SHANNAN

What strikes me first about your poems is the complex simplicity of the language. That’s a funny phrase so let me try and work through it with examples. Consider “Elegy for Goat & the Neighbourhood Bush”. There’s not a single word in that poem a little kid wouldn’t get I think, but the wisdom and experience behind the language churns up currents of human turmoil many children, luckily, do not have to fight with. Still, the phrase “first grief” is deeply poignant. Whether we are thinking about a young child growing up in a mostly privileged space or a child in the midst of a painful crisis or anywhere in between, that instance of “first grief” often stands out to us all. And sometimes it is conspicuous by its absence, perhaps because our minds have buried the painful memory to try and protect us. The first grief in this poem is connected with violence, but violence linked to compassion. You write of the “soft animal body” as a “door”, its essence as a “friend”. I’d love to hear more about how you compose these beautiful and perfectly reasonable yet emotional poetic puzzles. And of course, this poem in particular is an elegy. How does form and tradition (as connected or deviated from the form) inform your creative choices?

CHIWENITE

Thank you very much for this question. A few years ago when I first developed interest in poetry, I struggled to find what to read. The poems I found seemed somewhat complex, maybe because I was new to the genre, and it did not help that I had been in the sciences for most of my life. So, eventually, when I began writing poems myself, I knew the exact kind of poems I wanted to write: simple, easy to read. This one came at the earlier stage of my writing. But the other part, which is the emotional part, has a really funny angle. The thing is I am a very emotional person. I cringe at the sight of blood, even when I know it’s just a movie. I am hurt when people are hurt. I am very soft-spoken. I think it must have been this understanding of my own self that pushed me into finding which kind of poet I am. The result is this: That I became an emotional poet – you know, the type of poet that relies majorly in the feelings they elicit in the reader. I’m not the punch line kind of poet or the musicality poet. Well, I may be sometimes, but what mostly dominates in my works is the emotional part. So when I write I keep this in mind, and it helps me to choose which words to leave in my poems and which to remove.

          Also, form and tradition play an important role in shaping my creative choices. They tend to influence my tone, rhythm, and in fact most aspects of my work. Staying true to a particular form, I have observed, gives this sense of un-interruption, which makes my creative expression easier as well as helps in fostering my literary development. Whether an elegy or an ode, I often find myself structuring the poem around a kind of narrative form. But then, this can be boring. As a scientist myself, I have this inclination towards the novel. Therefore, as much as I pay attention to particular forms, I also like to experiment in my works. Do something slightly different. This is what informed the creation of “The Things I Want Are Simple Things”.

SHANNAN

“Lens Theory” is a poem that can make you fall damn near off your chair. Thank you for writing it. And how important right now, how — unfortunately — relevant. You write quite boldly: “…let us pretend that martyrdom is only a synonym for strength.” I hear a lot of nuance in there, many shades of gray. I think this is deeply important in a climate where we are so divided over what is right and sometimes spend more energy in proving how others are wrong rather than just being kind — kindness being something that ought to be straightforward and simple but has become rather convoluted under the social-media eye. I also see a pattern here of writing about violence and gore with soft and wondrous, beautiful imagery: “Let us pretend that this moment, photographed, will not hack them open like a cake.” I want to know more about this anaphoric call to “pretend”. Is there a meta commentary here on art — writing, reading, creating — being a salve for the wounded, for the war heroes and war perpetrators and war victims? How important is poetry in the face of “blood & more blood where ordinary water would have been.” Maybe that’s a deceiving or self-defeating question. I suppose the importance is not something tangibly calculable, but goes far beyond that to the spirit which is exactly where I think you are trying to reach with your words. Please comment on anything you feel inspired to speak further to in my observations and connections here.

CHIWENITE

Recently, I have been watching documentaries and reading lots of books about war. First, it was just a way to help me work on some war poems for my second chapbook. But half-way into the process, I saw the horror that war truly is. When, in “Lens Theory”, I said “pretend”, I was talking about our reactions at the face of past and recent wars. It seems as though everyone – except those whose countries and loved ones are directly affected by the violence – is afraid to say something, as though there is a larger unnamed force that puts a gag on the mouth of magazines and writers and governments, and in fact everyone.

          Sometimes you need to be in the burning room before you understand what fire destroys. I do not wish this on anyone. My father still has a trauma from the evening, during the 1967-70 Nigeria-Biafra war, where he climbed a tree to get Oha leaves for lunch and a Nigerian soldier shot at him. The bullet missed him by a hair's breadth. And he was only a little boy then. Even my grandfather, before he passed away, would sometimes make reference to his brother who stepped out from their house during the war and has not returned. I did not witness any of this, but for them and all those who did, war is something terribly real. They do not often want to talk about it. They do not want to remember. And looking at it now, I think the act of pretending or not accepting the full horror of  wars can also be an exit, at least a temporary one, especially for us who watch everything through our phone screens. However, for those persons directly affected, it is different. I think when they look at us with all the blood in their eyes they would wish we had accepted the reality instead, that we had spoken up a little louder.

