doing, say, a spoken-word poem, a lot of people have associated me as being against spoken word because there are certain elements around this methodology which are so far away from what I do that they assume so, where actually if someone is authentic in what they’re doing, I don’t really care if they’re doing in spoken word, ballet, cooking, flying a kite.

That’s attractive. It’s beautiful and it’s exciting and it generates things for me to do, but if someone is working in a tradition and it isn’t authentic, and I’m just using authentic as one of many criteria, then I just move on immediately to the things that do excite me. I don’t spend any time being negative or critical. That is why sometimes, I think, people take certain things I say as critical against other practices because we’re working in different conditions.

Also, I do say that a lot, exactly as you described, when I say something positive, I’m not trying to put other people down, it’s because I want to be polite. I really, really believe in that. For example, I’ve always refused criticism. I’ve never written an article of criticism for money because if I take money and do a job of work and I don’t like something, I have to lay into it and I have to do that by mentioning someone’s name. Life is short. I have no interest in that at all.

DT:      I got into making the podcast because I started writing reviews of live events for what was then Lunar Poetry Magazine. I had to stop because I felt if I’m going to be really honest, and it wasn’t like I hated everything I saw, but it was like if I’m going to be honest about things, it’s going to be too blunt and I didn’t see the point in doing that. What I really wanted to do was have a conversation about people and their work instead and meet them face to face and actually talk over ideas.

SJF:      I think it’s a failure in me that I won’t do it because I see that negative criticism should be out there, especially at the moment. People need to take responsibility for the space of how things are made, certain trains of thought and critical spaces, so I’m not advocating this as a position. It’s actually a very personal thing and it’s an enormous failure. I’m a coward because the previous jobs I had before were so combative and so volatile and were constantly engaged in conflict, and I enjoyed them, I’m a conflict-orientated person, whether it’s because of something that happened to me or whatever, that’s the case.

So I don’t want any conflict now. That’s my choice. Poetry for me, literature in general, making art and stuff, is a life of putting ideas out that will conflict with other people’s ideas. But it’s not personal to me, I don’t care. So I do think people should be highly critical. I like it when people are critical of my work. I love it, in fact, because I don’t really mind. Actually, I take that as a huge compliment, but I don’t think my work has become widely understood enough that people can be critical of it. I think they just think ‘I don’t get it’ and then they leave it. That suits me also super fine, because I don’t really care.

DT:      That brings me to two points, actually. If we go back to the point you made about believing your work sort of occupies almost a slightly lower position than more refined taste, one of the reasons I mentioned the word ‘nonsense’ is because I wanted to get talking about the idea of playing. You mentioned how serious people are about the way they view their work and how it becomes more and more refined, there seems within that process there is less space to play and it seems really important in your work, especially your latest book with Hesterglock Press, ‘Unfinished Memmoirs of a Hypocrit’[sic], maybe just talk a bit about how freeing yourself up to work is a starting point.

SJF:      Yeah, it’s something I’ve thought about so much. Thank you for the generous question. It comes from hopefully not waffling, but from how I got into poetry. I discovered it later than a lot of my peers, in my mid-20s, about 10 years ago, and I discovered everything at the same time. So I did spend a lot of time engaged with the theorising around it and trying to read back, but I was discovering all kinds of poetry immediately. There is a massive absence of, shall we say, certain bands of aesthetics in poetry, for example, genuinely funny poetry is almost impossible.

Comic poetry isn’t funny. It’s funny in a really unfunny way. Negative aesthetics don’t exist in poetry. What’s the equivalent of a horror film for poetry? Have you ever got to a poem that’s deliberately trying to make you feel upset? Not to inculcate the emotion of sorrow, but make you feel bad, as a pleasure. You never get it. It doesn’t make any sense because poetry is just a means, it’s a refraction of language, it’s a mulching through, just like shooting with a camera or making a sculpture.

I was always intrigued by that. I really think a lot of that is the constipation of theory. There is so much theoretical underpinning that goes around poetry and that’s important in many ways, but what I found is it creates a culture of people who are afraid to do certain things. They are afraid to look silly or be silly or play or make mistakes or be rough or messy. My work is engaged fundamentally in ideas that I hope are really complex, but I hope they’re complex in a way that everyone can understand because existence is complex for every reflexive mammal.

Every human being, every single animal, lives a complex existence and we can do that without alienating people theoretically. So I think that’s how I started to find a road into it. A lot of the things people have done to give their work kind of intelligence stilts, to put it up in the air, had actually put it into a place that most people couldn’t reach. The problem is then people conflate that with accessibility or conflate it with the ivory-tower argument or class and that really frustrates me. It’s actually only being a teacher in creative writing and teaching in different institutions where I’ve realised and formulated an antidote to that, I think.

Trying to teach students who are often from a working-class background why sound poetry or concrete poetry or avant-garde poetry is good, requires you to create arguments of purpose for your own work. So that’s given me a great gift, teaching other people why I think the things I do are important, although not ever teaching my own work, of course, because I’m not a dweeb.

DT:      It resonates that you talk about class and such. When I first got back into writing in my early 30s, having spent 10 to 12 years working with performance and visual artists as a technician but also a producer, I found that suddenly all these barriers I’d broken down as someone from a working-class background and no formal academic qualifications in any subject, as regular listeners will know, I served a joinery apprenticeship, then ended up getting back into the arts that way, it took me a long time within these art settings to shake off a lot of this class bullshit I carry around with me.

It’s very real bullshit, but it’s bullshit nonetheless. I shook it off and I got to work with some really amazing performance artists and we did some really wild stuff and you realise that those things are for you if you want to go out and take them. But as soon as I started writing again, I felt pressure and I could feel myself moving towards more, like we were saying, more refined types of writing, perhaps subconsciously trying to prove myself in some way. It took a couple of years to think well no, I can play with this writing as much as I did with visual stuff and more physical stuff.

Now, a lot of my focus with the podcast is trying to show people from similar backgrounds as myself that these other, weirder types of poetry, or more odd types of poetry, are equally accessible to anyone. It’s just, it seems to be, for a long time, that section of writing has been owned and controlled by people who have been deliberately putting up barriers. You’ve been around the literary scene longer than I have and you are a bit more knowledgeable of the history of it. I’d be interested to know, if I said to you I felt like there were barriers, class barriers, towards more avant-garde and experimental writing in this country, would you argue that I’m wrong in that?

SJF:      Yeah, well you know we both share a background that’s atypical for people involved, especially in more experimental poetry, but I think fundamentally this is about the level of analysis. What you’re saying is practically true, but I don’t really think about it. I create things that do the opposite, rather than lamenting situations I’ve been in where I know people deliberately misunderstand me to further their own agenda, which probably comes from certain class experiences that they’ve had, so I prefer to talk about life experience or work.

I’ve definitely been in environments when I’ve been alienated and ostracised because my concerns and interests, shall we say physical violence, people seem disgusted by the idea it exists. You know, they’re more offended by the idea that I might bring up physical fights than the actual fact they are happening down the road from where those people live, just they never see them because they live a different kind of life. Sometimes I’ve felt people are against me mentioning them because they think the mention of them is an advocation for them, which is insane, because I’ve witnessed and been around more violence and seen its terrible consequences.

Or like the constant presence of prisons in my work, things like that. I understand that’s probably to do with what you’re saying, to do with class and class concerns, but I don’t care about that. It don’t bother me none. I’ve had no one against me, no one really trying to ostracise me, I’ve been embraced by 90% of the people I’ve met and the other 10% have just ignored me, which I take to be quite a nice way to respond to someone you don’t like, or whose work you don’t like.

Yeah, so it’s probably true, but actually, I’m really, really, really engaged with the notion of finding every single person I can who’s got an open spirit and soul and creates authentic, interesting work and trying to offer them opportunities and spaces to share what I’ve found and been part of. Some of those people are from really, really privileged backgrounds and some are from really working-class backgrounds. So yeah, I definitely think you’re right and if I was into that kind of discussion, I’d go super deep on that, but I’m not. I’m really not. I refuse all those things. I’m not saying you were saying that, it’s definitely been an experience of mine, but it doesn’t really matter.

