Shannan

Reading “it is at nights” is – and I’m going to be seriously honest about this – like an orgasmic experience. I mean – holy fuck, you’re good! Right off the bat, I’m struck by the syntax of the title: a little old, royal, Romantic, and also melancholic, foreboding, giving off the vibes of a modern gothic infused with tarot readings, unruly oceans, and wild moons. It takes me a while as I enter the poem to realize there is no punctuation. Omitting punctuation, especially in key moments like “I have cried / mountains have torn” and “what is fair if your home / has betrayed you a long / time ago if rightfully all…” creates a gorgeous, magical effect. I am within the poem and in a way, I feel like I am within the poet as well. There is a merging of voices, a symphonic narrative that rises through your words. I feel…involved. Which, I think, is harder to feel for a poem as opposed to longer forms of writing. But the emotions present here create a whole world and I really wish for you to try and decode it for us a little bit more. Please share how you weave these stories in your poems, and in particular – where this wholly unique voice has come from? 

Myriam

Oh wow, thank you, that is such a huge compliment! Especially since writing this poem also felt a little bit orgasmic. It actually is a defining piece for me because with its creation my whole writing process completely changed, shifting from a cerebral approach to a much more instinctual one. Before, I used to work with a topic or theme in mind, trying to compose something that fit these fixed ideas, but the result always felt stilted and contrived. Here I just suddenly had one phrase in mind — the very first one — and allowed myself to build upon it without much planning or analysis. I wasn’t thinking so much, but rather feeling into it. I honestly don’t know why this change happened at that moment or with this piece, but whatever the reason, ever since writing poetry has been a gut thing more than a brain thing — like following a river as opposed to climbing a mountain. I don’t really think about what’s the logical next step or alternate phrase, but instead try to feel the emotional resonance of every word and every line break. Somehow it’s like there is always a right choice and a wrong choice, and sometimes I’m lucky enough to recognize which is which, but it always feels like in the best cases I don’t create but discover: the poem is already there. I only remove whatever keeps it hidden. That may sound a bit pretentious, but that is honestly how I feel about it.

In a way, it helps that English isn’t my first language, I think. I don’t have the same firm grasp on it that I have on my native German. So when using it, I automatically have to rely a lot more on instinct. In general, I’ve always been fascinated by how much of an influence the language you use has on you as a person. I’m more open in English, more confident, more relaxed. There is almost something like an identity shift happening, where using different languages unlocks different parts of your personality and for some reason you cannot easily transfer those character traits from one to the other. I learned most of my English through art and not school: books, music, movies… and all of those come with so many emotional undercurrents, so it's a bit like they are somehow easier to tap into for me. Maybe that’s why I’m not able to write poetry in German! 

Karan

This distinction between creation and discovery is so interesting! It brings to mind many poets who work like that, an acknowledgement to the divinity of the process. Leonard Cohen often used to say this in his interviews: If I knew where the good songs came from, I’d go there more often. 

AAAAEnglish isn’t my first language so I particularly resonate with this division of personality. Do you find that certain emotions or nuances are more accessible or expressible in English compared to your native German, and vice versa? For instance, cursing in Hindi feels so much more authentic to me than in English. The idea of different languages unlocking various parts of our personalities is really fascinating. Are there specific instances where you feel/have felt compelled to switch between languages within a poem to capture a particular essence or emotion that felt unattainable in one language alone? Or do you feel hesitant to use German in your English poems? I’m asking this because I almost never use Hindi in mine, and wonder if it’s some sort of a gulf I need to cross?

Myriam

What wouldn’t I give to have a map that leads to creations to be eternally proud of! Then again, there is something really exciting about not knowing where you go and if it will turn out to be a place of wonder and amazement or this shithole you’d rather never even think of again. Probably being perfect all the time would get boring. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

AAAATo get back to the use of different languages in poetry, it has a lot to do with how I came to switch in the first place and what it meant to me. At one point, I realized that English sentences formed in my mind first and then I tried to translate them into German, which – no. Just no. It doesn’t work. After that, it still took me some time to dare to switch to English completely, but when I did, it felt immensely freeing, even at the beginning when I hadn’t yet discovered what process actually is right for me. Everything seemed easier from the start. 

