KARAN

Let’s start with love poems, as many of these are. I love it when a love poem is also a political poem — and it often is — especially when the love shared is anything but conventional heteronormative love. The homoeroticism here, as in Emily and Susan’s case, invites sensuality and intimacy but also socio-cultural critique. Queer love is at the center of many of these poems, so these poems are deeply political. When does love become a political act? Would you speak about that?

KELLI

Absolutely, Karan, what a great question. I’d love to respond and hope I can provide a meaningful answer! For me, I believe love can transcend boundaries and norms, which inherently makes it a political act, especially when it deviates from conventional heteronormative expectations. I think when we write about queer love, we challenge the societal structures that have marginalized and silenced these experiences for so long.

Queer love in poetry isn’t just about representation; it’s about reclaiming space and asserting the validity and beauty of all forms of love. As a bi/queer poet, writing these poems helps combat bi-erasure and bi-invisibility, which refer to the tendency to ignore or invalidate bisexual identities. For example, people might see two women together and assume they are lesbians, or see a man and a woman and think they are straight, when in fact one or both could be bisexual.

Consider Emily Dickinson and Susan Gilbert, for example. I felt frustrated reading articles where several writers and academics labeled Dickinson as a lesbian after interpreting her letters, despite evidence of her relationships with men, which suggests she may have been bisexual. Of course, we can’t know for certain since we only have her poems and letters to examine, but including her in my poem felt crucial to me. By doing so, we reintroduce the conversation of queer love into literary history while simultaneously helping to dismantle oppressive systems—a win-win!

Having hidden my queerness from my Catholic family for years, writing these poems felt incredibly freeing and reminded me that I don't have to feel shame for who I am. Queer love poems are acts of visibility, pushing back against erasure and ensuring our place in the narrative. Each time we write a queer love poem, we shine a little brighter and add a bit more dazzle to the world; we remind heteronormative culture that we are here too, and that there are countless ways to love. Perhaps one day, queer love poems will no longer be seen as political acts, but simply as the love poems they are. When that day comes, we will have achieved true equality, with queer love accepted and celebrated like any other love.

KARAN

There’s also larger political themes (like the idea of nation state which Alina Stefanescu spoke about in brilliant detail in a recent interview) hinted toward by lines like: “The border wasn’t a border before a man drew a line.” These poems also have so much display of kindness: “because // you don't spray pesticides across your lawn / —the grasshoppers and cocoons thank you.” And in a world that thrives on cruelty, kindness is a rebellion, a political resistance. What are your thoughts on political poems? Do you find it an important aspect of your poems that they reach outward? 

KELLI

Cruelty always shocks me for so many reasons as it’s so much easier to be kind. When I’m writing, I never intentionally think, “Oh, this is a political poem that’s clapping back against X.” I write about the topics that deeply matter to me, whether it’s the environment, the problem with humans and their need to “own” the planet (in quotes because we can’t own land) queerness, spirituality, or __________ (fill-in-the-blank.)

But you’re right, I hadn’t really considered it but writing about kindness in a world that thrives on cruelty is another form of political resistance. It pushes back against a culture that often prioritizes power over empathy. So, in that respect, kindness in poetry is an act of rebellion, a refusal to conform to the harshness of the world. 

I think it’s important to recognize in poems the small acts of care that often go unnoticed but make a significant impact. For example, not spraying pesticides on your lawn might seem insignificant, but it shows respect for the tiny creatures we share our world with. Living in the Pacific Northwest, surrounded by water, means those pesticides inevitably end up in our waterways. This attention to the seemingly small and insignificant is a powerful statement against the broader, more destructive forces at play.

I think my poems reach outward because they’re rooted in my desire to connect with others and the world around me. I always want readers to feel less alone when they read my work, it’s probably the main reason I publish my work. I do hope my work does invite readers to see the beauty in the overlooked, and to believe that our actions, no matter how small, have political and ethical implications. I guess I hope my poems help contribute to a larger conversation about what it means to live kindly in an often unkind world.

KARAN

I’m really pulled by your metaphysical reflections. “We're hanging / in there, knowing love is love is love and also temporary, / like us.” There’s also a quality of prayer about these poems. I often bring up this categorization we were taught by Sophia Terazawa in a class: poetry of the mind, body, heart and soul. I feel that you’re writing from all the four places, as all great poets do. There’s clear heart and mind in these poems, but body and soul are at the forefront. And I love how you bring the two together. “Today’s prayer is my body pressed / against your body.” Or: “Text me when you’re a homing pigeon, / Sext me when you’re holy.” Would you put yourself in any of these categories? And do you see yourself moving elsewhere?