DT:      Your experience probably echoes with mine as well, but I wonder whether a lot of that is to do with luck. When I first started to really seek out more experimental stuff, Lizzy and I had just moved to Bristol, so I found Anathema and Paul Hawkins in Bristol. Before that, I’d been to a reading and met Isabel Waidner and then came across your work. All of these people couldn’t be more welcoming. I’m still examining why I felt like there were barriers because just about all my experiences have proven the concerns weren’t as large as they had been in my head.

SJF:      I think you’re right though and you’ve mentioned two amazing human beings and brilliant writers, Paul Hawkins and Isabel Waidner, both people who are very much concerned with what you’re saying and I’ve learnt a lot from speaking to both of them about their experiences. I suppose, without sounding a bit stupid again, I assume there’s always going to be barriers. Like I assume I’m going to have a barrier because there are barriers between humans all the time.

I’ve never been in any situation, ever, where there hasn’t been a barrier if I wanted to find one and at the end of the day, I suppose again, not really about poetry but about life in general, I just want to make things, I just want to do things, because I suppose my first couple of years in poetry were surrounded by people who were massively theoretical, I mean as theoretical as you can get and I found that fascinating and I learnt a lot. I realised also that it led to a lot of bitterness for some of them and also others never really did anything.

So I suppose my whole events curatorial practice was based around the idea that I was like, oh I see there is an absence of something, how about I do it and then here we go? Then you find out there is some other problem. That’s with those people. No disrespect to them, but it’s just a way of being in the world and I’m so lucky. My body is healthy, my mind is clear, I’m surrounded by genuine warmth and positivity and I have lots of opportunities. I’m not trying to sound super-positive, I’m not all that positive as a person, but that is a fact. I’ve got no complaints at all about class boundaries and things like that.

DT:      You mentioned a couple of times your curatorial practice, we’ll come onto that in a minute, because that’s vast enough on its own. You’ve mentioned a couple of times now about people not liking your work and then ignoring you and you actually not minding that. I wanted to ask what are the benefits of being ignored as a writer?

SJF:      Yes, again, without being too overly analytical, one has to think through what it means to be ignored. Is there some world out there where people aren’t being ignored? Everyone, to a certain extent, is being ignored. There are people, I think you’ve had Raymond Antrobus on your podcast, who’s just had an incredible success with Penned in the Margins, who published one of my books, back in the day. That is just joy for everyone. A good human being, writing good work. The rising tides lift all people.

So there are examples, like with Raymond, whereby mad success can then be compared to yourself and you’re like wow, I’m being ignored. But how many Raymond Antrobus success stories are there? There’s like a couple a year. A big thing for me that I learnt this from is prize culture, literary prize culture. I never thought I would ever be up for a prize really, because my work’s too strange, so I began from a perspective of well, I will be the first ever who will be successful with prizes writing weird work.

Then I noticed a lot of my peers, who’d maybe started earlier, had different opinions, it would hurt their feelings. Every year they would feel snubbed. I would say: ‘There’s only one person who gets it. Only one.’ Of all the things that could happen, this should not affect you. I mean, I’ve definitely witnessed it, seen people release less books, do less things, move in a certain way. I understand that, I do understand it. But it’s those kind of things that then make me understand a clearer view of what is being ignored and what’s not being ignored.

I suppose, if we were being colloquial and generalised, you could say that my work has never really gone into a middle space, a Guardian review page type press. That’s my fault. I’ve published too much, my work is too weird, I probably don’t edit my work well enough, blah blah. I probably do too many things at once. I’ve just come to accept that is an authentic expression and my way of making work. At the same time, I’ve made a living from it, I’ve travelled round the world, I’ve worked with incredible people, I’ve gotten on with 90% of the people I’ve met and I’ve met a lot of people through it. I have also completely not been ignored, not at all.

What I’m trying to say is, the first thing first about being ignored, not being ignored, it’s an ego thing, it’s a subjective thing. If you feel bad one day because you got rejected from a thing, you feel like you’re not appreciated, again that’s a human condition, it can be mastered. So I don’t feel that very much, but what I do think is that if you lie in a fallow space, a middle space, where people don’t quite know what you’re doing, they’re not quite sure what you mean, you have the opportunity to constantly reinvent the joy of making things, writing things.

I get enough attention that I’m constantly busy and engaged, doing lovely things like this, thanks again for asking me by the way, but then also, I’m not under brutal scrutiny or the pressure to sell books. Last year alone, I was making a film, I made a feature-length film with my friend Joshua Alexander called ‘The Animal Drums’. We’ve got Iain Sinclair in it. Iain Sinclair is obviously this legend, he kind of invented this geographical writing. Brilliant poet. One of the most important poets of the British poetry revival, he has been incredibly generous to me. An incredibly supportive presence.

We were talking, just offhandedly, before we started filming and he said to me: ‘You should always take note of how lucky you are that you can write whatever you like. You’re free. You don’t have a press telling you “that’s too strange, that’s too weird”.’ My editors support my gestures, they help me edit but they give me freedom. So the joy of not being super-commercially successful is that I’m creatively free. That is, if you can appreciate it, an incredible gift.

DT:      Your point about prize culture, it’s very understandable why people would get jealous or bitter for not winning these things. You can see easily why a new writer looking forward might aspire to that as a marker of success, which is a shame because it can only let you down. Like you said, there’s only going to be one winner of each prize and who knows how these things are being judged?

Of course then, if you do have that kind of success, what pressure does that then put on you to produce a similar type of work? Does it push you down one avenue? I was hoping for that question to lead in this direction, to talk about freedom within your writing. Again, going back to the opening question about nonsense and leading onto play, and this idea of freedom, you feel like one of the freest writers I know. I think the reason I feel that is because you don’t feel tied to writing and so many people are bound not only to writing, but to poetry, which seems like a terrible curse on someone. I know some people are genuinely that focused and that directed, but it seems a very narrow space to live in.

SJF:      I don’t want to get pretentious or too deep, but I understand that if someone is engaged say in the profession of writing – with fiction it makes a lot more sense than poetry – but some of the guidelines would be ‘if I get a prize, then I get a better publisher, sell more books, then I’ll be able to write more books, then I won’t have to work in a shop’. I think not only does that make sense, because it’s brilliant, it’s kind of truthful, but again, I know it sounds silly, genuinely, my work is about me finding a path towards contentedness and gentility and decency to other people.

It’s not the main reason, it’s just a wee part of it. What I eat and how I exercise and how I sleep and the people I spend my time with, these are all nodes in a genuine daily commitment to have a better existence, just because I want to be happy before I die, because I’m going to die really soon, relatively. So if I then only wrote in Times New Roman 12-point font and indented, even though I had the desire to handwrite a book, say, that would be really weird because there’s no comeback on that. There’s only so much you can get.

To get back to your point, I’ve known people who’ve been mad successful, hugely commercially successful, I had the privilege of collaborating with some people who are hugely successful and happiness is relative. I think a lot about the concept of tolerance. I’m writing a book at the moment about prescription drugs and a brain and thinking a lot about the word tolerance. You tolerate joy and it wears off. Your success goes. Everything goes. You get used to everything.

So to a certain extent with me, I just try to keep my guideline as these deeper ideas. Intuition and instinct and exploration and innovation, these silly words that sound like a car advert, they are actually the driving force behind why we start doing all of this. How do we keep that light alive? If that’s who we are, if that’s what our authentic expression of things is. It is mine, because I’m brutally impatient and I want to discover new things and meet new people and live a good life through this work.

