12 or 20 (second series) questions with Jennifer Martelli
JenniferMartelli hasreceived fellowships from The Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, MonsonArts, and the Massachusetts Cultural Council. Her work has appeared in TheAcademy of American Poets Poem-A-Day,Poetry, Best of the Net Anthology, Braving the Body Anthology, Verse Daily,Plume, The Tahoma Literary Review, and elsewhere. She is the author of Psychic Party Under the Bottle Tree, The Queen of Queens, which won theItalian American Studies Association Book Award and was shortlisted for theMassachusetts Book Award, and My Tarantella, which was also shortlisted for the Massachusetts Book Award andnamed finalist for the Housatonic Book Award. Jennifer Martelli is co-poetryeditor for MER. www.jennmartelli.com
How did your first bookor chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to yourprevious? How does it feel different?
I hadn’t written orsubmitted work for about 10 years. I completely unplugged from the poetrycommunity; we had moved with our infant daughter out of Cambridge and up to theNorth Shore, where I had no connection to poetry groups, etc. This, Idiscovered, is central to my writing. As introverted as I can be, I need acommunity of writers. Through my good friend, Jennifer Jean, I was introducedto an editor in the area, the magnificent Robin Stratton. She published myfirst chapbook, Apostrophe, and in2016, my full length, The Uncanny Valley.I was so honored to have somebody who actually wanted to publish my work!
When I look back onthose books, I see a through line, at least in terms of what I’m still writingabout: sisters, witness, relationships. The difference is that I’m older andmore willing to take chances with my voice; less afraid of what people will think.
How did you come topoetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I came to poetry afterreading Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot (anovel about vampires). I was probably about 13-years old. In the book, he usesa poem, “The Emperor of Ice Cream,” by Wallace Stephens. I had no idea what thepoem meant (I’m still not sure I do), but I wondered why this mysterious poemwas in a book about vampires. Thus, my love of poetry!
I’ve never really triedfiction; perhaps I’m lazy. I do go through periods where I write non-fiction,which I enjoy, and which can be as lyrical as any poem. A while ago, I was in awriting group that committed to 100-word stories/week. This was a perfect forumfor a poet: I had to practice concision, as well as story-telling. My poemsdon’t always follow a narrative or chronological arc (this can be problematicat times!), so being in this group helped a lot. The stories tended to bebiographical or, at least meditative. I was able to complete a 1000-wordcreative non-fiction piece about a statue of the Virgin Mary in my childhoodneighborhood who, people believed, began to speak, to prophesize. This storystill haunts me; writing it as prose was a way to contain it.
How long does it take tostart any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly,or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their finalshape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
This is a toughquestion. My process can be both slow and quick. I have a poem from my 2018collection, My Tarantella, and a poemthat ends my 2022 collection, The Queenof Queens. Both poems began with the same idea but took years to form, tosplit. They are, in fact, the same poem. So, yes, some poems fill up notebookswith drafts and notes.
Other times—and thisdoesn’t happen a lot—I’m given a gift. A poem comes out almost formed. Thisusually happens when I’m reading a lot of poetry, or a lot of poetry that showsme something new, that I have a physical response to. It’s very rare, and I don’tcompletely trust this, though, which is why I have readers.
I remember hearingLouise Glück talking about this; she would go for long stretches withoutwriting, and then, complete a whole manuscript in a year! I will say that ifI’m deep in the weeds of writing a book (or what I think might become a book),the writing is a little easier; comes a little faster.
Where does a poemusually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combininginto a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the verybeginning?
My last two collectionswere project books, meaning, they centered around a specific person (Kitty Genovese and Geraldine Ferraro). I never start out thinking, “Oh, I’ll write abook about this person.” I might get an idea in my mind—perhaps I read an articleabout them or I see an image that reminded me of the times in which theylived—and write from there. So there’s an image, or a look, that’s contained inthe poem. So, I write another poem perhaps with that image, and then another.What emerges is my own personal mythology, with imagery that repeats. In The Queen of Queens, which centeredaround Ferraro, pearls showed up in a lot of poems because Geraldine Ferrarowore them a lot; in My Tarantella,which recounts the murder of Kitty Genovese (who was murdered in 1964), leathergloves and bats show up. In a way, the subjects become prompts, thus the bookis less of an historical account, but way more personal to the speaker.
But, to simply answeryour question, no, I never start out thinking I have a book.
Are public readings partof or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoysdoing readings?
I do enjoy doingreadings, especially now that we’re back in person (though Zoom afforded me thechance to read—and to go to readings—in places that would have been harder tovisit). Readings definitely don’t slow or hinder my creative process; in fact, theyare a good way to see how the poem feels as I read it. Most of the time, I likethe energy in a reading, especially in-person.
I don’t feel as if thethought of a public reading informs my creative process. I do try to thinkabout my audience when I’m choosing poems to read. I was doing a reading with afriend, and she suggested a “round robin” format, meaning, we would riff offeach other’s poems. I really liked this, because it was a surprise for me:which poem will I read next?
Do you have anytheoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are youtrying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questionsare?