KELLI

Karan, this is a fascinating question. I think because these poems come from a manuscript rooted in desire and spirituality, body and soul have naturally stepped to the forefront. For me, despite a Catholic upbringing, I have never viewed sex or sexual identities through the lens of sin—so in my poems, sex, sacredness, spirituality, queerness, and the divine all coexist. There is no hell you’re going to for who you love. Sex can be sacred and queer folks can be deeply spiritual. 

In my regular life, I think I would place myself in all the categories at different points throughout the day, but I probably reside in the heart most of the time. It’s the part of me that acts as my compass. I’ve made a lot of mistakes when I listened to what my mind said, but my heart has never once steered me wrong—no matter how country song that sounds!

In my poems, I probably move more fluidly between the four places. I spend a lot of time thinking about people dying, which might sound odd, but I believe it stems from my anxiety and my dislike of endings. As a child, I was always asking my mum to drive me to cemeteries, and I was obsessed with ghosts. As a poet or artist, I’ve realized that a preoccupation with death and impermanence can bring deeper meaning to our work. I mean, I’m always surprised to learn that people don’t think about their loved ones dying 24/7 or consider, when they get in a car—this could be my last drive to Starbucks! So maybe there’s a silver lining to having a lifelong existential crisis—at least it makes for some interesting poetry.

KARAN

I love the playfulness in these poems, evident especially in your titles: “We Are the Only Poets, and Everyone Else is Prose” — I know for a fact that you’re having fun writing these poems. You so well juxtapose the intimate with the humorous, and the contemplative with the ridiculous. Consider: “My brain skinny-dips / in the ocean, has a hot girl summer without leaving / my skull.” What role does humor play for you, your poems? I’m still thinking about “Keep your cigars out of my creativity” which is so strange and funny to me. 

KELLI

I am having fun when I’m writing poems! Humor has always played a significant role in my work. In fact, my MFA critical thesis was on the topic of the use of humor in women’s poetry. I’ve always seen humor as a backdoor into tougher topics, a way to address serious issues with a light touch. I definitely appreciate reading poems where sadness is mixed with happiness, and the silly is intertwined with the sacred. I mean, that’s life—you visit a loved one in the hospital, you eat a Hot Pocket, you drink a smoothie, you get frustrated in traffic, you buy avocados and tampons, you cry and say a prayer for a dying friend, laugh with a stranger as you pet their golden retriever, and then you may go home, eat olives, have sex with your partner, wake up at 3 am feeling incredibly alone and watch reruns of The Golden Girls. Everything all at once. In one day, a million feels. Those are the poems I love too, just like our lives—deeply ridiculous, meaningful, humorous, and sacred.

Humor allows me to explore the complexities of life without becoming overwhelmed by them. It provides a balance or an entryway to navigate the emotional landscape of a poem. Maybe humor is a tool for resilience, a means to cope with and comment on the absurdities of life. My family always laughed at inappropriate times (funerals, midnight mass, uncomfortable moments, etc.) and always found humor when we could. Humor helps me—and hopefully my readers—find a bit of lightness in the midst of darkness.

KARAN

You do not shy away from referring to your poems as poems — at all times the reader is aware that the speaker of these poems is aware that these are poems. Especially in “Reply. Or Better, Be with Me” where you use the trope of “Dear Reader,” and “We Are the Only Poets, and Everyone Else is Prose,” where you say things like “I emdash you”! — I mean you made a verb out of my favorite punctuation mark. I mean who wouldn’t want to be emdashed after reading that. I wonder if this is a consequence of writing a lot — how do you keep writing one poem after another without acknowledging the act? Does that resonate with you? What about this meta-ness fascinates you most? “Devotion Where All of This is Poetry” too is full of poetry vocabulary. And with “It’s okay for risk and plans to coexist just as we / understand second-person is just a way to hide / yourself in a poem,” we’re bordering on ars poetica. What are your thoughts on poetry about poetry?