Well, that’s going to lead me to do a lot of different kinds of work, as you say, not limit myself and not worry if someone does say in my ear, which they have done pretty consistently: ‘Don’t publish more than a book a year or you can never be with…meh’ Or: ‘Don’t organise events as well as publish because people will think you’re just trying to promote your own… Don’t…’

Yeah, all right, I hear what you’re saying. You’re scared and that’s fine. I’m just going to do what I’m going to do. People will either be with it or they won’t be with it. I hope they’re with it. If someone has a dog, I’d rather have them as a friend than an enemy.

DT:      That’s the perfect time to go into a second reading.

SJF:      I might read something from my brand-new book that I’m writing at the moment, which is due to come out in 2020, with Dostoevsky Wannabe Press, who publish Isabel Waidner and a lot of amazing people.

DT:      A fantastic publisher.

SJF:      Just a brilliant publisher, based in Manchester. They’re publishing a book of mine called ‘I Will Show You The Life Of The Mind On Prescription Drugs’. That book is a result of a residency I did at the Wellcome Trust and a lot of explorations in a field that I’ve kind of called the name ‘neuropoetics’. So it’s like neuroaethetics, but it’s about how language functions in the brain and how we might utilise language arts as a way of exploring brain function.

We are unable to reproduce this reading at this time. Apologies.

DT:      Thank you very much.

SJF:      Pleasure.

DT:      Because you’ve read new work there and you’re talking about a book you’re working on, which seems like a state you’re constantly in anyway, I could probably ask you any day, but what are your feelings around the idea of finishing something?

SJF:      That’s something I’ve thought about a lot. Thank you again for asking a question that’s on my mind often. I think because I like this notion of constant work, like I enjoy the idea of being prolific because it’s just the way my brain functions, it’s the way that I’m motivated, I have maybe a different relationship to the notion of the finished poem or the finished fiction or the finished anything.

I like it when context decides the content. I like it when the deadline is the time it’s finished. I like it when the editor decides. I’ve had lots of experience with presses and they have been almost 100% positive. I’ve had great relationships with people I’ve worked with at presses, even though I’ve worked with lots of different ones. When an editor comes in and rips things to shreds, they think I’m going to be upset about it, but I love it. I love it.

I mean, I can choose whether to accept or reject, but a lot of the time, I accept because that means it’s finished. They’ve come in and engaged with it in a way that makes it something else.

DT:      That’s a very good way of looking at it.

SJF:      So for me, the notion of the finished work is maybe slightly different than a lot of people, so I know that a huge part of their poetry is this dichotomy, this split, and again I speak to my students a lot about this, between the draft and the final version and it’s something that people tinker with, the capitalisation of certain words and the play of things.

I just had a collaborative poem with Max Porter, who’s an amazing writer, taken for Poetry magazine in America. Their editing is incredibly finite, almost to the point where I was laughing really loud, because every single time you sent something back with their corrections, they said: ‘what about this comma? Can we spell it the American way for “labour”, without the u?’ I was just like ‘whatever you like, whatever suits you.’

I don’t care. I know it does matter a lot to other poets. I know why it does, but it doesn’t matter to me. American or English spelling of labour? I don’t care! Why do I care? I mean, that’s not why I wrote it and I’m not fussed about that at all, so maybe I have a more transitional view of what finished is than other people. The finished bit is the one in the latest book. It’s on the page, I’m not working on it anymore, it’s obviously done. What about you, what do you think?

DT:      It’s interesting. I find my writing is a place that exists further from higher standards, so as a furniture maker, I have a very defined idea of what finished means, because finished means a point at which someone is going to enjoy what I’ve made and they have to live with it. It has to be durable, look right, there are a number of fluctuating criteria, but they are all very high standards, each of these criteria.

People are paying a lot of money for the furniture we make. I’ve been doing this for 20 years now, I like to think I’m good at it and what I make I’m hoping people can pass down through generations, etc. I don’t want that to exist in any other part of my life. Those standards are really exhausting, very tiring and I like that my writing is an escape from that.

I share your view, well, you didn’t quite mention it, but I think we’re probably going down the same path here, but once something’s on a page, I’m free of it and I don’t have to go back to it. I find the overwhelming relief that it’s gone and done far outweighs if I ever find a mistake in something. If I ever do read over something and think ‘Shit, that wasn’t right’ or ‘I should have changed that’, the relief that it’s gone and out of my mind outweighs any worry I would have about regretting anything that I chose to do.

SJF:      One of the weirdest things I’ve found is some of the books I’ve edited least, I think my favourite book I’ve ever written is called ‘Minimum Security Prison Dentistry’, it was published by Anything Anymore Anywhere Press. He asked me do I have a book, it’s 2011 and I’d just finished my first year in poetry and I published two other full-length books that year, which ruined me forever, basically, because you shouldn’t ever do that. Your debut book should be important.

I was oh yeah whatever, I’ve got this different stuff and mashed it together and sent it to him. ‘I love it, I love it.’ Any mistakes of it, the aberrations, it’s the best thing I’ve done and that was a huge lesson to me because the other book I did that year with Knives Forks And Spoons, ‘Red Museum’, that’s one of only two books I’ve done where I might do another version one day. Or I’ll go in and mash it up. I think that’s a big thing to me.

I don’t have set rules or patterns for things, it’s an adaptable process. You finish certain books and whatever the mysterious process is that took you to making them, especially a poetry book or collection, because they’re really weirdly constructed when you think about them, the order. People never talk about that. ‘I spent weeks on order, that follows that’ and what, four people read the book and they don’t even read it cover to cover? They pick it up at page 67 and go ‘that’s good’.

I was like ‘yeah, but that follows the poem about the egg and that’s the bacon poem’, you know what I mean? There’s this stupid process that’s mystical and strange. I’ve just learnt to embrace that and as you say, when your book comes out, you’ve got it on the page, you open it, you don’t know how you’re going to feel and that changes mood to mood, day to day, year to year. I just reserve the right that I can go back in and meddle with things if I want, but most of the time I don’t because I’ve got a new idea.

DT:      These things are at the forefront of my mind at the moment because I’m getting to the point where I’ve finished my first book, which will come out with Hesterglock.

SJF:      Congratulations and a great press.

DT:      A really good press. I’m asking myself exactly the same questions. Do I spend endless amounts of evenings after work ordering these poems or do I think well, people probably aren’t going to notice? I suppose the question is you’ve got to do whatever makes you happy in the moment.

SJF:      Exactly.

DT:      What I would like to try and achieve is some way of, what I like about shorter projects and pamphlets, I’ve done a couple with other people, is that they feel like they exist more in the moment, because you can finish them faster and you can get them out more readily. They come out fairly quickly after they’ve been written, whereas what’s coming out for me with Hesterglock has taken a much longer time to write and it spans a longer amount of time. It feels a bit like things are being shoehorned together a little bit. I think that’s what those types of books are, often.

SJF:      I’ve changed so much about that, but I do think about it a lot. I mean, it’s a good time to have good friends. I’m always pitching off stuff to people, especially people who aren’t involved in poetry at all, or even literature, and just say ‘what do you think of this?’ If you get really negative stuff back, you know you’re on the right track. I think also this can be expanded metaphorically about the notion of publishing a book in general.

The amount of people I’ve known also that have said, not to say that all my friends are negative, like I said with the prizes, but who are disappointed by the reception of their book and why maybe it’s good to have pamphlets before that. I had that. I had a crisis with a book and what it was and what the point was. I had a really profound experience with a poet called Anselm Hollo who was like the anti-laureate of America and lived the most amazing life.

He left Finland just after the Second World War to live in Germany, then lived here in the 60s and 70s, then moved to America and I put on the last-ever reading he gave before he died and I read every single one of his published books after he’d died. I felt myself powerfully in them, where he was, what he did. I realised then that his authentic expression of publishing a massive bibliography was, even if it was just me reading it, a profound and powerful physical, ambiguous expression and legacy.

Then I realised ‘wait a minute, I want that.’ Tomaž Šalamun, another person, has 45 books he published in his life and has his library in Ljubljana. I’ve been there and looked through his books and spent days reading them. You can read a person’s life through their work that way. Then I suddenly realised, lightbulb, it’s all right to publish two books a year if you want, every year. I mean yeah, 1000 people won’t read them, who cares? You can’t be there when they read them anyway.