This is a good question.My last two books were definitely poems of witness: they pretty much spannedthe Trump administration. This period affected me in ways I didn’t expect. Thiswas reflected in my poetry; a lot of my poems do not hide my contempt. I had afriend and fellow poet ask if I was afraid that his would alienate some readerswho either didn’t agree with my beliefs or who just didn’t want to hear aboutthem. I had to accept this as a possibility. So, my theoretical question is: doI write to satisfy readers or do I write what is my obsession/concern at themoment? For me, it came down to (and I’ll quote Claudia Rankine): “I write whatI write.” Another theoretical concern was coming to terms with my atheism,which I explore in my forthcoming book. As a person in recovery, rejecting thebelief in a (G)god was scary. Can I recover as a non-believer? This kind ofresponds to the previous question: how much should I anticipate what the readerwill absorb? Can I let this affect my writing? The answer is no, I can’t.
I guess I’m trying toanswer my own questions: how do I live in this world? why do some topics/issuesget caught in my internal sieve? why am I drawn to write about some things andnot others?
I think the mainquestion is: how can I not be invisible?
What do you see thecurrent role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? Whatdo you think the role of the writer should be?
I’m going to repeat whatI heard Claudia Rankine say: “I write what I write.” My political poems (I hatethat term) or poems of witness arose from the same place that any other poem Iwrite arose (see questions above). So, whether I’m writing about a Queen ofNight tulip or the Dobbs decision, I hope that I’m writing from an honestplace. That’s the role of a writer in our larger culture: to write honestly.
As a poet, I’m not surehow much of a role I have, in terms of change, but that trying to change peopleor society has never been my goal as a poet. There’s a place for my activismoutside of the poetry world—and I’m sure some of that seeps into my creativework—but I’ve never gone to poetry for activism.
Do you find the processof working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I love working witheditors. I find it essential to have a set of eyes that I trust on my work.Having hard conversations with people I respect has only improved my books.Shout out to Eileen Cleary at Lily Poetry Review Books!
What is the best pieceof advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
About writing: “What’s astake in the poem? what are you risking?” And of course, the Rankine quote.
About life: “What’s atstake? What are you risking?”
How easy has it been foryou to move between genres (poetry to critical prose)? What do you see as theappeal?
I feel that my movementfrom poetry to critical prose waxes and wanes. I’ve always written reviews,though lately, I feel like my critical work has gotten a little lazy, formulaic,which is why I’m taking a break. I also go through periods where I’m writingnon-fiction; I’m not always sure why this move happens—maybe I grow sick ofline breaks!
I think these foraysinto sentences are good, in terms of keeping my own writing fresh. Criticalprose is important in my writing life for a few reasons: first, I’m readingmore poetry; second, I’m being a literary citizen, which can feel good.
What kind of writingroutine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day(for you) begin?
A typical day startsearly. As I get older, I find it harder to sleep in! So I get up, feed my cat,Maria, have my breakfast while I read the paper, watch the news. Then I go upto my office and begin my day. This might mean finishing a review or a critique,organizing my own work, revising or generating new work. I find mornings aremost productive.
When your writing getsstalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word)inspiration?
Walking is a huge help;when I’m stuck on a poem or even prose, moving my body almost shakes a rhythmout of me.
The other thing is toreturn to collections which have always been generative: Marie Howe, VictoriaChang, Laura Jensen, Lucille Clifton, Rachel Mennies.
What fragrance remindsyou of home?
I hate to say this, butsometimes when I smell cigarettes, I think of my mother (she quit when I was ateen). I loved how it smelled on her coat.
David W. McFadden oncesaid that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influenceyour work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
Lately, I’ve beenheavily involved in visual art as a source of my poetry. I’m in an ekphrasticgroup, where we write weekly to various works of visual art. The poems I writemay not directly describe the work, but they respond to it—perhaps a color or shape.My hope is that the poems stand on their own.
I love movies, too, andthey play a big part in a lot of my work.
What other writers orwritings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
As I mentioned, thereare poets whose work speaks to me in a way beyond the intellectual. Elizabeth Bishop, Marie Howe, Victoria Chang, Laura Jensen are a few.
In terms of simplifyingmy life, probably The Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions Book of AA. It’s datedand a little too Christian for my tastes, but there’s some beautiful writingthere and some truth which transformed my life decades ago.
What would you like todo that you haven't yet done?
I would love to go tothe very tip of Chile and gaze at Antarctica. I think I’d also love to take across-country train ride.
If you could pick anyother occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do youthink you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
I was a high schoolEnglish teacher for years; perhaps I would have stayed at my job had I not beengiven the opportunity to go to grad school for writing.
Sometimes, I wish I hadstudied archeology; the idea of digging and finding excites me.
What made you write, asopposed to doing something else?
I don’t think I was verygood at anything else, in terms of a creative pursuit. Or, I just didn’t havethe patience to learn how to improve. I feel like a kind of “got” writing. Withother arts, I’m just more of a fan!
What was the last greatbook you read? What was the last great film?
frank: sonnets by Diane Seuss; Winter Solstice and Summer Solstice by Nina MacLaughlin.
Great film? I shouldwarn you that I love horror. I think GetOut is a perfect film. Parasite, The Zone of Interest.
What are you currentlyworking on?
I have two manuscriptsin the works: one is a collection of poems that was prompted (or responds to)the film, Suspiria; the other is amore political collection, dealing with violence and misogyny. We’ll see howthey develop!
