Karan

In several of these poems, there is a contemplative exploration of violence, its persistent presence in human history, and reflection on its potential futility. There is violence toward the innocent, violence toward the agents of violence, violence towards nature and toward the self. In “Having had a little bit of enough” you suggest an unconventional response to evil right at the start — “stab an evil person / and then go to a church or temple or mosque” to seek forgiveness. This ironic and paradoxical approach serves as a commentary on the complexity and perhaps absurdity of trying to combat violence with violence. “When kaboom isn't news (always)” touches on the inevitability of war as long as certain conditions persist (i.e. men). The common thread in these poems is a nuanced examination of violence — be it physical, symbolic, or emotional, raising questions about its origin, perpetuation, and the potential for alternative, more compassionate approaches. These poems are advocating for a more humane and listening-based approach to resolving conflicts. Do you think poetry can help us negotiate a way forward personally…help us be more compassionate, or at least hear and feel better? Does poetry really put a dent in the world? I guess what I’m really asking is what do you hope for these poems to achieve?

Bob

Nothing. Everything. I’m not sure. While writing, I have no hopes or aims for a poem, other than the making or discovering of it — I guess it’s a little bit (or a lot a bit) of both of those. In terms of aspiration, that part — the writing — is simple. After’s harder. The question’s complicated because I never imagine my poems being read, never picture them having a life beyond my desk, and to think of a reader or readers while writing would feel like trying to fit another head in my head, and no thank you, and ouch. I guess I don’t expect my poems to achieve anything. I make them because making them pleases me. I do think of them as communication, but in the “message in a bottle” sense: they go out and have a life of their own that I largely don’t see. But if I nudge your question a little, it becomes “what’s the purpose of poetry,” and that seems clearer to me: a spiritual engagement with the self and the possibilities of intimacy.

Karan

While you don't witness the life your poems have, does the knowledge that they're being read at weddings or funerals have an impact on you—not on your writing process, but as a poet? You mentioned the purpose of poetry as a spiritual engagement with the self—is this self in relation to the other, to the world around, or is this a more metaphysical understanding of self/soul? And are “the possibilities of intimacy” (love that phrase) with the self or the other? And finally, how does the exploration of violence in these poems contribute to this spiritual engagement or intimate connection?

Bob

It’s flattering — even moving — but I forget that kind of thing pretty quickly, probably because I’ve never found much value in the finished poems. What I value — what I understand as real and living — is the writing itself. And because I write nearly every day, I usually only feel as good as my last poem. Knowing that some people like or are attached to some of my poems doesn’t change that.

AAAAABeing is what I think I’m getting at by that stuff about the self. I’m probably asking the same question with every poem — who am I right now? — which I think is fundamentally a spiritual question. What’s on my mind and how can I give it a shape, a body in the world — meaning outside of myself — such that I can engage those thoughts and feelings. If I don’t speak or write, I have a very amorphous sense of what’s going on in my head. Writing — and any art — transforms that which isn’t physical, strictly speaking — thoughts and feelings — into physical existence. I want poems to reflect — to embody — the essence of my being as manifested in the moment the poem is written. The intimacy is both private and public. The private part is the mirror of the poem itself, or really, the mirroring that goes on while I write it. But if the poem works — and here, by that I mean if it conveys a sense of honest engagement with that question “who am I right now?” — the poem becomes, aside from its content, a testament to the possibility of sharing that honesty with each other. It can put a dent in the feeling that we need to protect ourselves from each other and hold ourselves apart.

AAAAAIt occurs to me that violence is a wounded form of intimacy — an intrusion into the physical and psychological space of another — and how we reach each other when other avenues have failed. Or I find it interesting right now to look at it that way. It explains something about violence itself — for me — and probably gets at your question. In general, in an abiding sense, I’m very interested in how we connect — or don’t — and violence is unfortunately a part of that, particularly in this time. 

Karan

In “The definition of insanity,” there's an indictment of the ongoing conflicts in the Middle East, which seems to be the seed of most of these poems. Your recent poem “This again”, published recently on Rattle, sprung from the same issue. Though these two poems might seem to be coming from different sides, they are both basically arguing against violence. What Leonard Cohen used to say about political poems is that “I am not interested in writing slogans” in the sense that slogans usually lack nuance. And you have written well-nuanced poems about racism, abortion, school shootings, climate change. I wonder if the Cohen statement resonates with you, in the context of writing poems that speak to the current political atmosphere? How do you approach political subjects that you know are not solved by picking sides?