It’s something I say to my students a lot. You’re in a job whereby the best moments your work will create for other people, you won’t witness them. There’ll just be some professional critic in The Guardian with an ideological purpose, writing reviews whether they like you or don’t like you as a person or have heard about you and met you, but the actual people who read you, you never know. So do it out of motivation. So yeah, I think about those questions a lot.

DT:      Since you mentioned putting on Anselm’s final reading in this country, this is probably a good opportunity to start talking about your curatorial work and events you put on. Could you give a quick, very brief breakdown of what types of events you run and how they run? I’ve got a couple of questions to follow on from that.

SJF:      Sure, no worries. So I basically started about 10 years ago a project called Enemies that was all about collaboration, essentially, but it was also a way to kind of Trojan-horse experimentation into live readings because I found the traditional, salon-orientated reading to be pretty unsatisfying and uninterrogated and I think 90% of people agree and are thinking of their shopping lists. We all know this kind of stuff, I don’t need to go on about that.

So really it was about internationalism and collaboration, trying to get people from different countries to come to England, work with British poets, and then that grew and I started doing tours and going to other countries to do collaborations. That was an amazing way to navigate the universe and work with other people. Then I started a project called Poem Brut, maybe two or three years ago, which is about material and a lot of things we’ve already talked about, context and content, experimentation, mess, things being hand-made, things being physical.

One of the constituent elements of any reading or performance is proximity, physical space, three dimensions. That’s what Poem Brut is about, as well as about cognitive differences. Enemies evolved into the European Poetry Festival, which was a concentration of that collaborative European energy in London. I’ve done lots of commission events, loads of events where people have asked me to come in to start a series or start themed live-literature things, so yeah, it’s been a massive, expansive part of my practice really.

DT:      What I found interesting about all of these different events you’ve put on and this is quite a selfish view because I run the podcast, blah blah blah. It’s interesting the amount of documentation that goes into it. These are successful and very well-attended life events, but there also seems a real emphasis on filming stuff, recording stuff, getting stuff locked down and preserved in some sort of way. As preserved as digital media can be. We won’t get into the nature of all that stuff. I just wanted to ask how important legacy is in your work and if it’s different for the curatorial side of your practice and your own writing?

SJF:      For my own writing, I still think I’m too early into it to understand ideas like that. Maybe I slightly mentioned that with the Anselm Hollo anecdote and why I publish a lot of books. I don’t envision a moment when my work will be useful or important to people in the future. I’m pretty sure it resolutely will stay about where it is now. I really try not to care either way.

With the events, actually I document for two reasons. One is because I really, theoretically, want to embrace their transitory nature. I think as you say, by acknowledging the limitations of the documentation, they are fundamentally simulacrous shadows of the live thing. It’s more of a way of giving the poets and artists who are engaged with it a note of respect, like here’s a thing that has recorded what you’ve done and you can use it to navigate the modern world of being a poet or an artist.

Also, a kind of engagement with professionalism, but really, the most important thing is because I resist all critical theorisation around my events, like I’ve turned down conferences on my events, I’ve turned down reviews, articles. If you scour the internet, the 600-700 events I’ve done, you won’t find many reports because when people ask me, I say no thanks. They’re not Utopian. I’m against Utopian ideas, they lead to disappointment.

It’s a transitory thing, it’s in time. We get together, we have a nice evening, we do some interesting things, we support each other, we do challenging work and then it’s Tuesday. I don’t care. The videos are precisely there, frozen in time because there is no theoretical underpinning to the events in anything but a more colloquial, professional way.

Also, when I started, I had a couple of experiences with people who told me, for example when I discovered the work of Tom Raworth, who’s very important to me, I scoured the internet for videos, for recordings. I didn’t find that many, then I’d meet people who knew him very well before he passed away and they’d be like ‘yeah, I have got a box of recordings.’ Then you’d go and it’s disintegrated. So recently, my You Tube archive, which is about 2000 videos, the National Poetry Library are going to put it in their collection and have it there for the future. That’s lovely, that is a legacy. I don’t care though. It’s just the way it is, I don’t think it’s that big a deal.

DT:      Legacy is a bit of a weighted word, I don’t really mean that, I’m just really struggling for an alternative. It resides in my mind though, I couldn’t really care less where my work sits, but the work I do with the podcast, I’m very, very engaged with preserving it. Perhaps preservation is a better word than legacy, preserving some sort of document of what you’ve done, primarily the voices of the people who’ve been involved in the events, rather than yourself, which is what I’m trying to do with the podcast.

SJF:      I think that’s great. When I followed your podcast and congratulations on what you’ve done with the podcast and the longevity of it, because that’s a huge constituent factor. People start them, do 30, then they’re like ‘I’m not getting any feedback. I’m not getting vibe, I’m going to leave it.’ In way that’s what I mean by saying I’ll take the You Tube videos and I think oh, maybe David will take this as an act of respect, I recorded his work and put it online in a resource he can access and makes him feel good about doing my event or engaging.

That’s where I stop thinking because it allows me to keep doing it every time as a practice, whereas if I was thinking I’m going to record the finest voices of my generation and put them on a You Tube channel, I would perhaps be oh, I haven’t moved the needle in terms of contemporary literature, why are they not speaking about me on the Bookseller 10 years later? I don’t care about that. That’s a big part of it, I want my events to be…

There’s an ambulance, a London ambulance. Yeah, I want my events to be transitory and engage in that, but I like being seen as a professional as well as an artist, someone who works on what they do and develops it, as I think you do too.

DT:      I’ve spent a lot of time trying to shake it off, but I’ve had to embrace it. I think it’s an unnecessary yoke I carry with me, feeling like I need to prove to everyone that I’m working hard and visibly work hard because you can’t, unless you’re going to sit in a shop window at your desk and write with everyone watching you, people won’t…

This is what I find strange about creative pursuits, it’s very seldom you’re seen to be working. I was very guilty when I first started the podcasts, that I was trying to visibly put out a lot of stuff. Not really for my own promotion, I really wanted to promote other people’s work, but I felt like it became exhausting because it was slightly for the wrong reasons. Once I addressed that and rebalanced it, I had a much healthier relationship to the whole thing.

Similarly to what you’re saying, I had to set a few ground rules which allowed me to say that’s out now, it’s gone and done and I can’t sit around to see whether I’m increasing the listener figures for this episode and whether I’m making inroads into possibly selling advertising. Once I let go of all of that…

Going back to your earlier point, I wanted to do this to be content. I don’t want to do it to be unhappy because I’m striving for things that are unattainable. I want to have the conversation and make it as accessible as possible, with points people can interact with.

SJF:      I think about this a lot, how do we get this balance? Because there is meaning in work. A lot of people aspire to be free of that kind of stuff and that was my goal. I wanted to use this pursuit to not have to work a 9am to 5pm job, because I was doing that for the first seven years of my writing. It was only three or four years ago I stopped doing that kind of work.

Now I teach, which some people see as a real hard grind, but uni teaching, I’ve had great joy doing it. It’s a great privilege for me to do it. I think about that a lot too. This constant pressure, is that why I do so much? I think about that in my head all the time. Is it that I feel guilty that I get to write a lot? Actually, no, it’s not the reason, but I have spent a lot of time thinking about it because there is clearly value and meaning in working hard and having that mentality of grinding.

I love that kind of feeling when you’re making something and you’re in it, but I’ve also had brutal suspicion and maybe one or two fallouts with people who perceive their artistic practice as some sort of grind. I’m like it’s not a grind! Oh my God, if you think that you’re a miner…

DT:      I used to work in a bronze foundry, I used to pour bronze. Since then, I haven’t moaned about any job. That was grafting. It’s not to take away from the amount of effort that people put into things, but people definitely have a skewed idea of what some people have to do for a living and the amount it takes out of them.

