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Poetic Profile
Simone Muench
Interview Questions for Simone Muench
1)Where did you grow up?
I alternated between Louisiana and Arkansas. In Benson, LA, my first home, now burned down, is rumored to have once housed Bonnie Parker. When I was eight, I moved to the Ozark mountains where I lived in a log cabin that my parents constructed. We used Coleman lanterns and had an outhouse; eventually we modernized and bought a generator. I resided mainly in tiny towns—in Louisiana, there was Benson, which consists of a Baptist Church, railroad track, segregated cemetery, Brashier’s gas station, and a few homes, including my grandmother’s; and Iota (it defines itself). In Arkansas, I lived in St. Paul (pop ~88), Goshen (pop 752), and Elkins (pop 1251). I moved to Colorado when I was 16—downtown Colorado Springs (a place I’d like to erase from memory), and then later, we moved up into the mountains in Woodland Park.
2) Was poetry and writing part of that mix?
When I was in 8th grade living in Iota, I was simultaneously reading the Illiad (under my stepfather’s supervision) and Harlequin romance novels (introduced to me by my aunts who loved Janet Daily and Daniele Steele). Since I knew I couldn’t compete with the Iliad I decided to write a romance. It ended after the first paragraph. I didn’t really start writing poetry until I was 16 and living in Colorado. I wrote egregious poetry all about the “I” and being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition. A friend of mine, without my knowledge, had some of my poems published in the school newspaper (definitely blackmail material). The principal of my school whom I had never met, invited me to his office to tell me he was “concerned with my welfare,” and to inquire as to whether or not I was going to be “okay.”
3) Who are your poetic influences, favorite poets, writers, artwork, other things that inform your work?
I always find this seemingly simple question incredibly difficult to answer. Do you have to read an author’s oeuvre to call them an influence, or can you be influenced by a single piece of work? Also, it’s constantly shifting. When I was younger I loved Plath, then I lost interest, but recently regained it. The same with Neruda. I’ve always loved Stevens since I was introduced to him when I was 19 in Bruce Kawin’s Modern Poetry Class. The French Surrealists, especially Robert Desnos. Nina Cassian. Hopkins. Rilke. The older I get the more I appreciate Dickinson. Charles Wright, particularly when I’m melancholic. Yusef Komunyakka. And recently I’ve discovered Lucie-Brock Broido whom I love, both The Master Letters and Trouble in Mind. Outside of poetry, two of my favorite writers are Julio Cortazar and Angela Carter. Painters: Wesley Kimler, Vera Klement, El Lissitzky, Joan Miro, Francis Bacon, Picasso, Max Ernst, Rothko. I feel like I could go on and on but I’m not versed enough in the art world to take on a debate about any of these painters, still their work has influenced me in various ways. Also, the wonderful Wladyslaw Starewicz’s The Mascot.
4) When did you 'become' a poet when did poet become part of your everyday life?
At two junctures: one was when I considered myself a poet, and the second, is when other people considered me a poet, unfortunately they didn’t coincide. I entered college as a psych major (thought I be a psychiatrist-ha!) and ended up doubling in English so I could have time to read novels. Boulder had a two-track English program; I ended up on the creative writing track. When I made that decision, I felt that I had entered poetdom. Unfortunately, I think it often takes a book to be truly legitimized as a poet. No matter that I was an editor for a literary magazine, that I had published a chapbook and had numerous publications, it wasn’t until I had a book that people actually seemed to take my career seriously. It was dismaying, and is still dismaying to me to see some of my friends who are much better writers than many of those who have several books out, not receive acknowledgement for their work.
5) Where were you educated? Was this important?
Absolutely. It formed my early ideas of what poetry should or could be. I attended the University of Colorado where I studied with Ed Dorn, Steve Katz, Marilyn Krysl, Peter Michelson Lorna Dee Cervantes, Reg Saner and Linda Hogan. I was exposed to a diversity of aesthetics, much of which influenced my own writing. Equally influencing was the way in which the workshop was conceived, which basically translated to red wine and paella at Lorna’s house, or red wine in the classroom under Michelson’s watch, or red wine at Steve’s house, etc.
