KARAN

Nicole, these poems are super appealing to me. I am a fan of the voice here. As soon as I read the first one, I knew I was in for a treat. “[The desert in the middle of France] is not real, but there’s sand in your head.” There is so much authority here. I am listening and I can’t blink. If I ask this question, it’s usually one of the last, but here I’m compelled to begin with “voice.” What are your thoughts on capital-V voice? Is it a preoccupation for you? How did you happen upon this particular voice? How different is it from the voice of the poems outside this series? 

NICOLE

Thank you so much for your kind words, Karan, and for engaging so thoroughly and thoughtfully with my poems. Voice is something I think about a lot, as is audience. The voice in my Let There Be a Little Light series is much different from the voice I recognize as my poetic voice. I would say this has to do with a degree of conjuring on my part. I wrote these poems on my iPhone between the hours of 4 a.m. and 8 a.m., immediately upon waking and without moving from my bed. This was an intentional exercise to write during the hours that Sylvia Plath referred to as blue, and to conjure the state of a mind emerging from darkness and the direct transition from sleeping to waking, which can be rather surreal. I wanted to leave the door open for my dreamscape to enter my poems and to be less literal and more welcoming of the surreal. I am also a bit of a nyctophile, so the morning can be jarring for me—almost depressing at times. It’s notable that I often wake naturally during the blue hours, and especially 4 a.m., when I am grieving. 

KARAN

These poems are like strong little capsules. They also remind me of Todd Dillard’s “How to Live” (which we were incredibly lucky to publish). That poem is a masterclass in creating a voice that is hard to turn away from, impossible to disagree with. Again, I’m thinking of Voice, but I’m also thinking about line-breaks, about shortness/crispness, of line, rhythm, breath. Why are these poems short, these lines staccato — what are they lending to the subject of these poems?

NICOLE

That’s quite the compliment that anything I write reminds you of Todd. I love his poems and their balance of beauty and strangeness. My poems in this series are short because I could only handle so much writing upon rising without coffee or a bathroom break. And as I said earlier, I did not allow myself to get out of bed until I finished my ten lines for each poem. Why ten? One morning, I woke with the first stanza from Plath’s “Lady Lazarus” in my head: 

I have done it again. 

One year in every ten

I manage it—

I awake frequently with Plath’s poems in my head because I read them often before going to bed. They are music for me. And the ten lines per poem was an exercise in constraint. I remembered Diane Seuss saying that she wrote frank: sonnets with the constraint of 14 lines per poem, and I thought I would try writing a series of poems with a line constraint as well, which allowed my Virgo moon to chill a bit as I entered the wild territory of the surreal. 

KARAN

Each poem is centered around a specific color of light, heavy with symbolism, and evoking unique emotions. For instance, “White Light” juxtaposes purity and clinical starkness, while “Red Light” delves into themes of pain and mortality. The collection uses these colors to explore complex psychological and emotional landscapes of the speaker, creating a rich inner world. You mentioned Sylvia Plath inspiring these poems — would you speak more about that inspiration? What prompted you to write the first one and then keep going? When did you know it’d become a series? Do you have a favorite? Is it like choosing a favorite child?

NICOLE

I didn’t necessarily aspire to write poems like Sylvia’s because that bar is way too high, but I thought I would try to write around the same time of day as she did (another constraint) when she wrote Ariel (the book) and see what would come out of it. The idea of exploring color in poems came to me after I had finished reading Dr. Heather Clark’s Red Comet and saw some of Sylvia Plath’s paintings produced in it and thought about how important color was to Plath’s art in general. Also, writing in the blue hours made me think of the color blue, and on top of that, the white light from my laptop often greets me in the morning when I receive an upcoming meeting alert, signaling the start of the day. I started attempting to channel color before I would fall asleep. I would close my eyes and think “red” several times before falling asleep to see what my mind would bring to my dreams. I knew it would be a series when I started seeing more colors more vividly and getting stranger dreams and visions. My favorite poem in the series is probably “Indigo Light,” or maybe “Violet Light,” and it stresses me to choose a favorite anything.  

KARAN

The poems also seem to metaphorically represent different stages of life and consciousness through the prism of light. “Yellow Light” symbolizes a near-death experience, “Green Light” reflects on nostalgia and the unattainable nature of home, and “Violet Light” explores spiritual and mystical dimensions. All of these are hinting at the cyclical nature of life and transformation. In your note, you mention the speaker’s movement from night to light. Would you speak more about that? Are these poems of hope? Is the speaker literally and figuratively stepping out of the darkness?

NICOLE

You are way smarter about my poems than I am, Karan. Truly. You see things I hadn’t thought of. This series was an exercise in embracing light and darkness and being open to strangeness and not trying to interpret what I write. I gave myself permission to not understand or make sense of what emerged…to just enjoy the color, the imagery, or the sound. I wouldn’t say these poems are exceedingly hopeful, but if they make the reader hopeful or inspired, even in a small way, that’s a beautiful thing. 

