Susan Emshwiller
I caught up with Susan shortly before the release of her latest novel, All My Ancestors Had Sex, to learn more about this quirky and riveting novel which exploits genealogy as a springboard for a wild, funny, fast-paced tale of redemption and to find out more about her writing process, her inspirations, and ask her questions I’d always wanted to ask. —AMA
You’re someone who has worn many hats— print maker, actor, screenwriter, director, novelist. If you were forced to choose only one hat for the rest of your life which would you choose and why?
I would really hate to make that choice, but since you are forcing me to choose, I’d pick novelist. The thing about it is you can do it on your own. Acting is pretty much done within the realms of film or theater and both of those generally involve productions that require collaboration. Screenwriting isn’t the finished product and also involves getting money/people/equipment… and so, many don’t get produced. I’ve had great fun directing plays and films but it does require a lot of finagling to get something off the ground. I didn’t do any short story/poetry/novel writing until about ten years ago. Previously it was all stage plays and screenplays. When I wrote my first short story I was ecstatic to be able to be “in someone’s head” because it isn’t allowed in writing for film or theater. With novels I can write when I want to and how I want to and not be constrained by anything but my own imagination and will.
Certainly, your mother, Carol Emshwiller, writer, and your father, Ed Emshwiller, visual artist and filmmaker, influenced you and your writing career, but who else in your life directly contributed to you developing into the person, the writer you are today?
As a person, going to therapy and finally getting comfortable talking was a big deal. My husband, Chris Coulson, a writer and actor, helped me learn who I was by listening and loving and giving me encouragement. And let me give a shout-out to writing groups! I’ve been in several— in Los Angeles, Kansas City, Durham NC, and Santa Fe —and all of these interactions have vastly helped me as a writer.
Your brother, Stoney Emshwiller, filmed himself at the age of 18 as if interviewing his older self. He spliced that footage with later footage of himself at 56 to create a sizzle reel, Later That Same Life, of his older self talking to that younger self. If you had this chance, what would you like to say to your younger self—let’s say you at 35—and how would you convince your younger self to listen?
I really would want to say, “Chill out. Don’t be afraid. You’re doin’ great.”
This ties in with the your next question. I didn’t speak except with family when I was younger. In kindergarten they were going to kick me out because they thought I was mentally impaired, but my parents showed the school my drawings, and those convinced them to let me stay. I had one kid I would whisper to if I needed something— “Mrs. Left, Susan says she needs to go to the bathroom.”
At one point I thought my life was characterized by Fear. Then a few years ago I realized this was wrong. My life was characterized by Courage. The thing about my younger self is— I was quite scared of people and situations but I never let that stop me from doing things. I have a lot of respect for that kid—whether age 10 or 35. She was tenaciously courageous.
As to how could I convince my younger self to listen? I couldn’t. I still fight some of those internal battles today.
You have a finished novel, as yet unpublished, in which the main character speaks only when with family. Talk a bit about the inspiration for that novel.
When I first started that novel Exclamation Point it was just for the joy of writing these people and a strange gothic mystery. Of course, the subconscious has its own agenda and pretty soon I was writing about a young teen girl who seemed remarkably like myself. In having her face her own inability to speak with non-family, I healed a part of my past self.
Speaking of inspiration, what are the origins of your recently released novel, All My Ancestors Had Sex. Are there parts of your novel that you appropriated from your own life?
I never know what a novel is going to be when I start it— or even if it will be a novel. I really love to work in a place of discovery via the subconscious. One of the reasons I love art-making is to find out about myself. So, I started this novel with a young woman living a “paint-by-numbers life” that was all mapped out. A while later, I had a dream of a German soldier in WWII who wakes up in a ditch and his leg is no longer attached. I wrote out that dream and for some strange reason, I thought, “I’ll just throw this into that other story.” It didn’t fit at all, but I continued. At the same time, in a prompt-writing group, I wrote a short piece about a thrift store find I have—a silver cup trophy engraved with “Log Race. 2nd Place. 1962. Dragon Lady.” I added that to the mix and little by little this strange tale emerged.