6) You are viewed by many as a Southern Writer yet you have lived in Colorado and Chicago for many years. Have you absorbed other regionalisms in your work?
I’m sure they’re lurking there somewhere.
7) What is your favorite...
Food?
The clichés of being a writer: red wine (see above), dark chocolate and coffee. Also cherries, olives, watermelon, pomegranates, cheese, sourdough, and any concoction with coconut in it. Pretty much anything but animals, eggs and anisette, all of which I have an aversion to. Especially eggs. For a couple of years when I was younger we had chickens and I cracked open too many eggs in the mixing bowl with blood specks or half-formed chickies. Chicken skeletons are a frightening site.
Sports Team?
One of the ironies of my working life is that I’ve frequently worked as a waitress in sports venues in which I had no interest in the teams at hand. In Chicago, I worked at the Stadium Club at Wrigley Field, as well as the Stadium Club at the United Center for Bulls and Blackhawks games. Waiting on sports fans and players tends to create distaste for both. Also, coming from the University of Colorado where the Buffs is a synonym for rape tends to make one less interested in “sports teams”. Though I did visit the baseball hall of fame in Cooperstown, N.Y. when I was a teenager, and I love playing basketball, and played, albeit badly, when I was in high school.
Activity?
It used to be pool. I played almost daily for a couple of years. I had my bank shot down, but now I probably wouldn’t remember how to rack the balls correctly.
Vacation Spot?
Alas, it’s been awhile since I’ve truly traveled so I’ll have to indulge in nostalgia to answer this one. Before I moved to Chicago, I spent a month traveling through Western Turkey along the coastline and though I was ripped off, and became so ill that my digestive system had an ongoing argument with me for months afterward, I loved it. Also, in Western Australia there’s a place called Monkey Mia where you can swim with dolphins, and though it’s touristy, it’s also ineffable. One of my favorite places is Denali, Alaska. I spent a summer there living out of a Westfalia with my friend, Dali, and her black lab, Lama, and our two respective boyfriends, Phil and Bill. One day at work, a tourist asked us what we did with the animals in the wintertime.
Curse Word?
Oh that would be fuck, no doubt about it. It’s been my favorite curse word for as long as I can remember. I love how nuanced it is, and that it breeds repetition: “Fuck off mother fucker. Harpers had an article awhile back on its etymology, and one of my favorite variations of it was “fuckwidget” or at least that’s how I transcribed it in my mind.
8) You are viewed as a rising star in poetry especially among writers who are considered ' money' sure bets what does that mean for your writing?
I’m flattered by the idea of “rising star in poetry”—you must’ve been talking to Michael Anania; however, I don’t know whether to take this question jokingly or insultingly. I’ll assume the former. Being a poet, as poets know, is one of the most non-lucrative careers available, (unless you’re a performance poet, which according to some performer friends tends to be a little more lucrative). My experience of poetry is that you have to supplement it with work other than writing. Though I won a first book award, which translates to prize money, I’ve probably put more money back into my book, buying it for friends, than I’ve actually pocketed. I now make some money doing readings and winning a contest here and there, but the bulk of my money, I’d say 90% of it comes from teaching, not writing. And until I was hired at Lewis, I waited tables for years.
Craft Questions
1) 1) How do you form a poem?
Haphazardly at first, then, painstakingly in the revision phase.
2) 2) Is poetry an organic or synthetic process for you?
Both. I spend a lot of time in class discussing the misnomer of “free verse” as well as fixed forms. I assign work addressing both fixed and opens forms and I typically do the exercises along with my students. I have them create stipulations for a poem, e.g., it is limited to certain punctuation like backslashes, colons, and dashes; no “a,” “and,” or “the”; create kennings; write a receding line or stanza, etc. I find that even though they’re exercises, they’re beneficial because they help me discover the ruts in my own writing. For example, using the above rules, I realized how devoted I was to the comma and to triple lists; not being able to use the abused comma, forced me to add some elasticity to syntax, investigating other ways in which to create caesuras and connections.