Bob

No poet wants to write slogans, LC, is what I’d say were he here, just after he explained how he rose from the dead to sing for us and play hockey once again. A big part of the uphill struggle of political poetry is that political poems are almost always complaints, and we don’t really like to listen to each other complain. I’m sure there are odes to democracy and activism out there (and even love poems to climate change and sexism, probably in a magazine called RUN THE OTHER WAY), but mostly we go after what we think is wrong and needs to change in political poems. And because so many are topical or require some kind of exposition, getting the basic situation across can be time consuming and clunky. How I approach political poems is…I guess I don’t. I don’t think of them as different or take a different track into or through them, in part because I don’t begin writing with any particular intent. So while it’s highly unlikely that I’d sit down and think, I should write a poem about climate change, I might think about not seeing monarch butterflies anymore or this fascinating machine that cuts a tree down, strips it of bark, and saws it into pieces in almost no time, and those thoughts might lead to a poem that can be characterized as political. This is probably some version of “all politics is local” in that if I stick to home — to what I’m genuinely feeling and thinking — a poem has the chance to naturally open into larger, more shared concerns. Another way to put this: I don’t write about  “subjects” — and the subjects of political poems are huge, generally speaking — but my life, which is this small thing I know pretty well and can’t get away from, that has many sides and no side. How’s this for a slogan: to write political poems, don’t.  Not very good, I’d say. So much for a new career.

Karan

This process of starting with feeling rather than intent seems like a great way to balance the personal and the political. “Stick to home,” like you said. Most of your poems start with your speaker being situated in your context, consider this one: “Wednesday and once again / I've not brought peace to the Middle East. / I'm not even trying, other than swearing / at the TV and calling politicians idiots.” Your individual reflections here resonate with broader societal concerns without losing the authenticity of your own voice. 

AAAAAI’m thinking of your poem “In the Loop” which you wrote after the school shooting at Virginia Tech. You never leave the “I” there even when you’re talking about such a largely politicized situation. I feel that this also makes the poems more nuanced. Since we all exist in a political context, do you think that all poetry is inherently political? Even a love poem that doesn’t seem to be political on the surface? How do you see the intersection of the personal and the political in poetry more broadly?

Bob

If you apply other broad categories, you could also say that poems are inherently biological, spiritual, material, and diacritical (which item doesn’t belong on that list?). Poems are no more or less inherently political than anything else we say or create. It’s kind of an empty statement. What matters to me is whether a poem has political ends. I’d have to do some embarrassing gymnastics to describe that poem on Blackbird as political, because it isn’t. You could draw political inferences from it, but that’s a different thing. As far as the intersection question (fun to say), what comes to mind is that I expect all poets to have a political dimension to their work, just as I expect (for writers who’ve written enough) to encounter something about aesthetics or morality or touch-versus-tackle football in their oeuvre (also fun to say but not to spell). When that kind of engagement with life is absent across a range of poems or books, I wonder why and miss it, in the same way I’d wonder why a poet has nothing to say about love or fear. Politics — how we work out our collective ambitions and differences — is too big a part of life not to show up in the work. 

Karan

One adjective I often assign to your poems is ‘alive’. I find all your poems to be breathing, dancing, playing all sorts of sports. In your recent Rattlecast interview, you mentioned that a great propeller for you when you write is the will to not be bored. I see that happening mostly in two ways: humor and surrealism. And I find the two to be mostly intertwined in your poems. Take for example: “I want / a really big cock, like a garden hose / to unroll and flop over the edge / so I can pee without getting out of bed.” That is weird and hilarious! And then there’s a lot of humor that arises out of your play with language, of course — when you chase phrases and have fun in the awkwardness or silliness in the structure/grammar/phonetics etc. “We have to try something / don't we, to make this a better world? / Not a batter world, not a bitter world, / not a butter world, although I can see merits / in all of those.” Unlike traditional surrealism where reality is distorted in a dream-like way, your flavor of surrealism seems to hint toward an extension of reality, a kind of "normal" that has been slightly altered. Does this make sense to you? Are there other ways you actively employ to steer away from boring yourself? 

Bob

Yes. That makes sense. When I write, I try to be totally honest about what’s moving across my mind, which is perhaps my favorite thing about the process. For example, that thought about my cock was entirely practical, I wasn’t trying to be strange or funny but was thinking about how badly I needed to pee and how much I didn’t want to get out of bed. And if my cock were a garden hose (that could also find its way to and from the bathroom), that problem would be solved. It just turns out that thoughts I have naturally, without trying to force or invent them, often strike people as funny or strange. Yesterday I had a piece of cake and when I sat down this morning to write, this happened:

As the inventor of the all-cake diet

and kissing Eve five times 

before we fall asleep, 

I know exactly how Edison felt

when he invented the electric bill, that it’s better 

to be on the touchdown-dance-side of capitalism

than to pour pennies out of a mason jar

onto the table and hope you have enough 

to keep the lights on. 

Which is not surreal but a little weird...and not weird at all. The first bit is just me saying I really like cake, the kissing stuff is true (though Eve is the source of the superstition that we need to kiss five times before going to sleep), Edison indirectly created the electric bill, and capitalism is brutal for many people. Abiding interests and concerns are here — especially toward the end of that passage — but they show up in a way that belonged solely to this morning, to a moment in time. The biggest part of my job is paying attention to whether that’s happening or not, whether I’m feeling the fatigue of the familiar. If I am, I backspace or delete and wait for the next thing that drifts by with any kind of shine to it and go with that. 