I think we always appropriate elements of our own lives as we write. Most all of the locations in the novel are places I know well. I’ve experienced incidents similar to some in the story. I’ve thought similar thoughts.
If I flew out to visit, walked into your kitchen, and opened the refrigerator door, what would I find that would surprise me?
Maybe the scions (twigs) of apricot, peach, apple trees in a plastic bag waiting for me to graft them onto our trees. I like playing the mad scientist and creating a tree full of multiple varieties of fruit.
Do you plan your novels with a theme in mind? If you had to describe the theme for both your novels, Thar She Blows, and All My Ancestors Had Sex, what would they be?
I never know what the themes will be when I’m writing. I don’t plan at all. I love that I write the first draft and then read it and go, “Wow, look at that! I was writing about what was happening in my life and didn’t know it!”
Thar She Blows was written after my husband and I moved from Los Angeles. I’d lived there for 34 years and it was a shock to no longer have California as home. I felt like I didn’t have a home. I feel like one of the themes of the novel is Home. Brian, living in a whale, names his whale Home. Anne gives up her home to search for her son. And they both find home in themselves.
In All My Ancestors Had Sex I was going through a difficult period of my mother dying in our home, then being executor of her estate, facilitating a retrospective of my father’s art and films, and I was sick of having the past be my present. I wanted to rid myself of the past. That’s the feeling that came out as a theme in the novel.
I’m curious about the cover for your novel, All My Ancestors Had Sex, which I’m told you’d created yourself. Mind telling us more about it?
Having been a visual artist before I was a filmmaker or writer, I feel comfortable in creating the covers. I tried compiling various ancestor pictures into one young woman’s face, but wasn’t happy with it. Finally, I got the idea of buying old ceramic figures and breaking them and using pieces to create one amalgam creature. It’s visually weird and putting it against an artificial background, which I borrowed from another assemblage I’d made, made for a provocative and mysterious image. The title-text is trying to be pulp-sensationalist which I hope makes it seem a bit funny. Which the novel is.
What do you do when you’re not writing? Share a bit about a typical non-writing day.
I really love being outside and creating an oasis. I’ve done this in all the yards we’ve had. Since moving to Santa Fe two years ago, I’ve planted many, many fruit trees and berry bushes and perennials and done more grafting. I love to watch the slow miraculous changes that take place every day.
If a writing genie magically appeared and offered you a wish to select any phase of writing — Inspiration | Drafting | Revising — which would you choose and why that one?
I love all the phases, but the genie is getting impatient so —I like revising the best because the whole massive pile of mud and rusted metal and bits of bone and bird nests and lost marbles is there on the table and now comes the real work of shaping it, pulling out this, shoving in that, discarding, adding… learning what it’s trying to say to me and striving to augment that.
Of all the characters you’ve created, which one would you invite to your house to spend the weekend? Why that character?
Right now, I think it would be Dragon Lady from All My Ancestors Had Sex. She’s really quite an asshole, but for a weekend, she might be the most lively, unpredictable, and —we could listen to Dean Martin, curse, and drink dirty martinis together.
Thank you, Susan, for your straightforward answers. I even learned a few things I hadn’t known about you. I hope our readers enjoy the opening chapter of your novel, All My Ancestors Had Sex, as much as I enjoyed the reading the entire novel.
Susan Emshwiller is a produced screenwriter (including co-writer of the film Pollock), a filmmaker, a published playwright, novelist, teacher, artist, and short story writer. Her novel Thar She Blows debuted in 2023. Other writing can be found in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Dramatists Play Service, Playscripts, Independent Ink Magazine, Black Heart Magazine, Gone Lawn, and Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine. Ms. Emshwiller was a set decorator for many years in Hollywood and a featured actress in Robert Altman's The Player. Her feature film, In the Land of Milk and Money, a wild social satire, garnered awards and rave reviews at festivals in the US and internationally. Susan has taught screenwriting at North Carolina State University, OLLI at Duke, the Met Theatre in Los Angeles, and in conferences and festivals around the country. She lives with her husband and dogs in Santa Fe, NM where she enjoys inventing stories and backyard contraptions.