KELLI

I think I enjoy poetry about poetry because, early on, I was told not to refer to poetry or the act of writing poetry in a poem. That's the rebel in me. I find something deliciously subversive about breaking that rule and drawing attention to the act of writing itself. It’s like winking at the reader and saying, “Yes, we’re in on this together.”

There’s also a playful joy in turning elements of poetry into characters in their own right. When I say things like “I emdash you,” it’s a way to breathe life into the tools of our craft, to animate the punctuation and structure that we usually see as background elements. Who wouldn’t want to be emdashed, after all? It’s like receiving a poetic hug or reaching an arm out to another.

The meta-ness allows me to acknowledge the artifice of poetry while celebrating it. It’s a way of showing that poetry is both the journey and the destination, a map and the territory. By making the process a little more visible, I hope to invite readers to join me in the act of creation. It’s like we’re constructing the poem together. Maybe I use poetry vocabulary as a kind of secret code for those in the know, a language that connects us as poets and readers.

Recently a good friend said to me about my manuscript-in-progress, “Maybe you shouldn’t begin with a poem about Emily Dickinson and literary references because it makes a non-poet reader feel excluded” and I laughed and said, “What non-poet is reading my work?” Poets read other poets. So I love speaking directly to them and if a non-poet reads my work and has to look up what an emdash is, then they learn something. 

But I think writing about writing is a reminder that poetry is not just about the end product but about the continuous, exhilarating process of discovery. And if it lets me indulge in a bit of rebellious fun, all the better.

KARAN

I see a lot of nature imagery here. We encounter bees “Busy in their dandelion duvet, // their world of delight.” Delightful, indeed! We also meet monarchs, milkweed, elderberries, robins, rivers and lakes. Does nature preoccupy your mind when you sit down to write? Also, when constructing your poems, do you begin from a specific element — image, idea, memory, or thought, for example — or do these elements form in tandem with each other? Which is to ask, where do poems come from? And why do you write? I guess this is another process question.

KELLI

Absolutely! Living in the Pacific Northwest, in a very rural area on a sandspit, means nature is all around me. I actually have river otters running through my yard sometimes and seagulls dropping clamshells on my roof. So, yes, nature is always on my mind and right outside my window.

When it comes to writing poems, I often begin with a specific element, like an image, idea, memory, or thought. The two most common ways poems come to me are quite different. One way is that I’ll most likely be in the shower, drying my hair, or doing some boring task and I hear a line in my head or think of a title. For example, yesterday, I was thinking about how my trip to Santa Fe was canceled because my mother-in-law ended up in the hospital, and I had tickets to Georgia O'Keeffe's home. That thought led me to imagine a parallel world where another version of myself visiting O'Keeffe's home. So I wrote down the line, “In a Parallel Universe, My Other Self Tours Georgia O’Keeffe’s Home” and it kicked off a draft of a poem. But that’s the key, you know—writing it down! I've had countless lines just float away into the zeitgeist, probably ending up in other poets’ minds.

This spontaneous method is my favorite way to write because I carry the poem with me like a secret. You might see me in the coffee aisle, looking as if I'm shopping, but really, I'm working on a poem in my head.

The second way is a bit like batting practice. I sit down, read someone else’s poem (or poems) to get me “in the mood” to write, and see what comes out. Sometimes, I make a word list or jot down 12 random words and make myself use them in the poem. This method is more deliberate and structured, but it also allows for unexpected connections and surprises. Constraint is good for me. It makes me have to be creative. For instance, if I wrote down “duvet” and needed to include it in my poem, I might get creative and come up with “dandelion duvets.” I can't remember if that's exactly how that phrase was created, but I think I initially called it a “dandelion bed,” which just fell flat.

But back to nature—yes, it’s always on my mind. Certain flora and fauna hold specific meanings for me. Waxwings appear in my poems when I write about death, while kingfishers show up when I’m writing about hope or something sacred. It's kind of my own poetic symbolism. Nature provides a rich quilt of imagery and metaphor that I draw from constantly, grounding my work in the tangible while exploring the intangible.

KARAN

You mention Emily Dickinson a few times in these poems and that’s not the only reason her work comes to mind when one reads your poems. Your hold over repetition and rhyme and rhythm alongside a kind of curt grandness that we associate as Dickinsonian is spot on. Would you speak about your relationship with Emily Dickinson? When did you first encounter her work? How has your relationship with her work evolved over the years? Finally, do you tussle with anxiety of influence? 