KARAN

I also trace another movement from “White Light” to “Black Light” where we go from “Take the white light in, / and you can let everything go” to “Take the black light in, / and you can’t let anything go” which sits in contradiction to the movement from night to light metaphorically. We also move from irises and lilies to hell and the devil. I’m wondering if overall we’re stepping into an avalanche? The poems are also obviously rich with contrasts and dichotomies, particularly between light and dark, life and death, reality and illusion. I welcome you to speak about the contradictions inherent within these poems, and the mirroring of the lines, structurally. I love that these can be read endlessly!

NICOLE

I’m a walking contradiction on and off the page, Karan. I also don’t want to tell the reader what the poems are about, partially because I’m not sure myself. 

KARAN

The exploration of ideas of self-perception and identity also seem to be at the center of these poems, notably in “Violet Light,” where an aura reading reveals unexpected depths of the speaker's identity. These poems welcome me to question how we understand and define ourselves. There’s also a constant contemplation of mortality and the transient nature of life: “When all the good / spirits have vanished, you too will be fooled / by the dead.” I’ve heard multiple writers say that the fact that we’re mortal and being hyper-aware of that pushes them to write with a fervor. Do you feel similarly about mortality, and exploring the insights it offers about the nature of life. I guess I’m inviting you to tell us if you’re preoccupied with death? Is it a fascination, an obsession, or something else altogether?

NICOLE

There’s a clock in my head, and I hear time ticking loudly. Time is definitely a preoccupation of mine, as is death. There is so much I want to do while I’m here, and I didn’t start publishing my poetry until I was in my forties, so I have lost time to make up for. My mother’s death at 68 was a big reality check for me, but I’ve also thought of death since I was small. I remember being scared of dying from a very young age, and my mother was called into my first-grade teacher’s office one day because I drew a cemetery with gravestones during art class, and the gravestones had my name, her name and my dad’s name on them. My mom said I drew this after my great-grandmother died. I think that’s a fair reaction to seeing death. Let’s just call it a form of ekphrasis. After all, “Dying is an art,” as Sylvia says. 

KARAN

Another thing that appeals to me greatly about these poems is that they are rich with philosophical and existential inquiry. I just noticed that the series itself begins with one of the biggest questions ever: “Who decides what’s right and what’s wrong?” You tackle this in myriads of ways through the poems. You subtly pose many more unanswerable (or sometimes subjective) questions and dilemmas throughout. “When you / see orange, do you think fruit or hunter?” or “Do you want the frost / or the hug?” This questioning is pivotal, asking both the speaker and the reader to reflect on the choices that define our lives individually and collectively. Is writing poetry a way for you to explore philosophical thought?

NICOLE

I am inquisitive and my poetry reflects this. I like asking questions, but I don’t always have the answers, so I invite the reader to reflect with me or enter a dialogue with me, or the speaker, I should say. I’m usually the speaker in my poems, or a version of me I may or may not know. Philosophy is another love of mine. Someone once called me a “poet of questions” and I didn’t mind it. 

KARAN

I also love the surreal quality of the imagery here, such as in “Indigo Light” where two girls named Indigo drown on a dare, transports the reader into a dream-like state where reality blends with fantasy. “Their dull skulls scrape my tongue / like rock candy.” Or in “Violet Light”: The moon some nights / shines violet, and that’s when it swallows your head.” It reminds me of Alejandra Pizarnik who is one of my favorite poets. Like in her poems, this stylistic choice enhances the emotional intensity of the poems and mirrors the subconscious processes as also described by Plath. I sense a lot of darkness in these poems, which is right up my alley, but I know there are people who turn away from it, refuse to acknowledge or look at it. I’ll permit myself to ask something silly: Are you ever accused of being too dark in your work? How do you respond to that, Nicole?

NICOLE

Well, I use a Ouija board in some of my poems and a spirit named TOO DARK often appears in my work, so this “too dark” accusation seems on brand. To quote a line of Maureen Seaton’s from a poem we wrote together for HAD, “Maureen says she loves the dark. What's bad, anyway?” We can’t ignore the dark any more than we can ignore the light, so we might as well embrace it. 

KARAN

Lately, we’ve been asking seasoned poets for advice for young writers. Now, you’re not “old” in the scheme of things, but you’ve had collections published that are well-acclaimed, you’re Miami’s Poetry Ambassador, and an editor for three journals and a press! So, especially as an editor, what is something you’d like to say to young writers, as way of advice or caveats?

NICOLE

Everything is subjective. Don’t take rejection personally. Be true to your voice. Develop thick skin. Read, read, read. Write, write, write. But on your own terms. Feel free to ignore any writing advice that doesn’t suit you or is overly prescriptive. There’s no right way to be a writer.

KARAN

Finally, Nicole, because we believe in studying the master’s masters, we would also love to know poets who have influenced you most.

NICOLE

This is a thinly veiled request for more favorites, isn’t it, Karan? Ok, fine: Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Emily Dickinson, Renée Vivien, Paul Verlaine, Paul Éluard, Maureen Seaton, Lucille Clifton, Alex Dimitrov, Dorothea Lasky, Diane Seuss, Victoria Chang, Marie Howe, Jericho Brown, Eduardo Corral, and Richie Hofmann. I say these poets have “influenced” me because their words return to me. They sing to me. Not because you can see these poets in my work. I don’t pretend to be nearly as talented as they are. 

Thank you again for your time, Karan. It has been such a pleasure talking poetry with you!