Novel Except
Vegetable Plan
As I vomit my meds on the sprouting vegetables, I wonder if this plan will work. So far, the plants seem happy. Little leaves reach toward the glass roof in a prayerful gesture as I hydrate them. No matter that the hydration is via stomach acid tinged with a cocktail of drugs I can’t name except for Lithium.
I’m told, “Working in the greenhouse is a privilege liable to be rescinded at any time for behavioral infractions.” I intend to keep this privilege by acting pliant and pleasing, thus getting good marks on my daily evaluation.
Early on, I learned that it’s impossible to hide four pills tucked in the gums or under the tongue. My keepers are used to that subterfuge. Nurse Blinky repeats the song for each of us. “Lift tongue, to the side, other side, thank you.”
Swallowing is the best option.
That day I was strong-armed up the wide steps and into the Institution was the day I succumbed to the effects of my meds—a squirt of bile in my brain that led to confusion, lethargy, dizziness, and dull contentment. I’m not sure how many months I was in this state but as I floundered, part of me, many parts, swarmed to my rescue. My right hand had its finger down my throat when I finally came to. Now I pretend to be confused, lethargic, dizzy, and dully content—all the while keeping this garden fertilized with meds. I intend to stay awake and aware. Mine is a serious sentence and it’s up to me to extricate us from this situation. Up to Me. Us. Me/Us. You’ll get it.
But I’m charging ahead of myself. You want the low-down on how I came to be in this nuthouse. Reckon I’ll start at the beginning.
Paint by Numbers - Born
I’m not cognizant of what went on before I was born or immediately after, so you’ll have to give me license to speculate. Although much of what I’ll recount is fact, other moments are informed extrapolation.
I do know mine was to be a paint-by-numbers life. My course was set and the outcome expected to be magnificent.
When I was not even a twinkle in Evelyn and Philip’s eyes, they made plans. Perhaps you’ve heard of Vision Boards where people paste images and words on a surface, creating a collage of what they want to manifest in their lives. My parents didn’t do that. My parents made Vision Books. They (Mother) cut pictures from periodicals: Architectural Digest, The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Prestige, Town and Country. From clippings of beaming babies in bassinets to well-dressed young professionals in well-appointed homes.
My parents planned each milestone of my projected journey and created thirty-one leather-bound Vision Books. One volume for each anticipated year of my life. Babyhood onward to thirty.
Being members of the super-rich and used to outsourcing everything, they opted to forgo the muss and fuss of pregnancy and implanted their fertilized egg into a surrogate womb. Yasmina was already known as a reliable and hardworking housekeeper and was amenable to the incubation payout.
In a Petri dish, Father’s sperm was injected into Mother’s egg and presto-chango I was created. The parental chromosomes mingled, set about sorting which parts of the Deoxyribonucleic acid to keep or discard, and I was concocted of these randomly selected strands. Millions of bits of countless generations. I was made entirely of the past. But whoever did the fertilization procedure got a text or notification on their phone and didn’t give me a stir. At least, that’s my theory. I wasn’t stirred and all that DNA didn’t get homogenized.
After five days in an incubator, I graduated from a multi-celled embryo to a blastocyst. A syringe sucked me up and squirted me into my new home—Yasmina’s insides.
In our Central Park West building, Yasmina was moved from her housekeeper quarters off the kitchen to the suite of rooms that was to become the nursery. She was fed nutritious meals, our chauffeur Alberto took her to weekly checkups and ultrasounds, and Mother brought her to the Upper West Side Yoga Center as a guest member to keep the blood and amniotic fluid moving—and to show off. My parents did not ask to know the sex of this growing fetus, yet they had the baby clothes, silver spoon, and silk sheets monogrammed with E.G.G. in anticipation of Edward Gregor Gaston. As I grew, Philip and Evelyn counted the days and set aside Tuesday the 4th of April in their schedules. They pre-enrolled me in pre-school at Sebastian’s and, with a generous gift, secured me a place in Rothschild’s Academy for my high school years. My life was in place.
My first crime:
On April Fool’s Day, during downward-facing-dog, Yasmina groaned and I popped my head out, my features stretching the crotch of her yoga pants. I hollered, Yasmina screamed, and Mother yelled, “Shove it back in!”