AAAAThat has a lot to do with German being so rigid. This can be a plus for many things and even a draw for people: a dear friend of mine, who is himself Italian, loves and is actually learning German because he admires its strictness and precision. And he’s right about that, there is something very unrelenting about it, to a point where for example neologisms mostly feel weird and cringy and we tend to adopt new terms like mansplaining instead of creating our own versions. But honestly, I think the reason why I do indeed hesitate to use German in my poems is a lot more personal, even a bit childish. Writing poetry in German was so frustrating because it never really worked for me, so now there is some kind of residual anxiety or even dislike to make use of it in poetry. Like it might break the spell. Your image of having to cross a gulf makes me wonder though: maybe it is worth putting the effort into the journey back because it would give me that much more tools to express different nuances of thoughts, emotions, and sensations. I probably just should get over myself and try. Because yes, there for sure are moods I find a bit easier to access in German, like, surprisingly enough, deeply romantic notions, maybe because I tend to be quite verbose when it comes to that and German does have a way of becoming long-winded and expansive, but in an enjoyable way, that is very inviting to that specific part of me. 

Shannan

“The mistress speaks” places an often ostracized caricature in the role of the storyteller, giving her a heart – yes, but also, more importantly, a voice and a purpose. The imagery here is linked throughout with desire. She wishes to “hold [her] teeth in your hands” and she “screech[es] / like a beetle”. At the same time, she “know[s] to wash [her]self in bring / before…touch[ing] the foreskins of our fathers.” Limb and love meld and morph into a third object with your language. It shimmers into view as a “lonely minotaur” and sometimes “a virgin girl” as in “entanglements”.

AAAAI’d love to know if your poetry grows from an obsession with other art forms and, if so, how? I also want to note here that the deeply forceful and confident “I” of your pieces is a most welcome, most refreshing presence. I love the women you have conjured here. I think it inevitably links with the use of apparently sexual, even ‘lustful’ language. There is power here and reclamation. I like to explore feminism from unconventional perspectives and I think you’re doing exactly that. Please feel free to touch on any of these points. 

Myriam

Sometimes I feel most of what I write somehow relates to feminism or femininity or a mixture of both. I remember as a teenager, I often rolled my eyes at my mom, who was always very vocal about the prevalence of sexism and the necessary countermovement of feminism. I didn’t want anything to do with that. A very arrogant 15-year-old, I blatantly declared all of these concepts to be things of the past. But of course my mum was right. They weren’t. They still aren’t. Looking back now, I know that in fact I grew up with ideas of womanhood that were very narrow and directly or indirectly filtered through the expectations of men, especially when it came to your body, your sexuality and the way you should love and be loved. Just look at almost any movie from the late 90s, early 2000s: there is always a very clear idea of what it means to be a girl or a woman and how one should behave as such. And without realizing it at the time, I internalized a lot of the concepts behind those stories: be thin and beautiful; be pleasant and nice; be faithful and devoted. That is why the thought of reclaiming or even reconquering your own image as a woman is very compelling to me. It is such an important act of compassion. Taking back what is yours. And I am convinced that has to do a lot with rejecting shame, and even more with rejecting to be shamed. I think that is what is at the core of a lot of my writing: this resistance. Not allowing others to define who you are or should be. 

AAAAAs to the influence of other art forms, I wouldn’t say that I have an obsession with something specific, as my interests are mostly circumstantial. Like when I went to Paris, I immediately became fascinated by French fashion, especially that interesting phase in the 70s. I read a ton of books about it, went to all the fashion museums, watched movies, etc., but a few weeks later I dropped all of that because something sexier came along. I don’t even remember what it was. 3D video installations? Or maybe it was landscape photography. I honestly don’t know. You could say that as an art lover, I’m very passionate but also very unfaithful. Most of the time, that’s great because I get inspired by so many different things and I’m never afraid of becoming too repetitive or stagnant in my own art. But sometimes I wish I could focus a little longer and go deeper. Yet I’m inherently restless. I like to be on the move. 

Karan

Thank you, Myriam, I love the idea of rejecting shame, and also rejecting to be shamed, and is of utmost importance. When I first read these poems I was immediately taken by their unabashed voice, and how it challenges conventional narratives. Could you share a bit more about the role of resistance in your work? Does the act of writing itself become a form of resistance for you? What was it that pushed you to start writing poetry?

Myriam

Oh, that is an interesting question…one of the first things I remember writing was a silly poem about two very old washing machines competing against each other. I must have been 8 or 9 or something, so there was no other reason to do this but it being fun, no push or urge that transcended this fundamental joy I always felt when playing around with words.

AAAABut yes, later in life writing – any form of writing – definitely meant resistance. It meant and still means having this place of absolute freedom where you and only you make and break the rules. That in itself almost feels like an act of defiance and again of rejection: to not let others dictate what you do and how. On the page, you hold all the cards and all the power. And you should make use of it! For me, that’s not always easy, as I am often wrestling with doubt and anxiety during the process, but the goal is always to rise above that. To max out the freedom I am given. It becomes a bit more complicated with publication, of course, when you actually step out of your safe space and show your work. But art to me is multirelational. Without someone to interact with it, it stays flat. It needs an audience to be truly alive. And maybe the same is true of any form of resistance. Maybe it needs to be perceived to unfold its full potential. 