SHANNAN

I love what you say here: “I think when they look at us with all the blood in their eyes they would wish we had accepted the reality instead, that we had spoken up a little louder.” I’d love to delve a bit deeper and on a universal level, do you think language still holds the same power to transform and effect or exact change as it once did before social media and so much capitalist/consumerist distraction? I do believe it still does but sometimes struggle to find solid examples or keep the faith (especially amidst ongoing world crises). 

CHIWENITE

Yes, I think language still does. I acknowledge, of course, that there are more barriers now more than there ever were. I remember a few years ago when I first read works by writers of color in America and the UK, narrating their experiences of racism, and I felt my heart catching fire. There was at that time – there’s still is – a surge of such works. They were all enraged, and rightly so. The impact? Well, now we’re finally having that once-ignored conversation regarding how the traditional publishing space is predominantly white, how it affects the kind of works that get accepted for publication. Every magazine seems to want to make a space for BIPOC writers now, which is impressive. By reading firsthand narratives also, the general public – whether in America or Nigeria – have come to understand that racism must not be tolerated. All of these were achieved through language. In addition to this, not long ago, I saw several articles discussing the murder and imprisonment of over 30 poets in Maynmar, following the February 1 coup. These poets did not lift a single gun. All they did was document what was happening through their poetry, and then read it out to people in public gatherings.

          The thing is, it’s easy to overlook these transformations achieved using language as a tool. For one reason, they occur subtly, just as was the case in the publishing space. But even more, they seem depend on civility wherever they're employed. I think the big guys know this. Countries – such as mine – that intentionally cut out a part of their history from literature or school curricula are an important case study. Similarly, why else would Los Angeles Times prohibit their reporters who signed an open letter criticizing Israel in the ongoing conflict, unless they understand the power of language on the non-warring American public. What I’m really trying to say is that language can still be used to drive change. Sadly, this is more attainable where there is relative peace and civility. I think this is the major reason why it appears difficult to measure the impact of language in times of war, because war, more than anything, breeds incivility or barbarism. A Palestinian mother mourning the death of her children does not have any mental space for language. At least, not at the moment.

SHANNAN

Let’s speak a bit about contradictions and the unholy. What is a contradiction, what is unholy. Poetry is a challenge and can be challenging to read, and your poetry is the kind of challenge that pays off massive dividends when you truly arrive inside it. I’m thinking about lines like this from “The Things I Want are Simple Things”: “As in prayers / to no god / in particular, slow & heartfelt, like / the Oh lord / preceding cum.” I’m thinking about the “Duplex for my Father” where the speaker is both pitted against the father while simultaneously unable to extricate the father’s influence form his own self, so much so that it manifests in the physical body. I’m also thinking about the things you “don’t say” in “Broadside Cinematography”. If you feel you would like to, I’d love to hear whether the context you write from influences (and how it does so) the way you configure and juxtapose these difficult warring emotions and people and desires in your poems. As a writer of colour myself, I’ll be upfront about a struggle I have. Sometimes, writing from a space of collective grief can feel like pontification, can feel like you are placing yourself above your community when even trying to place yourself within your community can feel alienating because of racial and cultural disenfranchisement works not just outwards but inwards too. How do we deal with this as poets, as people? I guess this question is something I’d usually feel like whispering to another poet of colour but here I’m taking the chance to say it on a public platform because I feel we ought to be able to speak about these things more openly. Again, please navigate through this however you feel comfortable doing. 

CHIWENITE

Thank you for the kind words. Let me tell you a secret. Of all these poems, “Duplex for my Father” is the one poem I struggled the most to write. It knocked me out of my already established practices. The poem wanted to be angry, but I wanted to keep it calm. The irony is that in these past few weeks, everything in the work has been altered. We are closer – father and child. There is also “Broadside Cinematography” which seems like a dying man's prayer. Looking at these poems, I now see the effect the contexts of the poems had in influencing how I made them. You find that in “Broadside Cinematography”, for instance, it is almost as though the poet is praying for the miracle of survival. But this is writing from a personal grief, which is easier, because your grief is your grief, and it’s alright to discuss it however you decide. Writing from a collective grief is different. Like you said, it can truly feel like pontification or like placing oneself above one's community. I say this and think again about “Lens Theory”. The thing is even within a collective grief, each individual has their varied experiences, and it’s difficult to find that one square box that would comfortably contain all these nuances. This kind of writing is the most sensitive. Our role as poets is to engage the issues from a point of view that does not try to exterminate other points of view. What I do personally is to not force down my opinion. I present the facts – for instance, the British guns and tanks, the starving kids, Harold Wilson's statement, the hypocrisy, and the teenage soldiers – and then allow everyone to look at it however they choose. The result, I think, is always the same. Because the human heart is fundamentally kind. And I think this approach, also as a poet of color, would partly take away that feeling of placing ourselves above our community. It shows a willingness in our part to listen, to ask the question openly and wait.

SHANNAN

Thank you for that secret, haha. I like hearing how a poem that is hard to write can, as you put it, knock us out of our already established practices. How do you recommend a writer reach these spaces more often? Is it necessary to reach them, to really grow your writing…or is the comfort of routine fine for the most part. What do you think risk-taking in poetry or writing in general truly looks like? 

