SHANNAN

Your poems offer a rich exploration of language elements and punctuation, using vivid imagery and metaphor to convey deeper philosophical and emotional themes. Each poem provides a unique perspective on the chosen linguistic element, inviting readers to reflect on the nuances of communication and existence. I’m thinking of the first poem here, “Self-Portrait as Apostrophe”. First off, it just thrilled me — as a grammar geek — to see this kind of playful yet deeply philosophical frame for a poem. In this poem you write, “…the sound / concealed beneath / floorboards.” There is both a curiosity and a horror present here. You end with the definitive, almost challenging but still very much childlike in its desire to display, to play: “Watch me turn away.” It is akin to a magic show. There is fantasy here, but all of it is tied to the very strong, imposing “I”. I’d love to know what inspired you to explore these elements of language in your poetry? 

ROBERT

I am, and always have been, a language nerd, which stems, at least in part, from my background. My mother was Japanese. Her English, even after fifty years in this country, was, oh, shall we say, challenged. My father was a self-made man, a high school drop out who joined the military and forged a career and life through sheer tenacity. Though he was uneducated, he read a lot; he believed in the power of books. We always had books at hand, and whenever we moved to a new place, one of his priorities was getting me a library card. I was never without books. On my fourth birthday, we moved to France. Over the course of the next few years, my family developed our own pidgin language, a mixture of English, French and Japanese, with a little military slang thrown in. I recall my frustration, at age five or six, at being unable to read French comic books. Though I spoke the language well, written French made no sense, as I knew nothing about French phonetics. The idea that the same characters in the alphabet could have different sounds in different languages, was fascinating (and annoying). We moved back to the states when I was seven, and remained there until I was fourteen, at which point my dad was transferred to Naples, Italy. The French faded away, and Italian replaced it. All this is to say that communication, parts of speech, written language, including the symbols themselves, and grammar, have long been interests/adversaries/companions of mine. Add to that a sense of "otherness," from being half white, half Asian, too much of one, not enough of the other, never quite feeling comfortable in either role, and from being raised as an Army brat, forever being the new kid in school, never having a true home town, always living at the edges, wondering about the unseen, the unspoken, the unknown. How could I have become anything but a poet?

       The punctuation mark self-portraits were all written with irony and humor in mind; I live in horror of taking myself too seriously. But having said that, I write with serious intent. My goal is to offer readers a basic framework, a skeleton, so to speak, that they may flesh out, should they choose to. Thus the line mentioning floorboards speaks to the unheard and unseen, those entities we know exist, but can't quite put our fingers on. Poetry, through its quality of illuminating the unsayable, might offer us a glimpse at, or perhaps a clue of, what lies beneath the floorboards. It's up to the reader.

SHANNAN

Chiwenite, two weeks ago shared a very intimidating Annie Dillard quote with us which made utmost sense to us: “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.” I sense death lingering in your poems, behind the surface of language — its complexity and awkwardness and ability to shed light to mysteries of existence. In “Self-Portrait as Hole”, you write “…looking closer you see / only losses reinforced at the edges” and in “I am emptiness / incarnate.” The sadness here is circumvented with the depth of thought and wisdom. All of it conveyed not just through language but “as” language. What is it about language that speaks to death? And, if you feel comfortable enough to speak about it, how has your recent diagnosis influenced your poetics or and the way you approach poetry? 

ROBERT

A decade ago, I survived a heart attack—the dreaded “widowmaker” (100% blockage of the left anterior descending vein). Up to that point, death, to me, at the personal level, was an abstract, intellectual concept. After the heart attack, upon realizing that my very existence had been in question—it took several months for that to percolate through the euphoria of survival—my world view took on an extra weight, an intimate recognition that we are most definitely finite beings. I almost died! This simple acknowledgment colors much of the writing that followed. Death is always there, even when unmentioned, as is life. We don't have to talk about them to acknowledge their existence. Thus, in my world, language speaks to life and death equally. You cannot approach one without the other's presence looming alongside. Yin and yang. Every word I write bears the weight of that intimacy.

         And of course this has been with me more than ever for much of the past year, especially since receiving, seven months ago, a diagnosis of stage four metastatic lung cancer. The cancer had spread to the brain, liver, lymphatic system and pelvic area. At this stage, there is no talk of cure; the treatment focuses on palliative care. Comfort. And no definitive timeline exists, only uncertainty. The dialogue is now of survival rates delineated by percentages. What does a 5% 5-year survival rate truly signify? So I continually confront the curious dichotomy of living while dying, of making day-to-day, ordinary life choices, without knowing whether I'll see the results or achieve a positive return on investment. LOL. Should I renew this lit mag subscription? For one year or two? Will my book be published posthumously? Will I live long enough to justify buying new shoes? Or a roasting pan? Everything matters. Nothing matters. Yin and yang.