Yasmina didn’t. She lowered her pants and I slid out, landing face-first on the yoga mat. Yasmina gently turned me over, and Mother gasped.
My second crime:
I was female.
Unaware of the horror of this infraction, all the ladies in the yoga session curdled around me, cooing.
They say all babies come out a red-faced, scrunched, wrinkly mess that fairly quickly evolves into the cutest button you ever saw.
I didn’t.
My third crime:
I was ugly.
Junious ‘Jay’ Ward
A conversation with poet Jay Ward
In Conversation
While attending the 2023 North Carolina Writers’ Network Fall Conference, I had the good fortune to participate in a poetry workshop, Into The Deep: Writing the Poem That Leaves Us Breathless, led by Junious ‘Jay’ Ward in which he guided his students to discover the heart of what they wished express. It proved to be an incredible experience. Recently, I caught up with Jay to discuss his poetry as well his journey as a poet. —AMA
You’ve been a busy poet of late especially in your role as the first Poet Laureate for the City of Charlotte, NC. What was that like carving out that role? Were you excited by the prospect of creating something from nothing? Or did you find it overwhelming at times?
Being the first poet laureate for my city has been very exciting and I’ve learned so much along the way. I wouldn’t necessarily say I was overwhelmed by the prospect of shaping the guidelines of what the role would look like because I always assumed that each successive laureate would likewise re-shape the role in their own image. I think what I found overwhelming was that without that framework in place there was no one to kindly tell me to take a break, to assure me that I didn’t have to be in constant motion. In most cases it takes a while for a project to get going, especially when you have to secure funding, so early in my tenure I found myself starting several projects in a mad rush just to show progress after my appointment, only to be in the whirlwind of all those projects being funded, beginning, and ending in close proximity to each other. So I learned a little more about grace, delegation, and reasonable expectations for myself. But back to the excitement. We’ve needed a laureate in our city for some time, and I would argue that we had various poets who filled that role before it was official. When I applied for the role, I listed out my objectives, I listed out projects, I described how these things would make Charlotte’s literary (and performance) landscape better. I told myself I could do those things if I were the poet laureate. What I realized after I became laureate was that although the implied authority from having a title helps, these are things I (we) can do even without the title. Sometimes we seek validation and power from others, but in truth we can empower ourselves to make our communities better.
I came across a Charlotte Observer article published shortly after your appointment in which you stated, “As artists, as poets, we are translating the world and handing it back to people, so what we write about is influenced by what’s happening around us,” Ward said. “If we’re writing about the beauty of a bird, even in that, we can’t help but be influenced by what’s happening in Ukraine… “We can’t help but be influenced by what’s happening in our neighborhoods. All that is somehow in the poem, even if it’s not perceptible, it is somehow influencing the way that you’re writing or the way that you’re creating art.”[1]
What influences shape your work today?
For certain, my work is still shaped by Ukraine. It’s shaped by Palestine, Israel, Black Lives Matter. It’s shaped by the Super Bowl and funny dog videos on IG. It’s still shaped by the pandemic and its myriad societal after-effects. I’ve been reading a book dedicated to the genius of Coltrane’s signature album, A Love Supreme, and that is shaping the way I hear and translate the world around me. Which is not to say that I necessarily feel compelled to write about those things (though I might). Art, in many ways, is about our connection to humanity. When we really listen to what’s happening around us, it can inspire us to anger or joy, it can move us to compassion and empathy, it unveils things in us that are far less binary than those examples. At the very least, and maybe in the very smallest sense, it can tell us who we are. I mean to say that there are unconscious choices that we make in our art that reflect the tear-jerking break-up story recounted from our co-worker, or the inside joke shared in public by our partner that makes us smile uncontrollably—it shows up as the use of an em dash in a poem, or an almost imperceptibly light brush stroke in a painting. There are also conscious decisions in bold revolt or acceptance of the humanity that surrounds us in its deluge of halos and pitchforks and all that lies in between. The theme of resilience has echoed through a majority of my recent work. That is a bold and conscious reaction to everything I’m hearing on a daily basis.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention your work as a spoken word poet. I watched your performance during the 2018 Individual World Poetry Slam in San Diego CA. [Note: See YouTube link below[2].]