SJF:      Yes indeed.

DT:      There are some poor fuckers who, like you say, are in the ground for their whole working life.

SJF:      Exactly. My family’s family are paramedics, nurses, soldiers, teachers. I’ve laboured, I’ve worked on the doors. Everyone has it hard. I think that includes artists and poets because it’s all relative, but my feeling is if you’re not suspicious about what you do, unless it’s really hard, then you miss a trick in your soul. Because if you’re a nurse, working double shifts, you don’t have to worry about this question because you are just under unbelievable pressure.

But if you’ve got that mentality and you’re a writer, you’re like oh no, I’m melancholy because I sit in all day and I don’t do anything and I’m writing another book that no one reads, that’s a fair suspicion. There’s nothing wrong with that, but saying it out loud? Or living that lifestyle, like you’ve got it tough? I don’t know, maybe because I’ve done jobs where I felt I was drowning constantly, it makes me feel a bit queasy, I’ve got to be honest.

I’ve got a bit of an ethical problem with that. This is a huge constituent of my work, actually, the notion of perspective. I really think about that a lot. That’s why I like my work having this strange feeling of kind of menace and confusion because I want people to at least have a moment where, if they don’t understand it, it creates a kind of perspective of what they do understand. Maybe that’s a good function of my work, I think about it all the time.

If you read a poem that says ‘As I floated down the river, I thought of my love’, I’m like I get that, you’re remembering someone you loved, how sad. Then you read mine and it’s just squiggle, squiggle, squiggle, I don’t get it, at least then you’re creating a notion of perspective because in my lived life, exactly speaking to what you’re describing here, that’s so important to me. Perspective. We are going to die. That’s the only thing that bonds us together, that’s a beautiful thing. People in the majority of all time and place have had it 1000 times worse than I have it. How do I deal with that and still express my concerns? That’s a huge thing about what my work is about.

DT:      Let me know when you get the answer.

SJF:      Never! Exactly. When I’m in the ground. Sorry.

DT:      No, it’s fascinating. I just worry we could really go down a hole.

SJF:      Let’s do it, David, let’s turn it into a metaphysical podcast.

DT:      We’ll have to do a part two of the conversation.

SJF:      Any time.

DT:      What I’d like to just talk about briefly at the end here…

SJF:      Are we at the end? You’re breaking my heart.

DT:      We’re not at the end of anything, we are purely at the beginning.

SJF:      The beginning of the end.

DT:      Yeah. Talking about the live events, it’s vital we talk about how underpinning so much of what you do is collaboration and not only collaborating with other people, but you smashing other artists together, mainly around Europe. I know it does go wider than that, but with the European Poetry Festival, maybe we’ll talk briefly about the importance you see in collaboration.

Now we’ve touched on you admitting you’ve driven yourself into the ground by working too much and trying to prove yourself, this idea of why you feel collaboration is so important to your work and also to avant-garde writing in general…

SJF:      I suppose I was always confused that I was the only one who was interested in collaboration, in a medium that is inherently based in solitude. But then it’s based in solitude in a way I’m confused by the way people speak about it. The problem of other minds and philosophy or whatever, it’s the fundamental problem of all existence. I don’t know what other people are thinking.

I don’t know you’re not a robot right now, David. There’s no way to be inside other people’s… You’re nodding because you are an automaton. This is an issue. That’s what communication really is. We all know that most of the time when people are communicating, they’re not listening to each other. We all know we read body language, blah blah blah, we’ve read all these articles about this stuff.

The reality is that we’re a pack animal. We have a collective mindset. When we’re isolated, we feel bad about being alive. Poetry is an engagement with an internal and personal language experience. That’s what it fundamentally is. To me, collaboration is a way of mediating that. It’s an addition, it’s not to replace. Writing is a lonely task, no matter what your writing is, fundamentally. Like existence is. You’re born alone, you die alone, you don’t share a mind.

To me, collaboration is a way of literally and clumsily overcoming that. What I’ve learnt through doing it by accident, in these Camarade pairs, where I pair people off who’ve never met before and ask them to create a work with no criteria apart from a time limit, what I find is the very nature of collaboration removes a tension from the kind of practice that the poets seem to think their work represents who they are, so they write a very certain kind of way, because that’s who they are, that’s how they see themselves and when they collaborate, they get up and do wacky stuff.

They will go full weird-po, as I like to say, because they’re doing it live, it’s almost never in print and that’s not an accident even though most people think it is and they’re sharing responsibility. They can blame the other person. Maybe this is just a personal opinion or cheeky of me, but a lot of people I’ve invited have very formal print practices and they work they do live with collaborative partners is better, freer, more entertaining, more alive.

Collaboration has a methodological purpose. It’s inspiring, it’s collective, it’s human, it’s fun, it’s engaged, it changes the tenor of events. It also has a change in the way people write. It’s also about responding to how weird it is that poets and writers don’t really collaborate when almost every other art form does.

DT:      It’s been nice hearing several poets that you’ve invited say, almost apologetically, ‘I’m really surprised to have been invited to take part’. They probably don’t view their own work as being particularly stage-based or with some sort of performative aspect to their work and it’s really nice that the collaborative aspect can draw that out of them or doesn’t, just forces them to be part of it and often that’s enough. You just need the impetus to get up and perhaps have the shield of someone else standing next to you or perhaps lying on the floor or jumping around on table.

SJF:      Or crying.

DT:      Or riding round in one of those scissor lift things that was at Rich Mix last time.

SJF:      Someone built their own walking poem and walked around with a little castle. That’s the thing, it’s a protection in a way, but why not? There’s no doubt that collaboration has been a gateway to my own and many other people who’ve been involved in Enemies and the European Poetry Festival towards doing a more engaged version of a live poetry, which we have a responsibility to do, I think. To me, that means something very specific again. It’s like a version of what we’re doing with the book. It’s been an amazing, accidental exploration.

DT:      How long has the European Poetry Festival been going on for?

SJF:      We’ve done two, so the third year will be next April.

DT:      Coming up very shortly in London is the first Nordic Poetry Festival, which is an extension, is it?

SJF:      It is. It’s an experiment. It’s a sister festival because really, I got asked to do that. A lot of the poets who had come from Scandinavia and the Nordic region really enjoyed it and I’ve been invited to organise similar things across Scandinavia over the last three or four years. I’m really open to doing other kinds of sister festivals like that, with different regional specificities.

DT:      Just because this particular event is looming, maybe we should break away from having a proper conversation and go into a bit of spiel, dates, venues and stuff.

SJF:      Thank you. So the festival starts on October 11th at Burley Fisher Books, then has a second event in London, October 12th, Saturday night at the Rich Mix, the big Camarade, which I’m very happy you’ll be involved in, David. It’s fantastic, with your experience of living in Norway and so forth.

Then we’ll go on a mini tour, Norwich at the National Centre for Writing, who’ve been an amazing supportive partner of a lot of my events and these festivals, on Monday 14th October, then 15th we go to York to the Jorvik Centre, which is so funny and so good and I know all the poets probably won’t get round to hearing this podcast, so they won’t know that it’s this giant, beautiful in-joke for me that I bring all these avant-garde Scandinavian poets and take them to the Jorvik Centre, where it smells like sour milk.

I’ve actually booked the ride. They don’t know that when the reading finishes, I put them on the mechanical ride. That makes me glow inside. Then we come back for one last reading in Kingston-upon-Thames, where I teach at the university, so it’s part of the Writers’ Centre, which I run there too. Yeah, it’s short, a burst, like 30 poets coming from all over the Nordic region. There is some incredible work happening up there, it’s going to be really fun and all the events are free.

DT:      I really cannot recommend highly enough that you go and check out some of these events if you can. If not, try and find some of the recordings that will no doubt be made. Links to everything we’ve been talking about today, including links to Steven’s work, which we haven’t really touched on in terms of where you can find things, but stick around, it will be in the outro. Possibly. It’s weird talking about things I haven’t even thought about yet. They will be in the outro, they will exist.