         This new way of living while dying has affected my approach to poetry, as you might imagine. While my overall tastes and sense of poetics remain unchanged, my personal inclinations have adapted to present circumstances. For example, fatigue is a major factor, as is the ability to concentrate. The immunotherapy drugs and the opioids I take for pain relief make me sleepy, and sometimes quite groggy. So, since September, when I returned to writing, I've been crafting shorter, formal pieces—hendecasyllabic poems (consisting of eleven lines, each of which contains eleven syllables)—which I'm able to produce in bursts. I lack the stamina to sit and write for hours, so shorter, more focused poems, have become my custom. And the form offers the advantage of the sublime creative openings inherent in limitation.

          For decades I've been in the habit of drafting poems, then letting them “marinate” for weeks or months, even years, before completing revisions and submitting them for publication. Now the marination period has been reduced to days. Time is critical. I am also much less patient with new poems. In days past, I would wrestle a poem into shape, even, or especially, if it wasn't going well, no matter how long it took—I finished the damned thing! Now, I toss it, and move on to another. There is no time to waste. I am indeed writing as if I'm dying. Because I am.

SHANNAN

Some other elements you delve into — root, hole, bowel movement — are all tangible concrete things but not things we really see. They’re also concerned with physical bodies. Poetry can usually be divided into four elements — heart, mind, soul, body — do you see your poetry as coming from a specific place, reaching toward another? Specifically, I’m thinking of “Self-Portrait as Bowel Movement". It takes a surprising turn with humor and metaphor. What led you to choose such an unexpected subject, and how do you see it fitting into the broader themes of your work?

ROBERT

My poetry is rooted in the subconscious. I seldom know what I'm going to write about when I sit at the desk. A word or phrase or simple image will pop out, perhaps influenced by mood or life's odd occurrences mixed with etymology, landscape and observation. The spark ignites, and I ride the flame and smoke to wherever it takes me.  At some point, perhaps after only a few words, but sometimes after many lines, the poem begins taking shape. That's when it becomes interesting, and the real work (and joy) begins.

   I've become much more aware of my body, its various functions/malfunctions, as I've aged, and I likewise acknowledge this facet of being, this gradual and unavoidable deterioration, in much of my writing. “Self-Portrait as Bowel Movement” was written in response to having been hospitalized several times. The inescapable question, "Have you had a bowel movement?" is uttered with such gravitas in hospitals that I inevitably crack up at the sheer absurdity of it. And I must admit that the goofy twelve-year old boy hiding inside of me still giggles at potty humor. After I drafted the poem, I sent it to my best friend (now wife), poet Stephanie L. Harper, who claims that reading this poem "sealed the deal,” in that she unequivocally knew I was the man for her. Ah, the power of poetry...

SHANNAN

I’d love to turn more head-on towards the philosophy of these pieces. In “Self-Portrait as Apostrophe”, you touch on division without conquering and the contemplation of emptiness in “Self-Portrait as Hole.” How do you approach infusing philosophical reflections into your poetry without losing accessibility for readers? “Self-Portrait as Exclamation Point” addresses the desire to be heard while remaining silent. Can you expand on the philosophical ideas behind this piece and how it reflects broader aspects of communication?

ROBERT

Rather than involving a conscious agenda of threshing out my philosophical convictions, I would say my poetic practice is predominantly guided by whatever subconscious impulses are bubbling away. While I am aware of my tendency to employ unadorned, direct language, combined with commonplace imagery to devise my messages, I don’t set out deliberately to construct calculatedly nuanced, or philosophically-charged observations. Besides, I don’t believe my intentions, to the extent that I even have them, should carry much weight. Whatever the reader ingests and absorbs from my offerings is what matters most; my greatest hope is that the reader finds something worth hanging onto.

         These punctuation mark poems all reflect my love for, and awe of, written language. The fact that these curious symbols, the dots, lines and squiggles, bear and transmit so much meaning, is awesome in every sense of the word, don't you think? Consider the comma, how it assists order, assigns pauses. And the period! That simple dot, so emphatic in its message: STOP. Or the exclamation point, which has no voice of its own, but serves to heighten, to amplify. Amazing. Wondrous!