It’s a powerful performance exploring layers of feelings related to your father. Tell us about your experience with spoken word versus printed word — is one better than the other? Do you choose one over the other to achieve different emotional effects?
I appreciate this question on many levels, so thank you! One thing that performance poetry has taught me is the roles that urgency and accessibility play when it comes to poetry. With a performance piece, the audience cannot re-read and study parts of the poem, they have to get it the first time. And for the poem to be effective the audience has to be moved, they need to receive the poem in both a cognitive and emotional sense. Contrary to what I assume would be popular belief, this is achieved more so through the writing than the performance, though intonation, choreography, and the energy of being with a live audience also helps. In my mind, this (the added layers you get in seeing a performance that can’t always be duplicated on page) is similar to the extra resonance you get from line breaks, punctuation, and form on the page, in that each medium (performance vs printed word) allows something extra that the other cannot, but can also inform the other. I don’t view either the oral tradition of spoken word poetry or poetry in the printed word as being better than the other, or even at odds with each other. I see them both as valid mediums through which poetry can reach and impact audiences. I think for me, and this may sound a little esoteric, when a poem of mine becomes a performance poem or a “page” poem, it has to do with serving the interests of the poem. I imagine that I am listening to the poem tell me what it wants to be. Certainly I could fail in that interpretation, but that is my hope.
One line (actually, so many lines) from that reading resonated for me. “So, you learned doing something for yourself always ends badly?” In the poem, you indicate that this question was asked by your therapist. Is that something you believe to be true for yourself? If it is, let me ask you this: what was the last gift you gave yourself?
You are coming with the hard questions now! So, I don’t think that question is as true today as it was then, but still true to some extent. And it’s not that I believe it of course, consciously I know that it’s ok for a person to do things for themself from time to time. However, actually doing something exclusively for myself still feels objectively selfish in the moment, y’know? The gifts I give to myself are probably not intentionally given as gifts and more so take the form of relenting to temptation in the checkout line, allowing myself a pack of Reese’s peanut butter cups, or finally committing to purchase something that’s been sitting in my Amazon cart for a while. I will say that I am fortunate enough to have friends around me that will call or text and remind me to take time to celebrate achievements instead of just moving on to the next thing. My wife is really good about insisting that I splurge on something when a project comes to a close or a recognition comes my way; a dinner, a new outfit, a movie. Something like that.
As I’d mentioned, you’ve had a busy 2023 which included the release of your first full length collection, Composition, which “interrogates the historical perceptions of Blackness and biracial identity as documented through a Southern Lens.”[3]
I’ve read your poems several times, trying to select one to discuss for this interview, and honestly, it was not an easy task, however, one poem which I found especially telling, is EVERYTHING COULD BE A PRAYER, which speaks to your biracial identity. Why did you choose to shape that poem as you did? (Note: See poem below.)
Thank you so much for looking through the book so diligently! I do think a lot about form and shape when I’m revising. For this poem I was thinking about Psalms as they appear in the bible visually, a kind of stacking effect. I wanted the alternating lines to be shorter so that the reader gets an immediate sense of symmetry but not necessarily balance. I am, after all, juxtaposing several things in the poem; my life and Martín de Porres’ life, my choices and my father’s choices, belief and non-belief. Even though the poem is stichic it also feels like couplets, which felt like a nice way to call back to the two parts of my identity without relying solely on the text. The poem is also centered, which I don’t do a lot. Here, centering made it feel like the embodiment of prayer, the lines, like two hands, reaching toward common ground.
“Utilizing a variety of poetic forms, Ward showcases to his readers an innovative approach as he unflinchingly explores the way language, generational trauma, loss, and resilience shape us into who we are, the stories we carry, and what we will inevitably pass on.”[4] I’m curious about how you used form in this poetry collection as well. You include blackout or erasure poetry for many of your pieces. Why this poetic form? What was your thinking in using it?