AAAAYet there is always a difference still between your work and you as a person. Recently, I had some interesting talks about this with other artists, especially about how much of your true self you are willing to share. The degree to which everyone felt comfortable showing themselves in interviews and social media was very different, but almost everyone agreed on one thing: in your work, there is no limit. Your work is allowed to show anything and everything. And that to me, is already a beautiful form of resisting.

Shannan

Returning to “entanglements”...I so wish I’d written those final lines. There is something surprising and beautiful also about how they are self-aware and seem to almost poke fun at the “concentric layers of vulgarity.” And yet the humor is never pointed, never without sincerity and “wonderment”. I’d even venture to say, especially with the image of “a frosted pearl” connected with “cum” that there is an innocence, lightness present here. Do you ever feel this is missing in contemporary sexual writing? And I’m not “reducing” your work to sexual writing of course. First and foremost because I do not think “sexual writing” (whatever the fuck that is!) is anything to be “reduced”, but also because your work transcends sex as an act and reaches into sex as actualization. Would you mind probing a little bit further into this? 

Myriam

Sex and sexuality are such powerful things, and I feel there are many different ways in which we try to deal with this power: mystifying it, condemning it, ignoring it, using it. But we rarely simply embrace it. And I think that's what I strive to do, both at work and in life. And yes, there is a certain innocence in that, because it means stripping away all morality or judgment as well as all provocation and tantalization. What is left is kind of raw and pure, the essence of something very primal yet very human. This also relates back to the idea of ridding yourself of shame and guilt, both of which are often very much connected with sexuality — to a degree where you understandably feel that you are not allowed to call my poems sexual writing without some explanation, almost an apology (and I would probably have done the same in your place!). This is so pervasive in our society: the concept of sex as something you or your work can be reduced to, like somehow it makes you smaller to talk about or engage in sexual matters. Like it indeed makes you less of a person. This is something I think a lot about, because it really worries me. It too is a way of taking away power, especially from women. I am glad that there is a lot more open discourse now than when I was younger and that it is much easier to find different perspectives. For example, I’ve recently read a great collection of short stories by and interviews with strippers by Lizzie Borden called Whorephobia, and it was incredibly encouraging and enlightening to have these women tell their own stories and reframe their identities. I just love that such works exist. To me it is very inspiring to hear these kinds of voices. But at the same time, there is still a lot of stigmatization going on. A lot of 'being reduced to‘. That’s why I’m actually really happy to call my stuff sexual writing. There is a certain reclamation in that, and quite a bit of defiance. And I really like that.

Karan

I so appreciate your perspective on embracing the raw and pure essence of sex, devoid of societal judgments or provocations. Stripping away morality and taboo and embracing sexuality in its primal and human form is something we often shy away from in our lives, and that reflects in our writing too. I see that not many people write about the body. Your work fearlessly engages with this, and it's evident that you see sexuality as a profound and multifaceted aspect of the human experience (which it most certainly is). In light of this, could you share how you approach the portrayal of the body in your poetry? Do you think poetry (in general) often focuses on the emotional nuances of our experiences and the physicality of the body is usually a secondary preoccupation?

Myriam

In my experience, thoughts and emotions are inseparably connected with the body and they influence each other constantly. Just look at how being hungry will affect your mood and your capability of thinking clearly or how the other way around, certain physical activities or interactions like getting a massage sometimes trigger deep emotional reactions that often seem to have been buried within the flesh or the muscles. It seems nonsensical to me to separate these parts in my poetry, as they are so obviously related in real life. That’s probably why and how the body kind of automatically inserts itself into my work without me specifically focusing on it or trying to carve out a space for it. The same goes for sex and sexuality, where these three components – thoughts, emotions and sensations – tend to be entangled in a uniquely intense and complex way that really fascinates me.

AAAAI feel I’m not well-read enough to judge if the body is indeed neglected in poetry, but I wouldn’t be too surprised. For one, the body gets shorthanded a lot in general. And apart from that, it seems to me that poetry often seems to be associated with either some kind of intense emotionality or, especially with people who are not poets or artists themselves, a very demanding form of intellectualism. I know many people who shy away from reading poetry because of that, because it seems inaccessible to them, and because they worry that they are not capable of understanding what a poem means and that therefore they somehow will fail in their role as recipients. But I think you don’t necessarily need to even try to grasp its meaning. You don’t need to ‘get it’. Reading poetry doesn’t have to be an intellectual experience. It can be purely emotional or, indeed, very physical. Where does your heart skip a bit? Where do you instinctively shudder? Where does your stomach cramp up? And it is not important to interpret why or to make sure your reaction is what the poet intended. That doesn’t have to be the goal. Just enjoying these sensations is enough. I for one will be grateful for anyone who tells me: you made me feel something. I don’t know why or what it is, but I had a reaction. Something moved. 