SJF:      You will make it happen.

DT:      You can find those links in the episode description, people that are listening. It’s the end.

SJF:      It’s the end. Thank God it’s the beginning of the end. Thanks again for having me.

DT:      I’ve been really looking forward to talking to you properly. We talk fairly often, but that was the whole point of getting the microphone, it was to pin people down for an hour.

SJF:      I’m glad you’re back in London.

DT:      Me too. We’re going to finish with a reading please.

SJF:      So this is a poem from a book I published this summer, 2019, called ‘I Stand Alone By The Devils, And Other Poems On Film’, by Broken Sleep books. Thanks to them for suffering under my work.

Poem redacted

Outro:

DT:      Hello. You stuck around. Grab yourself an ice-cold Capri Sun from the fridge as a reward. I hope the traffic noises and squeaky chair didn’t annoy you too much. I also hope you enjoyed the conversation. I certainly enjoyed recording it. It’s a conversation I’ve been wanting to record for a while, so I’m glad we both found the time. We’re both pretty busy at the moment.

I’m a bit disappointed, looking back, that I let the issue of class slip by. I suppose that’s been spoken about enough in the series previously and Steven and I wanted to discuss other things, but I regret not pushing him more on the idea of recognising issues around class and ignoring them, even if ignoring them is based on providing platforms and spaces that counteract these things. Perhaps we should all be a bit more outspoken about these things, I don’t know.

For more from Steven, go over to his website stevenjfowler.com. If I started now to list all of his work, we’d be here for another hour so I will allow you to go and seek that out for yourselves. One thing I would check out is Steven’s appearance on episode 12 of Matthew Blunderfield’s Scaffold podcast, in which he talks about a residency he did at an architect’s studio and what it means to attempt to write future-facing poetry. It’s a really fascinating discussion.

I’ll be back before the end of 2019 with episode 123. I still have no idea who will be joining me though. That’s a deliberate choice now. I’m trying to not allow the podcast to take control of my life too much, so I’ll just be seeing who interests me and who is available nearer the time. That’s quite enough for today. Be good to yourselves, I’ll speak to you soon.

End of transcript.

 

Episode 121 – Astra Papachristodoulou

121 Astra PapachristodoulouWe’re back! Episode 121 is now available to download wherever you get you podcasts.

For this episode I’m in Walthamstow, east London talking to experimental poet and artist Astra Papachristodoulou about the importance of collaboration and the visual look of words on a page in her practice. Astra is pretty determined not to be restricted by conventional definitions of what it is to be a poet and happily exists on the boundary of different media, so it was interesting to hear why she’s so keen to introduce rules and constraints into her writing.

Below is a transcript of the episode, minus the poems that Astra reads. If you’d like a complete transcript then click here.

 

Transcript by Christabel Smith

 

Host: David Turner – DT

Guest: Astra Papachristodoulou – AP

 

Introduction:

DT:      Hello, welcome to Episode 121 of Lunar Poetry Podcasts. My name is David Turner. It’s been a while since we last talked. How are you lot doing? A lot has been happening since episode 120, back in November 2018, including me and my wife moving back to London from Bristol. I say London, but it’s actually Walthamstow, which is almost the countryside. Taking the break from releasing new episodes also coincided with the end of the funding I was receiving from Arts Council England, so one last thank you to them for their support.

This means I’ve gone back to my previous life as a joiner, a furniture maker, and if you like early 20th-century, modernist furniture, made from curved plywood, then check out the company I work for, Isokon Plus. I mentioned the move and going back to full-time wok because it’s relevant to the shape the podcast will take in the future. Realistically, I’m only going to have time to release episodes quarterly. I might be able to turn around some shorter, bonus episodes, but I think a new one every four months is what I can manage around life, work and my own writing, without it becoming a burden.

I hope that while I’ve been away, you’ve all been supporting and listening to our companion podcast, A Poem A Week, produced by my wife Lizzy, in which poets read their own poems or a favourite by someone else. If not, you can rectify that straightaway, innit? You can find that series wherever you get your podcasts or over at our website, lunarpoetrypodcasts.com, where you can also find a list of over 50 poetry podcasts, produced in the UK and Ireland.

Also on the website, you can find a full transcript of this episode alongside over 80 more episodes, link in the episode description. For today’s episode, I’m in conversation with an experimental poet, performer and artist, Astra Papachristodoulou. We met up in Walthamstow last month to chat about the importance of collaboration and the visual look of words on a page in her practice.

Astra is pretty determined not to be restricted by conventional definitions of what it is to be a poet and happily exists on the boundary of different media, so it was interesting to hear why she’s so keen to introduce rules and constraints into her writing. I was actually  quite nervous in the build-up to recording in such a long break, but I am very happy to be making episodes and chatting to you through your phones, tablets and computers again.

If you like what you hear, then do me a solid one and tell your friends, family, colleagues, etc. Word-of-mouth recommendations are still by far the best way for podcasts to reach new listeners and I say this, not for my own benefit, but for all the wonderful guests that have featured on this series. I’ll be back at the end of the episode, but for now, here’s Astra with a couple of poems.

Conversation:

[Download transcript for poems]

DT:      Thank you very much, Astra. Thank you for joining me on the podcast today. I’m going to start off with a question I haven’t asked in many years on the podcast. When this series first started a long time ago, listeners will know the first question in every interview was ‘Why poetry?’ We stopped asking that because it felt like it became too gimmicky, even though it threw up some really interesting answers. Just knowing a little bit about your work and having chatted to you a bit before, I felt like it was a good start for our conversation. So I just wanted to ask you: ‘Why poetry?’

AP:       So it’s interesting. I don’t know if we’ve talked about this before, but I did my BA in Theatre Studies at Surrey, but I’ve always been fascinated with writing. As a child, I started writing small, one-act plays when I was at high school. At one stage, one of them as well at school, which was cool, and when I came to the UK to study theatre, I just had that fascination for writing and working in a theatre environment in the future, but I realised that theatre relies a lot on teamwork and you’re dependent a lot on the help of others with staging and I find I enjoy working alone most of the time.

So I felt like poetry worked for me in that way. You know, I get that inspiration at 3am. I bring my laptop, I write and it’s a solitary activity, which you can then share if you want to. With collaborations for example, you can use that writing that you produced alone and work alongside someone else and get that piece of teamwork, which I think is very important. Or you don’t and you just go and share it by yourself, which is fine. Either way, but personal preference, I chose that path because it worked for me.

DT:      It’s interesting to hear you talk about the appeal of being able to work alone, but having seen you almost exclusively perform as part of a collaboration with other  people, I suppose there isn’t a conflict there, is there? It might to seem to some people that it’s a contradiction, but in the initial work and initial writing, it’s nice to have that freedom to work alone and not have the restrictions of having to meet up and be part of all these things.

AP:       With collaborations, especially with poetry, I find that it’s very rare that people would intervene with your work. It’s usually people bringing their works together and not really intervening with each other’s writing or each other’s practice because you have a lot of collaborations with music, with visual arts, etc, so it feels a bit more organic this way, especially if you like having control over your work, which I personally like.

DT:      I don’t want to guide the conversation too much, too early, but we may come on to definitions of poetry a bit later on and what it means to be a poet and write poetry, but at this initial stage, if we ignore those wider questions, in your own personal work, your own personal practice, do you see yourself as a poet that collaborates? Or do you see yourself rather as an artist that collaborates with other artists and you just happen to have already written poetry? Because the performances I’ve seen you in don’t seem to be that rooted in a regular poetry tradition, in this country at least.

AP:       I don’t see myself as one thing, to be honest with you. With each collaboration, it’s like I have a different facet. Most of the time, I see myself as a poet working with someone else. It often happens that I work with people from different disciplines, like recently, one of the performances you attended at the Poetry Café was with two great musicians, Oliver Fox and Sean Tomlin.