The first iteration of this manuscript was a chapbook that only lightly explored my biracial identity. As I did more self-interrogation and as I wrote more poems, I noticed that the manuscript wanted to explore history, documentation, family interactions. Form became a huge part of the manuscript because I wanted to break form, I wanted to combine form, I wanted to create form. My thinking was that every poem would then become a metaphor for the collection as a whole. So I spent a year studying particular forms, determining how form could impact certain thematic choices in the poems, adapting the rules, and etc. Many of the poems were actually written in a different form (or in broken form) and if the result didn’t work, I’d rewrite it in yet another form (or combined form) until I felt that the poem lived the way it wanted to live. In the collection I’m playing with the contrapuntal, ghazal, sonnet, rispetto, sestina, villanelle, and others. Even when I’m “breaking” a form, I’m also committing to rules, so I’m breaking rules by way of creating new ones. This kind of experimentation led to many surprises. For example, the blackout and erasure poetry you mention became a way to manipulate black and white space on the page, a further allusion to my own identity and a dominant theme in the book. It also allowed me, in the words of Tyehimba Jess, to “create supertext” in addition to subtext. But perhaps the main reason I chose to use blackout and erasure poems is because I am working with documents that were a profound part of the conversation about mixed race marriages when my parents were courting; Senate Bill 219 (anti-miscegenation law), Virginia Health Bulletin, a letter from Mildred Loving to the Attorney General, etc. By interacting with those documents, it gave me the opportunity to “talk back”, to be part of the conversation, to change what must have felt unchangeable at the time.
You’ve worked with several organizations over the years —BOOM, The Watering Hole, Breathink.org, among a few. Do you consider literary citizenship an essential role for every writer? Tell us more about your work with the Charlotte community, beyond your responsibilities as its poet laureate.
Great question. I think literary citizenship is absolutely an essential part of every writer's journey, even if they choose not to embrace having a particular role in it. By that I mean, many writers are introverts like me, some are socially awkward like me, a small percentage may even be averse to playing nice with others (I’m trying to skate around calling anyone a jerk…but some of us are!), but even still we were probably helped by someone along the way. We probably helped someone along the way even if only by example. The next logical step is to make connections with other writers and organizations, not to save the world but to do what we can to make this solitary process a little less lonely, to help others on a journey we personally know is tough to make without assistance.
I’m on the board for BOOM and also a curating artist for the BOOM fringe festival in Charlotte, which brings high quality experimental work to the city. I’m a frequent collaborator with CharlotteLit and Goodyear Arts, two organizations that are doing so much for the literary, performance, and multi-disciplinary landscapes in the city. I’m also on the board for Guerilla Poets which, among other things, does amazing work with at-risk youth. I’m also on the board for BreatheInk, an organization that works specifically with teen poets in the school system and abroad. In fact, I was a teaching artist with them for many years before becoming a board member. I’m involved in a lot of things, but there are so many folks out here really working and making a difference. I’m happy to contribute what I can.
You dedicate one of your poems, Southern Cross, Thirty Feet High, to Bree Newsome who on her website states the following: “I think Nina Simone said it best; ‘an artist’s duty is to reflect the times.’”[5]
How do you build social activism into your poetry and into your life as a poet?
Funny story that I love to tell about Bree Newsome and that poem. The week before she took that flag down, I was part of a wonderful recurring event in Charlotte that brought musicians, singers, and poets in-the-round to perform together. At the end of that event I’m doing a freestyle poem with the musicians, including a young lady on the keyboard who had been rocking out all night. Fast forward to me sitting in my home office overhearing a news reporter talking about the flag coming down at the South Carolina state house. As I’m rushing around the corner to the television (because this was historic and it certainly felt historic in the moment) they called the name Bree Newsome and I said, no way! Then they showed her face and I said, no way! It was the same Bree Newsome I had just met and collaborated with. I say that to say, Bree’s music may be influenced by social activism, but her practice is social activism and I think that’s a difference that’s important to recognize. My poems are influenced by social activism and can maybe be used to help with social activism in some way in terms of giving people reasons to change their mind about something or encouraging them to stay on task. And my poems, certainly true to Nina’s words, “reflect the times.” But I think real social activism happens out in the streets, the rallies, the courts, the flagpoles. I’m not distancing myself from social activism at all, I just want to ensure that while I acknowledge that the arts have a great impact by reflecting the times, there are people out there on the frontline, literally risking their lives to make a better tomorrow for all of us.