Karan

I love that poem excerpt. I also appreciate your insight into your writing process, especially the honesty with which you capture your thoughts as they naturally pass through your mind. I feel that way when I’m reading your poems — as if I'm walking through your mind or moving along with your thoughts as you’re thinking/finding your way to the next line. You mentioned the challenge of avoiding “the fatigue of the familiar” (love that phrase too). Especially given that you write every morning on your very old computer, how do you foster that sense of playfulness and steer clear of boredom in your creative routine? I guess what I’m asking is: “What’s the secret behind your consistent brilliance?”

Bob

My brilliance is easy to maintain because you’re the only person who thinks that I’m brilliant, so as long as you stay on whatever drug you’re on, I’m good. Any consistency I have is the product of dissatisfaction and love — the love of writing and dissatisfaction with the result. When I look at any poem of mine — any finished poem — I don’t think of what’s there but what’s missing, of all the poems that that poem isn’t. My writing life is a yoking of optimism and pessimism together into this weird-ass mule team that pulls me forward. 

Karan

Your poems have had a consistent captivating voice for over two decades now. Your voice is almost always a strange mix of colloquial and lyrical, ironic and sincere, meditative and provocative, humorous and melancholic. You once gave me a definition I keep close: 

AAAAA“Voice is self coming through, is (one’s) nature manifested in words.” 

AAAAASo, here’s a question about capital-V “Voice” that all writers want to “find”. Is poetic voice something one “finds”? If so, how did you find/construct yours? Is the work toward having a “unique poetic voice” a worthy occupation? You’ve also mentioned in our one-on-one sessions that “we all want to meet someone” when we are reading. Can you explore that a bit here, in relation to voice?

Bob

I’ve never once thought about voice (except when asked about it) or advised poets to focus on it, probably because I believe it both unfolds and arrives over time by trying different things and seeing what suits or fits, the say way I realized I wasn’t a Robert but a Bob by asking people to call me Robert or that designer clothes weren’t for me by wearing them for two years and liking myself much better when I came home to jeans and t-shirts. Voice really is a question of who a poet is…as a person, and how that’s expressed in their work. Fashion is probably the greatest threat to young poets, that they’ll be pulled towards saying what successful poets are saying and how they’re saying it, without necessarily sharing those concerns or tendencies. So that question — does it suit, does it fit — is among the most important to ask. Art’s ability to help people believe that the self is real and can survive comes from the presentation of clear evidence of individuality and originality, the conveyance of a being that can’t be reduced or reproduced, only experienced. That’s what I mean by meeting someone in a poem. I’m not looking for Dickinson or Neruda in your poems, I want to find you.  

Karan

Been trying very hard to imagine you in designer clothes, but can’t. In any case, even considering the risks of imitating successful poets, do you feel there is some value in imitation? For instance, I often try to imitate you when I write. It’s not because I feel I’m not someone or you’re a better someone but because I feel a deep resonance with your voice — so the act of imitation becomes a kind of bridge between admiration for you and discovering my own voice. We read so many poets but feel compelled to imitate only a few — it suggests to me that we already have the same inclinations (of thought, language, ideologies, fascinations, etc) within us as the poets we feel compelled to imitate. Does that make sense to you?

Bob

Of course. I stress some things because I know young poets tend to hear certain statements or advice over and over. Poems are never finished. Show, don’t tell. You can’t put a cyclops and a giraffe in a poem. Clean up your room. By far, they’re more likely to be told that they need to learn by imitating than to be advised to write on their own, shielded from — or at least leery of — influence. Beyond that, I worry that people can get so far down someone else’s road that they ’re not sure who they are as writers. If you wear the hat (while walking down the mixed-metaphor road) of someone else’s mind for too long, does it stick in ways it shouldn’t? That’s my worry. So I advocate that poets jump into the deep end of not knowing what they’re doing, in large part because, in an evolutionary sense, isolation leads to change. And others can’t teach us what’s in ourselves. I’ll also admit that I’m advocating for what I’ve experienced, what I’ve done. So sure. Imitate away. But also don’t. 

Karan

Also, we do not usually ask this question that older poets often get asked but we asked Tim Seibles last week and loved his response, so we’ll ask you too: “What advice do you have for young writers?” You’ve already mentioned a threat/caveat, so what would be your advice?

Bob

Don’t try to succeed. To “make it” as a poet. Try to start poems. To finish poems. Keep all of your ambition — or as much as you can — at your desk where it belongs. People who succeed at a thing tend to succeed at many small things. You can’t actually — or palpably — set out to win the NBA title, but you can improve your 3-point shot. Read poems by others. Read novels and non-fiction and small appliance repair manuals. Read and read and write and write. Also, be lucky in love. Cards too, I guess, but better love.