Shannan

Your poems totally don’t give a fuck about conventionality. Look at “drowning, almost”. That wild, erratic, stunning, heart-thumpingly amazing first stanza and then the lone sentence, then the very bare lineated stanza, and then closing with a more seemingly “standard-sized” quatrain. I’m reminded of plays, with each stanza representing a different type of movement, narrative motion. That opening stanza reflects on a girl’s complete experience of womanhood – from her first witnessing her mother’s postpartum, aging body and then taking control of her own youthful body until time no longer remains neatly categorized into the then and now and the words (and worlds) appear to recede into “before and before and before…” Then the third stanza frames the “girl” into “a colony” – there’s a grandness here, a ‘god-ness’, even. The “ghost” appears to circumvent it but I feel it adds an almost spiritual layer on top. And of course, the final stanza refers to “God” and prayer directly, ending on such a quietly blazing image. You choose to end on “asking forgiveness” but the irony is not lost. Not irony exactly, something deeper, something political. I have been mulling over this a lot lately. Is poetry inherently political? I’d love to hear your thoughts on this and on anything else I’ve observed here. 

Myriam

I think as social beings, everything we do - or don’t do -  has political undertones to some degree. What we choose to talk about, how we talk about it, who we engage with - all of that is a statement in itself, and I would say that this is also true for poetry. I wouldn’t have labeled my writing as political per se, but as I’ve mentioned above, it is indeed important to me to use it as a way of protesting against or at least musing about unhelpful concepts or social constructs. It’s not a starting point for me, not something I aim to do from the beginning, but it very often sort of just happens. 

AAAAThe same goes for my approach to form, by the way. I really love how you mention a deep disregard for conventionality in my poems, as I am in general very opposed to any kind of supposed ‘normalcy’ or ‘standard’. But let me be completely honest here: I simply don’t know what the fuck I’m doing! Apart from maybe one or two seminars I took at University and barely even remember, I’ve never really studied poetry. I didn’t go to art school. What little I know, I almost exclusively learned from reading the works of other poets and maybe a few essays on the subject. And this, again, is not formal knowledge but rather a form of subconscious influence. Basically, I’m completely clueless. I do like that naïveté, though. It allows for maximum freedom, where this very instinctual kind of creativity that comes from the gut is not reigned in by your brain telling you that this or that is not how it's supposed to be done because your mind simply isn’t aware. The flip side of that is a certain insecurity. Am I even allowed to do this? Shouldn’t I study more? Which is a bit weird, because if someone else asked me those very questions, I would tell them not to worry. Go, create! Write! I’m absolutely convinced that everybody carries a creative spark within them. So yes, light that goddamn fire. Do whatever you feel is right.

Shannan

Thank you so much for these truly delightful answers, Myriam! Finally, we would love to know which poets have influenced you the most?

Myriam

Oh, for sure Kaveh Akbar. I just love his work so much! It is so gutting, so raw and vulnerable. I’m really drawn to that kind of intensity, to those kinds of work that leave you breathless and shaken, sometimes after just one line or two. His poems seem to vibrate with emotions and with a certain kind of hunger. Reading them feels always awakening, electrifying. And that really makes me want to become a better writer myself, to reach deeper into my own emotions and desires to find something true and meaningful. To not shy away from pain to get there. 

AAAAI’ve also always liked Louise Glück, if for very different reasons. To me, there is such a delicate fragility in much of her work — something muted and soft that is still extremely forceful and unbending. That mixture of calm and strength speaks to me, as it seems to create a whole new reality, something I admire greatly. 

AAAABut honestly, as with all other art, I do hop around a lot, getting all kinds of influences that are constantly in flux, delving deep into one poet's work and then into something or someone very different. That’s actually why I love the concept of only poems so much, because you make it so easy to discover interesting voices, like Rosebud Ben-Oni, for example. I’m really into her at the moment. Such forceful, fantastic poems! Same with Megan Fernandes, another poet I only recently discovered but can’t get enough of right now.

AAAAI feel I should also mention the six greats of romanticism, because this is where my journey into poetry started a good 25 years ago. There might not be a direct effect on what I myself am writing today, but without the likes of Byron and Keats, I might never have gotten interested in poetry in the first place. Discovering their work was also where I started to stop reading translations and started to try and understand the original English text. So in a way I owe them doubly!