“To pinpoint my answer to your question, I don’t know that I intentionally build social activism into my poetry, I think it manifests because it has to, because I have to reflect the times, because as a father I’m seeing the future through the eyes of my children, because as a global citizen I know that I must contribute my voice against atrocities and toward justice.”
What’s next for you now that your responsibilities as Charlotte’s poet laureate are nearing an end?
As you can imagine, balancing laureateship, work life, and family life can be a bit much and have, frankly, left me with little time to devote to my own craft. I’ve written drafts here and there and I’ve thought about personal projects, but mostly those things have been relegated to the back of my mind for now as my focus has been creating spaces and platforms for others. My creative life post-laureateship is going to be wonderful—I’m tingling just thinking about it (I’m kidding, but also serious)! First up, I have drafts that I haven’t revisited yet and the editing and revision process is easily my favorite part of writing. I’m looking forward to getting back out into the plethora of rejections that hang out on the submission trail. Second, one of my drafts is exploring a fringe connection between lyric essay and speculative fiction and I’m very excited to spend more time figuring out what it is or what it could be. Third, I’m going to continue to provide programming in Charlotte and to visit schools and libraries, but perhaps at what would feel like a less fevered pace.
Thank you, Jay, for taking time to share more about your writing and your life.
Thank you so much Anne, for these thoughtful questions! Wishing much success to you and Does it Have Pockets!
[1] https://www.charlotteobserver.com/entertainment/artsculture/article263175593.html#storylink=cpy
[2] https://youtu.be/zYotT_zOZ04
[3] https://buttonpoetry.com/product/composition/
Junious 'Jay' Ward is a poet and teaching artist from Charlotte, NC. He is a National Slam champion (2018), an Individual World Poetry Slam champion (2019), author of Sing Me A Lesser Wound (Bull City Press 2020) and Composition (Button Poetry 2023). Jay currently serves as Charlotte's inaugural Poet Laureate and is a 2023 Academy of American Poets Laureate Fellow. Ward has attended Breadloaf Writers Conference, Callaloo, The Watering Hole and Tin House Winter Workshop. His work can be found in Columbia Journal, Four Way Review, DIAGRAM, Diode Poetry Journal and elsewhere.
Discover more about Jay: https://jwardpoetry.com/home
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Everything Could Be A Prayer
Marin de Porres is recognized as the patron saint of mixed-race
people & public health workers & all who seek racial harmony.
Credited with many miracles, Martin died of fever in 1639.
I won’t pray to you, Martin, but if I did how would that even work,
me to you, you for me, or jettison all hope
of intercession and just kick it dorm-room-style? Pink and fevered
as a baby, my body may have passed
your bronze statue on the way home from Vassar Brothers Hospital.
Mulatto dog. Slave-son. Rebel of soft heart.
We’ve been called many names, but I’d never seek my own sale to save
A convent (unless you’re thinking of convents as a way
we house faith or the myriad of small faiths we call home—a name
versus what will truly follow a person).
The early whisper of morning’s mouth in the green ragtop’s
backseat hid mason jars for Tyrone and me
to pee in. After we moved to dad’s hometown in Carolina
we’d visit New York each summer, stopping
at a trusted truckstop with a heat-lamp halo perched over day-shift
burgers. I wouldn’t know this for decades
but as a teen my father had been taken by the Ku Klux Klan
or by the police or by some white men or all
of the above, and was miraculously released on the third day,
Grandpa Bud serving as mediator.
It makes me question whether surging out of the South the way we did
whenever we traveled north, each precaution,
was a ritual or prayer, a lasting standard by which a father delivers, watches
over. Are all such choices so clearly black
and white (I’m asking if salvation is without consequence)?