So most of the time, I see myself as a poet working with people from different disciplines, but there are times I act as an artist, especially when it comes to visual poems, because I work around visual poetry a lot and I see it more as art, rather than poetry.  For example, when I take part in exhibitions, I see myself more as an artist than a poet. It’s the beauty, especially of experimental, avant-garde poetry, the definition is so broad, you don’t have to feel pressured to squeeze into one box.

DT:      I’ve got something else I want to lead on to, but as a follow-up question, after you finished your BA, at what point did you find this avant-garde slash experimental scene? You’re quite heavily involved with collaborative projects with the same artists and writers and that happens naturally to everyone, we all find our own little niche. What do the kids say, you find your tribe on Twitter or whatever? How quickly did you find that and did you feel you could have done the same thing within theatre, or did it have to happen within poetry?

AP:       I think a lot of it depended on the tutors I worked with in both of my degrees. I really didn’t feel that my tutors in theatre connected me to a wider network outside the university, whereas as soon as I joined the MA of Poetic Practice at Royal Holloway, it was under the leadership of Robert Hampson, who is fantastic, by the way. He was, I think, the key who introduced me to people like Steven Fowler, who I work with regularly, and that network of avant-garde poets.

I know a lot of poets that have stumbled across the scene, but it’s really hard for it to happen organic[ally] without someone grabbing you by the hand and showing you the ropes and introducing you to this network.

DT:      Coming back to what you mentioned before about visual poems and how that’s a big part of your work, I’ve interviewed quite a few people as part of the series whose visual work is as essential to them as their written work or their performance work. It’s obviously a very hard thing to talk about in an audio medium, so on the podcast, we tend to, not brush over it, but it’s hard to explain what you mean without really lengthy descriptions of what a poem might look like.

I think it’s worth talking about because you started by reading two fantastic poems from your pamphlet Astropolis through Haverthorn Press and they are very, very visual and concrete in style and structure and it would be a shame to have any readings and have that book in the room and not talk about the visual structure in some way. Maybe you could explain what the book is, first of all, and how it came about? I think that might give some insight as to what it looks like.

Usually, along with the transcripts that accompany the episode, there are always transcripts of the poems, but maybe I should add images instead, so whoever’s listening could also go over to the transcript now and bring up the pdf and see the images of the poems we’re talking about, it might be useful.

AP:      I started developing Astropolis while I was at the Poetic Practice course actually. That was my final creative project. It’s supposed to be songs from a neo-futurist opera and I was inspired by the Italian Futurists, who I stumbled across while doing the course. They were fascinated with technology and I think technology today is a very vital part of our lives, more than ever. I started researching the neo-futurist term to see whether there were any echoes of the Italian Futurists today and I didn’t really find anything solid in poetry, either a book or someone who focused their practice on that particular movement.

So Astropolis is really an experiment of visual poems that try to define what neo-futurism is and although technology plays a very important part of the project, ecology plays just as important a role because I think now, with climate change, technology can be used in a positive way to try and help reduce some of the ecological damage. I try to express that notion through responding to smart buildings, so neo-futurist architecture.

Each of the poems is trying to embody the structure of that building. So there is a play between architecture and poetry, but it is a project in progress and I would like to explore that notion a bit more, hopefully. I’m starting a PhD in September in neo-futurist poetics, I think that will give me that space to explore Astropolis a bit more and hopefully come up with an even larger work of visual poems.

DT:      One thing I’ve noticed through reading your work and seeing your performances is that there are a lot of imagined and fantasy worlds you’re writing about. We’re not going to talk about Space just yet, I’m going to save that for the second half, but was it necessary for Astropolis to have a very real root for each poem that existed in this world, in order to talk about what an imagined future might be?

AP:       I think that in order to explore what the future might hold, I have to look back at the past and the buildings hopefully help with providing that past element in the work. The book really plays with the past, the present and the future and this is one of the elements I thought might help build that three-dimensional space for the poems.

DT:      I thought it was a really interesting hook as well, to use what are, at the moment, ultra-modern and brand-new buildings, but placing them, because the book is written at what point in the future?

AP:       So 2092.

DT:      2092, so then they suddenly become historical artefacts, even though to us, they are ultra-modern. It was an interesting starting point and as a bit of further clarification, each poem uses a different building from around the world. Why do you think that ecology and the environment play such a big role in the work of avant-garde writers at the moment? It seems to me that environmental issues are reflected far more heavily in the experimental writing I’ve seen than in more mainstream stuff.

AP:       That’s an interesting question, actually. Straightaway in my head, I’m identifying all these really interesting, experimental poets, who work around ecology, like Sarah Cave or Julia Rose Lewis. Probably, it’s because of the form of experimental poetry, although a lot of these writers don’t focus on the visual element. I do think the form of concrete poems helps express notions a bit better.

DT:      Do you think it feeds into this attraction to collaboration as well? I’m highly aware I might be accusing mainstream poets of not caring, and that is not what I’m doing, but perhaps through that desire to collaborate with other artists and be part of a wider community, it’s quite natural that it then links your work into thinking about being part of a community. Your practice itself is not…it seems to be with experimental writers that their practice is very rarely inward-looking, which is quite in mode at the moment, it’s quite fashionable for more mainstream poetry.

AP:       I agree with you, in a sense. Straightaway, I’m thinking of the European Poetry Festival, the last one that happened in April. There were quite a few poets that performed collaborative pieces around eco-poetry. All I’m thinking is Vilde Valerie Bjerke Torset for example, that literally pulled apart pots of Basil, which was quite an interesting image. I definitely think these outward notion of collaboration probably helps target subjects that concern us all and affect the community. Climate change, that multiplicity of voices is quite beautiful. That’s probably why you see more eco-poetry in avant-garde poetry at the moment. Maybe. That’s just my idea.

DT:      Now would be a good time for a second reading.

AP:       I’m going to read an extract from my neo-futurist manifesto, which was commissioned by Sidekick Books and was developed for their No, Robot, No anthology. It’s amazing, please go get a copy.

[download transcripts for poems]

 DT:      Two initials points come into my head. Because we said we were saving the reality of Space and what exists outside this planet until the second half, we should start there. As we established in the first half of this conversation, or at least established our own beliefs between the two of us about the proliferation of ecologically-minded poetry within the avant-garde and how we writers, because I put myself in that circle of writers as well, if we’re concerned with our place on this planet and amongst other human beings, your writing seems to take a leap outside that atmosphere, and consider where we are all sitting in the galaxy and wider universe, I was wondering, as I started the conversation with ‘Why poetry?’ maybe we should say ‘Why space?’

AP:       Because I think Space is the next stage and it is going to happen at some point, I don’t know when, but it is going to happen, moving to exo-planets and many scientists, like Stephen Hawking, for example, he was the one that predicted human race eventually moving to exo-planets, which is quite a fascinating idea. I really wish I lived at this point where we were packing our bags and moving to Mars. I wouldn’t mind the location, it’s this exciting space, planet in Outer Space. How would you feel about moving to Space?

DT:      I don’t spend that much time thinking about Space, but I got a bit distracted during your answer. I was at a talk recently, hosted by the fantastic writer Isabel Waidner, and they were talking about how during the 80s, splits between different kinds of literature became drawn out via class and educational divide and how sci-fi was seen as a lower form of writing and how it was deemed that was what you would write if you failed at university, imagining what it was like.

Coming very much from a working-class background, it surprised me because I had no interest in sci-fi or anything like that at all, but it’s also interesting to think about those class distinctions between experimental and more mainstream literature. I think what I’m concerned with is that I’m not against moving somewhere else, I’m just hoping we haven’t messed things up so much that we have to. It brings up ideas of what utopia might be and whether there’s just no chance of that, here.

It does seem for a lot of experimental writers, this idea of imagining some sort of utopia seems to weight quite heavily in people’s work and that’s maybe reflecting the damage and why they’re so obsessed with the damage that’s happening now to the planet.