CHIWENITE

One of my favorite writing advice is from The Writing Life. Annie Dillard says: “Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?” Understanding the brevity of life – including my own life – has helped me to reach the most intimate parts of my heart. This is likely because I have seen people die, many of whom were healthy and vibrant. Often, I ask myself what story I want to tell, and then I tell it quick. But it’s really not the idea of “departure” that should pull one into those spaces, it is rather the understanding that we may never get to tell our most delicate stories, unless we actually begin to tell them. Juice World comes to mind. However, whether or not it is necessary to reach those spaces, is what I feel the writer should decide for themselves. I was once very depressed. But I stopped writing about depression when I realized that the more I wrote about it, the more I got overlapped in its core. So, again, I think it's the sole duty of the writer to decide which is more important: The story or their sanity. There are of course unique cases where both are intertwined, such that except you tell the story you cannot reach sanity. And this, for me, is what risk taking in writing implies: The ability to find your delicate space, and then go into them, even when it appears painful, scary or outright silly.

SHANNAN

You mentioned that you developed interest in poetry a few years but struggled to find stuff to read because the poems out there seemed complex. I’d love to hear more about this. First, what drew you to poetry despite this veneer of sometimes facetious complexity that a lot of poems out there seem to be wrapped in? Sometimes it feels like there’s an extreme spectrum here where you have overly simplistic popular poetry (like social media poetry, although sometimes there are gems there too) and then you have unnecessarily convoluted poetry. What do you think is the pulse of poetry today, where does “success” as a poet lie? What does that success look like, what does it mean? And how do you see yourself as a paving that path (because I certainly think you are). 

CHIWENITE

What drew me to poetry, I'd say, was curiosity. I wrote fiction back then – won a few beginner's awards – and I knew a chunk about every other genre, except poetry. It must have been the way the complexity of poems in those days made them seem esoteric and elitist, as though poetry was a sort of intellectual cult (a phenomenon which, sadly, I think poets in academia have so heavily refused to let go of). But the more esoteric poetry appeared, the more that small curious part of me wanted to make an attempt at understanding it, and if possible, writing it. Since then, I’ve found home in the genre.

          Thinking about it, this has been subject to lots of discourse, especially recently. What is the right kind of poetry: Simplistic, convoluted or in-between? Critics lean towards the more rigid, convoluted styles, I think, because they worry that contemporary poems are becoming too dilute. But poetry, like other forms of literature, is dynamic. It evolves as language and the media for expression of language evolve. And because poetry – before its aesthetic value – represents people's way of expressing themselves and their emotions, I am never in support of gatekeeping it. So what do I think is the pulse of poetry and what is success to a poet? I would say the answer is subjective. For me though, success lies in finding my unique story and telling it throughout the course of my life. So far, this is my goal. A few years ago I realized a writer can live their whole life telling a story that isn't theirs. And it's easy to fall into this trap especially due to the countless number of ideologies (I worry this may not be the appropriate term) we come across every day. While these ideologies are crucial and in fact may be necessary to keep a balance in our severely imbalanced world, I do not think it is always a writer's role to become their spokesperson. Except it is your story. Finding your unique story and telling it as much as possible even as it evolves with time, is for me, the very crux of success.

          Thank you very much for the kind words. Paving a path is such a scary and yet beautiful objective. In one of my favorite Toni Morrison videos, she explains that “the grandeur of life is in the attempt.” And this has become my guiding light. I see myself writing more and more about those topics often ignored, in poems simple and accessible to everyone, including non-poets. This may be at a personal level or not. But if I’m still courageous in the near future, I will write more about the Nigerian civil war – a war that killed nearly 3 million Biafrans, mostly children, and yet a war whose history has been scraped from the entire Nigerian school syllabus. But really what I want to do now is to keep writing. My friend, UA Edwardson says of my writing, “You have found this tenderness, and it's so beautiful how you perform it” – so, for now, I just want to keep writing these works people can relate to, until maybe the MFA and the poetry books and whatever it is that's ahead.

SHANNAN

You talked about form and tradition playing an important role in shaping creative choices. A lot of popular forms like the sonnet and the villanelle stem from European creative roots. I really love the ghazal for many reasons and, I’ll be frank, one is that it is closer to me culturally. The haiku too is very popular though it has popcorned far and wide out of its cultural context. I’m sure there are rich forms and traditions in other cultures that we often overlook or don’t care to look into deeper because much of the poetry world (and lit world at large) is unfortunately so English-centric. I’d love to know if there are forms and traditions you explore closer to you culturally or ones that you’d like to delve into more?

CHIWENITE

The ghazal is such a lovely poetry form! Two of my favorite ghazal poems were written by Jamila Woods and Kyle Dargan. In terms of tradition, I have a cultural proximity to poetry with elements of symbolism and mythology. It’s unfortunate I haven't explored much of these. I did the Duplex form and a few others, but since then I’ve been postponing. Now that you have asked the question, I will surely explore more of these, maybe even symbolism and mythology. Although to be honest, I’m not a huge fan of speculative work. Mine is a mind that slips easily, so I like to leave it where I can keep track of it.