KELLI

As a young poet and English major, Emily Dickinson was a poet I fell in love with. And maybe I fell more in love with her life than her writing at first—I imagined this reclusive woman in a white nightgown lowering bread down from her bedroom window, writing letters. I romanticized lives like that when I was in my early 20s and “living the life of a poet.”

My second book, Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room, was actually finished in the Emily Dickinson hotel room at a quirky literary hotel in Nye Beach, Oregon. I had a lot of anxiety while writing that book, and Emily felt like a partner in that process. Her influence was a comforting presence, like having a mentor silently cheering me on.

Emily’s influence has evolved over the years. She started as an almost mythic figure in my poetic imagination, and now she feels more like an old friend who occasionally stops by to offer wisdom. I didn’t expect her to return in my newest manuscript, but if Emily knocks on your dreams and poems, you let her in! It’s as if her spirit hovers around my creative process, whispering ideas and offering courage.

Do I tussle with the anxiety of influence? Absolutely. But I think of it as more of a playful wrestling match than a serious bout. There’s probably a bit of Emily in everything I write, whether it’s the curt grandness you mentioned, or my love for repetition, rhythm, and of course—emdashes! I guess my poems are a nod to her while also striving to carve out my own voice. Besides, if I’m going to be haunted by the influence of a poet, you could do a lot worse than Emily Dickinson.

KARAN

This is the famous (infamous?) advice question that poets love or hate to answer. But you’ve had books published that are well acclaimed and you also founded the esteemed Two Sylvias Press. So, especially as an editor, what is something you’d like to say to young writers, as a way of advice or caveats?

KELLI

Oh, this is such a great question, Karan, and there are so many ways I could go! Maybe I’ll just go in every direction!

First, never judge your success by a number. Not by how many publications you have, how many books you've sold, or any other metric. It’s the quickest way to become unhappy as a poet and honestly, in life in general.

Everyone feels overlooked at some point—just spend a few minutes on Facebook and you’ll see it in real-time! So when you’re feeling that way, know you’re not alone. Remember that every writer, even the ones you admire, has experienced the same doubts and frustrations. The key is to keep going, keep writing, and keep believing in the value of your unique voice. Success in the literary world is often about persistence and resilience as much as it is about talent.

Follow the submission guidelines the best you can, but know it’s absolutely okay to have a couple of typos in your work. Don’t freak out if you find a few after you’ve already submitted! That’s why we’re here as editors. We've never rejected a manuscript because of a couple of typos; we’re looking at the whole picture.

There is no one right way to be a poet. Follow your own instincts and understand why you are making the choices you are in your poems. Your unique voice is what makes your work stand out. Maybe this goes back to your question about the four categories—when it comes to being a poet, heart and soul are at the front of the line.

And remember, no one is forcing us to write poems or write anything at all, so try to find the fun in it. Enjoy the process, embrace the quirks, and let yourself be playful. After all, poetry is about exploring the world through your own lens, so follow your obsessions and passions.

Finally, as someone who’s both a poet and an editor, I can tell poets to keep writing and keep submitting—even through rejections. The literary world is vast and varied, and there’s a place for your voice. So, stay persistent, stay passionate, and most importantly, stay true to your vision.

KARAN

You’ve already established Emily Dickinson as one of your greatest influences. We would also love to know other poets who have influenced you deeply.

KELLI

Emily Dickinson has been a towering influence, but she’s in excellent company! Sylvia Plath, Frank O’Hara, and Lucille Clifton have also shaped my work. I have probably read the most about Plath’s life—I recommend the biography Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath by Heather Clark for anyone who wants to do a deep dive. I love O’Hara because he offered me the permission to write conversational poems about everyday life, capturing the details of a day. Clifton, I have always loved for many reasons. She can do so much in a short poem, combining deep humanity with humor.

And of course, I’m inspired and influenced by so many contemporary poets that I could name, but that list would be long and incomplete. I once heard a poet say, “There are too many poets writing today,” and I thought that was such a ridiculous thing to state. It’s like saying there are too many monarchs or stars, too many constellations, and the universe is just too large. I mean, who complains about too many rainbows or that someone brought too many chocolate chip cookies to the potluck? The more poets, the more delight and surprises we can find in the world. I have always said, The world would be a better place if everyone woke up and wrote a poem each day. I mean—imagine! In my world—the more poems and the more poets, the better.