AP:       It’s been a very popular subject. Straightaway, I’m thinking of Burning House Press and how they recently published an issue edited by Paul Hawking, which was around the future and space. There were some really lovely contributions to that issue. With No, Robot, No! anthology, there is a very big selection of writers concerned with the future, I suppose. I don’t know whether the political situation at the moment gives you an extra incentive to try and imagine how things are going to be in the future.

Obviously, with my work, I’ve gone too far away from the immediate future. That is hopefully something that concerns a lot of people at the moment and might be interesting for readers out there.

DT:      The second thing I was thinking as you were reading that, whilst I put myself into the same writing tradition as you, one thing I’ve never been able to get my head around is why the avant garde are so obsessed with manifestos. Even using them like a crux to build an idea around, regardless of whether you believe what you just read is an actual manifesto that you wish people would follow, this idea of being instructive as to how people should think about the world around them. I’ve always found it quite strange, this openness and the liberalism that’s inherent in experimentation, but then it often comes with a list of instructions.

AP:       Yeah, probably because a lot of conceptual poetry is a series of instructions. I look back at myself and the way I produce some of my poetry, by setting rules and going out there and following those rules to the very end. That’s probably why. A lot of avant-garde artists do like restricting themselves to a box, to be able to then escape it, in a way. I’m not speaking for everyone, that’s just my experience. I love instructions and I like a good manifesto as well. I’m not saying that my manifesto is good, but it’s interesting, it’s a form of prose I really enjoy.

DT:      You definitely see the attraction you have towards constraints in your writing come through your two pamphlets from Sampson Low, Almost A Dream and Almost A Nightmare. It might be a natural point to start talking about those two small booklets as well. I’m not going to explain your own work to you. Maybe you could tell me and the listeners about the form and the structure and what role musical theory and notation play in how these two booklets were put together.

AP:       So I would say with both Almost A Dream and Almost A Nightmare,  they are what I call collaging poems. Not all of them. The one I read on A Poem A Week last week, Heliolatry, it was a bit more language-focused, but a lot of the others are comprised of lines, which most of the time I have Googled or noted down. The restriction I set around those, to answer your question, so with Almost A Nightmare, I try to focus around language, about the Moonlight Sonata, the third movement, then text around the Great Fire of London and then sexual texts and try to extract language from sources that were discussing these three themes and bring them together to create something hopefully unique.

With Almost A Dream, I was a bit more free in the process of making them and although a lot of them are collaging poems, their sense of instruction wasn’t as strong. But I think a great example of what you’ve just said was a book that’s going to be published by Guillemot Press in September called Stargazing, which I have restricted myself to a small window of a set number of lines and the whole book is comprised of ‘aperture’ poems, which fall into a very simple, clean square and that’s probably the most restrictions that I’ve set to myself. Usually, although I set a list of instructions while creating poetry, nothing was as restrictive as these aperture poems.

DT:      So that square you’ve decided to restrict yourself to, is that a void into which you’re writing or are you using that open square to select smaller pieces of writing from a larger body?

AP:       A lot of the writing within that square space is supposed to be part of a larger text. It’s a bit like a black-out poem in reverse, if that makes sense, but metaphorically, it’s supposed to be a window through which you watch the sky at night and the way then the stars start to come together and create images, so I think the form works with the content because the poems are around the story of Icarus and Daedalus, which many of the listeners might know about. Yes, I do think form helps bring the content alive.

DT:      So this next book is your own little poetic telescope, is it? You’re scanning the sky with it.

AP:       That’s a great way to describe it, yes.

DT:      I really like that, I’ve always been attracted to artworks where the majority of the work is obscured and you can only view parts at a time. It’s quite interesting this point, also, I suppose that’s ultimately where the whole conversation is revolving, it’s nice that it’s come up at this point, how much of your work is informed by the form and that it’s not only a very interesting way to display the work at the end, it’s a vital part of the construction of the work as well.

AP:      Yes, 100%. Form for me is sometimes more important than content. Maybe it’s because I have an inclination towards visual art. Inclination’s not really the right word, probably a taste for visual art and the aesthetic is very important for me. I usually try and marry those two flavours of form and content.

DT:      It’s nice to come across a person’s work who’s clearly happy to live on the boundaries and intersections of two ways of working and not being afraid of… You hear a lot from artists about not wanting to be pigeon-holed between one thing and the other, but that’s not quite the same thing as being happy to live in the gaps between as well. I think sometimes that can be considered as a negative view or interpretation of your work, or somebody’s work, but it’s quite nice when you see people fully embrace it like you do with your work. It’s visual and it’s literary and it’s performance and what comes out at the end is what it is and it’s nice to see you stand by it and be quite proud of what it is at the end of it.

AP:       Thank you. Yes, for me, it’s very important to keep yourself open to things. I think with the restriction of performing visual poems, with your question, that popped up in my head straightaway, some people may be wary of creating visual pieces because if they’re strong performers, I think that freedom of expression sometimes opens doors you didn’t know existed. What I found with my visual work, at first my worry was how do I perform these?

At the launch of Astropolis last year, actually it was last year to the day at the Peckham Pelican, my worry was how do I perform these poems? I have to fill a 15-minute reading slot and how do I do that? That opened a whole door of me thinking of creating object poems and bringing those on stage, rather than me trying to extract some of the lines from the visual poem, which wouldn’t really work because the form was just as important as the content for those poems.

It opened that door for me to think of object poetry and the use of props to be able to create that same aesthetic that you’re trying to portray on the page. I would definitely encourage people to think of form as well, because it’s quite liberating.

DT:      Something I’ve been thinking about a lot with my own writing is how to embrace the contradictions in what I think about because it’s quite interesting, in the last 10 or 15 minutes hear you talk about your love for instructions and constraints and finish by talking about freedom to use props and do whatever you want. I think it’s nice to come to a point where you realise that these contradictions are integral to what you do.

I think I’ve spent a lot of my writing trying to define one way that I think about things and that just isn’t true, that isn’t how I live my life. I don’t have one way of thinking about  anything in life, I don’t know why it should be part of the way I write as well. I’m not going to say too much more because I’m going to end up plugging my own writing and that’s not what I’m here for. Unfortunately, we’ve come to the end of the conversation. Thank you so much for joining me, it’s been really fascinating.

AP:       It has been and thank you so much for the invitation, it’s been great.

DT:      We’re going to finish with a third and final reading.

AP:       Since we’ve been talking about restrictions in writing and we mentioned Stargazing, which is going to be out by Guillemot Press in September, I thought I might share with you some of the poems from the book.

Outro:

DT:      Hello again. You stuck with us to the end. Grab yourself a biscuit as a reward, or a cookie or whatever. That was the wonderful Astra Papachristodoulou. Do yourself a favour and go and see her perform if you get the chance or at the very least, check her out on You Tube. If you’d like to get yourself one of the pamphlets, you can buy Astropolis from Haverthorn Press, both Almost A Nightmare and Almost A Dream from Sampson and Low. As you heard at the end there, her latest will be Stargazing, out through Guillemot Press later this year. Astra has a fantastic page on her website, dedicated to her publications, so I’ll link to that in this episode description and I’ll also link to the next couple of things I’m going to mention.

As we’re talking of experimental poetry pamphlets, my wife Lizzy and I just published a collection of 10 poems by me and 10 accompanying illustrations by her. It’s called 10 Cups of Coffee and you can get yourself a copy through Hesterglock Press.

If it’s of interest, I was recently interviewed by Naomi Woddis for her show The Two Of Us, in which she talks to writers and artists about how they manage their mental health. We chatted mainly about how writing poetry and producing this podcast both impact and help my mental wellbeing. I really enjoyed the chat, but I think I will always remain too embarrassed to listen to the recording. You can do that for me. Let me know what you think.

I think that’s it for episode 121. You can continue to follow us on our website, lunarpoetrypodcasts.com, at Lunar Poetry Podcasts on Facebook and Instagram, @silent_tongue and @apoemaweek on Twitter.

Until episode 122 and the autumn, be good to yourselves.

End of transcript.