Thanks to Opal Palmer Adisa for this interview which was...
Thanks to Opal Palmer Adisa for this interview which was published in the Jamaica Observer of February 10, 2019.
OPA: For me, the history of Trinidad and Tobago is synonymous with Pitch Lake as that was one of the first facts I learned and because it also saved Columbus and allowed him to continue his colonial voyage. So what is the meaning and implications of this title for your collection?
AB: With Pitch Lake I was drawn to several things. Firstly, the polyvalence of each word. Pitch, a quality of sound, a measurement of steepness or highness, a degree of intensity, a space for play, an act of service in a game, a proposal, the density of words on a page and, of course, especially in Trinidad, another word for asphalt, bitumen, tar. Lake, a place within a terrain, a space filled with water, a metaphor. The conflation of these dynamic words pleases. They resonate in a potentially bottomless kind of way.
And of course the layers of geography, myth, history. The Pitch Lake is itself the world’s largest asphalt lake. Its history is not limited to Columbus, the indigenous peoples of this land developed myths about its formation and purpose long before him. (Incidentally, it seems there is some uncertainty as to whether it was Columbus or Sir Walter Ralegh who encountered the lake first). The lake itself is a natural wonder, its level has barely changed over the centuries. Ancient fossils and objects are spit out of its depths every day. It is a link to the past and the future. Scientists have said there are organisms in it that might give us clues as to what life on moons might be like.
Meaning and implications? That’s really not for me to say. All I can offer is that I was drawn to the lake as a symbol. I hope the whole book asks questions about language, the environment, sexuality, politics, the post-colonial condition. Asphalt from the Pitch Lake has reportedly been used to pave roads and runways all over the world including at Buckingham Palace and La Guardia Airport in New York. So too I hope my words travel.
In addition to the actual lake, Alfred Mendes’s 1934 novel Pitch Lake was also a presence. There is a bit of intertextuality. So there are lots of layers for me. Which I find interesting. Which says something about me and my sad life. Ha.
OPA: Some of your work is definitely a talking back to certain Caribbean iconic markers, such as “Sargassum,” and others seem a mirror trying to break beneath skin and thought such as “Poui.” How do you attend to your craft, the development and debut of a poem?
AB: Each poem is its own thing, and it’s not often easy to predict where or how the idea is going to find expression. The most thrilling part of writing is the preparation to write, yes, but also the moment when you throw everything out the window and just let things happen to you and your poem. ‘Sargassum’ references the sudden proliferation of that seaweed in recent years due to climate change, but of course, it’s also alluding to a history which reaches well beyond the Jean Rhys novel. I see ‘Poui’ as a kind of aubade.
OPA: As poets, we sometimes write about our life or use it as a point of departure. There are hints of autobiography in some of your poems, but they feel more like pieces of a puzzle, the whole of which we will never get, or private revelations that is really a mask for something else, for example, “The Lost Earrings.”
AB: The closing section of the book is a series of poems which I regard as small thought experiments, playing with the idea of narrative, interrupting linear notions of time, allowing a stream of consciousness to be dammed then released then remixed then reversed—each a curation of complex emotions. I’m always interested in what the reader finds and their journey.
As for autobiography and masking, think of it this way: a poem is a Carnival costume. It might have a lot of fabric and fancy trimmings. Or it might be slender and revealing. Always, we get a sense of the human body beneath. Always, the choice of mask reveals something about the wearer of the costume. Paradoxically, it’s when we deploy masks that we show more of ourselves.
OPA: As a gay man living in the Caribbean, specifically Trinidad, where homophobia was, and perhaps still remains an issue, how have you addressed that topic in your writing? And now that the buggery law has been struck down, and Trinidad had its first Pride celebration, do you feel safer as a gay man to express that topic more openly in your work as in the poem “After Andil Gosine”?
I don’t ever want to feel safe in my writing. I think the question of “openness” has a lot to do with expectations. Do we expect certain poets from certain backgrounds to always write poems about certain topics? When they defy us with poetry which is not overtly lined to any specific agenda does that make us inclined to regard them as hiding behind masks? Would we hold up heteronormative society to such standards? Are only certain types of poets allowed to deploy the fullest range of artistic expression and experimentation?
The ruling on the buggery law and our first Pride parade were touchstone moments which inspire hope. But the problem of homophobia in our society is a long-term problem.
I don’t address issues in my writing. I just write. And I let whatever comes to the surface rise. Hopefully, this brings me closer to a truth and that truth allows me to bridge different worlds, including worlds of diverse sexualities.
For me, the question of how open you get in your work is more about experience than a wider social narrative, though they undoubtedly blur. It’s like asking would you like to be the subject of a reality TV show or not? Each person has a different answer depending on their personality.
Some of my sexiest poems, or poems in which queerness is part of the fabric of the poem were written and published (and performed) years before recent developments.
That said, every poem, no matter how clothed, is a deeply personal artifact. Take it or leave it. And poetry is a freedom that I am entitled to. Feeling free in real life does enable me, somewhat, to be braver in whatever I write. And, yes, who knows what a sense of freedom might bring to the mix.
OPA: I really enjoyed the “Art Teacher,” which seems strictly a prose piece, so I am curious about its inclusion in this collection?
It comes in the LAKE section, where I examine language itself, the idea of words forming an endless sea of (broken) narrative. The juxtaposition of a conventional linear narrative alongside the other pieces is meant to trigger comparison; to create the sensation of something suddenly out of place, complicating and interrupting the three-section schematic of the book. Part of me wanted to ask the question: what’s the distinction between prose and poetry? Why is a story not a poem? Heidegger says poetry is the essence of all other art forms.
OPA: Do you have any urge to write strictly prose, where the story element takes precedence?
AB: Poems tell stories. Stories can be poetry. Dylan Thomas. Borges. Baudelaire. All wrote both. That said, I do have those urges. I have lots of urges. Don’t we all? It depends on the pressure giving birth to a particular idea. It’s a matter of feeling things out. There are times when I have written the poem, then the story, then done the painting.
You can read the full interview .