3) 3) Where do you write? Is Ambiance important?
I’ve always loved the Surrealist’s notion of automatic writing or trance writing, and I find that I write best in bed at night, in that liminal space where there’s only a thin scrim between consciousness and dream. I’m a control freak so it’s good for me to lose/loosen my internal editor. Hawthorne referred to something similar as the “twilight hour” where he could “see visions more vividly in the dusky glow of firelight than either by daylight or lamplight.”
4) Do you have rituals or habits when you write?
I used to write by hand in a journal, but I’ve since purchased an ibook and since I type faster than I write, I’ve come to use the computer more and more. Every time I sit down to write, I have two cats that jockey for a position between my chest and my computer: Youki and Odile. Odile makes it difficult to continue because she’s a rather large and ornery black cat (I should have named her Behemoth after the imposing cat in The Master and Margarita).
5) In the balance between found language and created language where does your work fall?
Isn’t it all found?—even neologisms usually derive from prefabricated structures. Though I don’t write “found poems” per se, I write a lot of poems paying homage to other writers because I see language as a lineage—it possesses us as much, or more, than we possess it— but I’ve been told recently by several people to cut the attribution lines. I’ve always wanted to write a book called Imitations/Translations so maybe those poems will have to be relocated there.
6) Do you use many sources? What are they?
The OED—goddess of word-nerds—and movies (usually horror). I was recently watching Eric Rohmer’s Claire’s Knee in which one of the characters states “I’m like you, my dear”. It immediately became the organizing principle of a poem with the phrase as both title and rhetorical device. Also, I wrote a poem called “Spectacle: Possession” that addresses a scene from a superb, but disconcerting film by Andrej Zulawski called Possession in which an ethereal Isabel Adjani in a cobalt dress attempts suicide in her kitchen with an electric carving knife. I’ve always been fascinated by the interplay between domesticity and violence and the arena where it often occurs: the kitchen. Later, Adjani has sex with a cephalopod. That poem, however, is still in its gestation period.
Global Questions
1) You are now at UIC and Lewis University how are they different?
Because Lewis is smaller and outside the city, located in the wonderfully named “Romeoville” saddled up next to Joliet, it’s much more congenial, almost like a Southern town. Everyone is very respectful and supportive of one another, and all the students want to call me Prof. Muench even though I insist on Simone. UIC, being a city university, is edgier. There’s more competition, and less community: less of that “barbeque in the backyard” feel that Lewis has. But UIC because of its very hardness helps to establish motivation; there’s no room for complacency, so I like both for different reasons.
2) What major projects are you working on now?
Trying to study for my pre-lims is a major project. I did the reverse route of the Ph.D program—my dissertation is done, but I now have to get through my exams. I also just inaugurated a reading series showcasing Illinois writers at Lewis (I tried to encompass a variety of aesthetics by including Quraysh Ali Lansana, Kristy Odelius, Mary Biddinger, Arielle Greenberg, Lucy Anderton and Nick Fox). It was time-consuming but worthwhile. I’ve finished my second manuscript, so now I’m starting my third—or at least I like to hope that there’s a third manuscript about to be generated.
3) You have been in Academia for years now do you find that your work is more or less fresh and new because of that fact?
Academia like anything has its pros and cons, but I’ve always loved school, and it hasn’t changed over the years. What I love most about being in school is having a community of writers in which to bounce your work off of, and that you’re constantly, and sometimes painfully, made aware of how much there is to learn. So I think my work is definitely reinvigorated, not only by my peers who are both excellent writers and editors, but also by my students who continually surprise me with their insight and innovations.
Links
Her chapbook *Notebook. Knife. Mentholatum* is
available at The Diagram