I feel obligated to say here, talking to you
like this does not constitute supplication. I speak to many selves,
especially in light traffic, who are dead or holy
or exist only as a voice in my thirteen-year-old Camry, a fervent recycle
of breath, disembodied but not ghost. To say I revere you—
as opposed to saying we cohabit our skin—is to say you prompted a white
dietician from Mass a Black Army cook from Rich
Square to the same city of winding mazes, cleared a hand over them, said
In the blessing of this union I shall be reborn,
and kept safe so that I’d be in position to move my own three children
across Mason-Dixon borders, across darkness,
to what we hoped was a better life. No, I can’t believe in us. Father,
Risk taker. Saint to those whose eyes
are tinted with need. We are many names if we choose
not to believe in coincidence.
I’m not what you would call a believer of all miracles, but I give you this:
bilocation. You could appear beyond a locked door
to minister to ill, they say, while also kneeling in the darkness
of your dormitory across the courtyard.
I assume these accounts owe much to the ebbing cognition of the sick, the time-
lapsed dispersion linked with intermittent
consciousness. Still. This might be the miracle I fall unto like revelatory light:
residing in two truths at once,
place & time subjective, alone in a crib of night sweat.
a cool, damp towel pressed, somehow, to my face.
Kodak 4200 Slide Projector Asks if I Ever Held Hands with My Father
I.
In the first picture
my father’s hands
ain’t holding nothing
but a cooking spoon
I hold
the wired remote, clicking
to the next slide a lifetime
flashing against yellowed plaster
*
In this one his hands are empty
near a hollow steel pot
first day as a cook at
Hudson River
State Hospital where
he and Mom met I imagine
there is a photo his hand
focused on her belly
my hand walled within
reaching impossibly
toward
*
Here a custodian his hands
covered in grease
& callus—hot water
heater memento He really could
fix/love
whatever
needed to be
loved/fixed if I’d let him
instead I’d pretend
not to see him in school
head down timid
waving as he passed
II.
Memory merges
light & dust
an odd hum
with the present—
hospital room
a blink of tethered
machines oscillating
like
past lives against
a transfigured wall
his thin fingers
resting in mine
Previously published by Columbia Journal in March 2022 and winner of the 2021 Spring Poetry Prize selected by Hanif Abdurraqib
The Makers
White folks hear the blues come out,
but they don’t know how it got there – Ma Rainey
I. Ma Rainey speaks to Elvis
What a strange sound to mimic and call creation.
My rent been making a sound the same color as these keys.
I sang a song that broke my own heart more than once—
mind you, that’s even when I didn’t hit the right notes.
Can’t take that. Hard as you try you can’t.
Can’t thank the grass for rain while a cloud is watching.
II. The Ghost of Elvis Apologizes. Kinda.
I’ve only died once / so I wouldn’t
say I was good at it / or anything
but I did make a tune / didn’t I
could sing a song so blue / and black
you would swear / I colored / the chords
I been thinking / about how thrifters
pop / tags and sell something inferior
to the original / for more than it’s
worth / and I know my work was not
in vain / I know I’ll live on / there will never
be another me / how could there be
my soul wasn’t even mine
III. The Music Speaks for Itself
The smoke
cleared, exposed
your dissipatin
wisdom. I been
waitin to burn
red-faced and neck
bent back, waitin
for the curtains—
storm clouds breakin
like records—
to be pulled back,
to shake n shimmy
n sweat, to grunt
n falsetto n coo,
to slide one leg
like a pastor
slick cross
the floor,
finger extended,
to say now that
there, son,
that’s how
it’s done.
Previously published by Crab Fat Magazine in August 2019
Epithalamium from Dad to Mom
after my parents’ wedding photo
Skip to the end—you have to know I’d still die
for it, to hold it all. You: Caregiver, Master of Loss,
Weary Hands. The boys: shades of us. Of course I
would risk the law, Town Hall, even the courthouse.
In fact, break open these doors—I’d meet you anywhere.
You: A-line dress, angled angel, halo of white-headband,
look at me and say promise. I whisper into your nape:
we both shall live. Just outside our blessing
is called blasphemy, forbidden, hanging, strange,
a tree that was, and is not, and yet will be. In your belly,
a branch—fruit, wing—yes—a way. Steal away
south. part. Reunite like doves midheaven. We’ll fly
and dance & light, sunlit as any new beginning.
have & hold. We don’t have much but everything.
First published in Composition, then published in July 2023 print issue of WALTER Magazine