Slow Bleed
Felicia Zamora
Dear Felicia,
Thank you for sharing with us thoughts and stories about your poems and nowadays society engagement.
What is your first memory of reading poetry that made a lasting impression on you?
My most powerful memory of poetry arose in reading Philip Levine’s book, What Work Is. This book showed me that poetry could be raw and real, and that beauty lives in the everyday, in factories, in the hardness of life as much as the billowy and fanciful. My mother worked in a factory for over 13 years. Levine’s book connected poetry to my life for the first time. As a poor kid with poor struggles, discovering that poetry was mine as much as anyone else’s felt like unearthing a great secret. Periodically, I take this book out and read a poem or two to myself. The impact is still overwhelming.
In Survey, you write, “…how stories echo of other stories; the past/ weaves us & the condition, say present, sits/ on our chest…” to portray the heaviness of the situation wishing that …
I believe our stories are unique, but we are echoes of both history and future. Our world revolves in cycles, yet, we are in a constant moment called present. We cannot go backward, but we can remember it; we are never truly forward outside of the moment. We are all made up of the present compounded upon itself. The floods will flood again. The landscape will change under our feet. Monuments will be erected and fall. How we are always leading up to now, and now, and now into the infinite. So why attempt to capture anything? Why document so intimately? Humans are creatures of emotion; we learn not only by doing, but by experiencing. Art allows us to experience outside our own physical boundaries. Art allows us to feel a situation otherwise not accessible to us due to many factors. If this poem wishes anything, it’s that a reader feels –heaviness, witness, sorrow, and the inadequacy of the words. The poem, itself, cannot capture the moment; the poem fails, and yet in the inadequacy lies a lack of capture which leaves room for a strange connectivity, to empathize and to consider.
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Survey
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Water up to her thighs; her living room, say
outpour, say stream where no stream should be & Louisiana swims inside its own belly again; how stories echo of other stories; the past weaves us & the condition, say present, sits on our chests & our convulsive efforts to utter comfort little, if such notion exists; how her brow furrows to match the ripples in her gait. |
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What was the story that motivated you to write Element Undoes? In the same poem, you state, “…be in mystery/ again with late comprehension… .” From your poetic perspective, what’s the value we place on comprehension of the world with all the mini worlds within it?
“Element Undoes” evolved from a chance moment surprise. My partner and I were at an outdoor concert, doing the things many concert goers do, and in my rather every-day state of mind, a huge black moth flew up to my face and touched my nose with its body and my cheeks with its wings. I was startled out of myself, out of my mundane actions. This moth asked me to participate in the world, at that moment, in a richer way. I had stopped being a witness, and was pulled back into being fully present again in my life. How lovely! All of life feels in mystery and possibility again, when you have been awakened from the state of not paying attention. The encounter with the moth burns heavily in my mind as a symbol for a full participatory life.
I think our society confuses comprehension with knowledge. I am much more interested in comprehension: to understand the nature of, to grasp with my mind. To truly comprehend some thing or some moment in time, sometimes we must wait for the universe to reveal more to us…it’s not a singular act that we can often accomplish alone. Many times, distance and contemplation are needed before comprehension is even possible. People tend to burry what they first don’t understand. I know I have used the tactic. I didn’t fully comprehend the moment with the moth until I return to it in poetry. I am not sure I still fully grasp what happened, but I welcome it.
“Element Undoes” evolved from a chance moment surprise. My partner and I were at an outdoor concert, doing the things many concert goers do, and in my rather every-day state of mind, a huge black moth flew up to my face and touched my nose with its body and my cheeks with its wings. I was startled out of myself, out of my mundane actions. This moth asked me to participate in the world, at that moment, in a richer way. I had stopped being a witness, and was pulled back into being fully present again in my life. How lovely! All of life feels in mystery and possibility again, when you have been awakened from the state of not paying attention. The encounter with the moth burns heavily in my mind as a symbol for a full participatory life.
I think our society confuses comprehension with knowledge. I am much more interested in comprehension: to understand the nature of, to grasp with my mind. To truly comprehend some thing or some moment in time, sometimes we must wait for the universe to reveal more to us…it’s not a singular act that we can often accomplish alone. Many times, distance and contemplation are needed before comprehension is even possible. People tend to burry what they first don’t understand. I know I have used the tactic. I didn’t fully comprehend the moment with the moth until I return to it in poetry. I am not sure I still fully grasp what happened, but I welcome it.
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Element Undoes
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Antennae, then thorax; costal margin of; now
say moth; how you form with mind & mouth & moth, here, at your nose before all synapses synapse; to recall moment & be in mystery again with late comprehension; you caught in wingspan flutters, in night’s compression; how real touch & not; your skin open & porous; how element undoes; please, again, please. |
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Your poem Beneath the stairwell speaks of pain and guilt characteristic of unforgiving cycles that humans invent against each other. How can poetry have a more significant impact in addressing realities where we all subject to force?
What a lovely question. Thank you so much for asking it. Poetry allows for magic—magic to unhide what is hidden, magic to transform, magic to experience in words and in intensities. Intensities, such as pain, guilt, and forgiveness are all part of the human condition. The more we write about these intensities with authenticity, we open the door to processing and mending, both individually and collectively.
I, like many, grew up with a history of violence in the family. It’s a story that many share, unfortunately. However, the force that you sense in “Beneath the stairwell” goes beyond the physical, to the realm of what we can control and what we cannot control, some of which may be fate and some of which are our actions and thoughts toward our situation. Let me set the stage, slightly, for this poem. I grew up in an old motel, off a basically deserved highway, with my siblings, mom and grandparents. My grandparents were from the generation that survived the Great Depression, but carried it with them like scars behind their ears. They were from the generation that didn’t speak about un-pleasantries. My brother, sister, and I were the products of my mom’s failed marriage to a Mexican man. To my white grandparents, we were un-pleasantries, at least when we were young. I grew up understanding more of gaps and holes than the history of my family and my place in it. I remember my mother being full of fear all the time: fear of inclement weather, fear of not arriving to work on time, fear of going to the foodbank alone, fear of being judged in our small community.
Throughout my life I have wondered: How much of life is a force on us? Not to be confused with forced on us, but an actual force. How much of this force can we meld, change? Here evolves the setting for “Beneath the stairwell”. This poem is a contemplation on various events that merged together in my memory. The best way to describe this poem is a depiction of harsh-love: of being cared for when not particularly liked, such as out of obligation, or role or duty. It’s the moment in the poem where the child looks around, surveying the scene, and feels the dead mouse’s eyes apologizing to her. It’s the apology one never really receives in life, the one you don’t know you need until a decapitated head shows you that you do. It’s a healing poem. Healing for me? Perhaps. Healing for others? Perhaps. This is the power of poetry. The art and process of poetry reveals things to both writer and reader on the journey. It allows the needed exploration, but also a deeper, more complex method to harness a moment not fully understood, to become something more, something more meaningful. Many readers will engage with this poem differently, or that is my hope. In its strangeness, in the simple moment, so much is said, but verbally not said. Poetry can capture something so profound so intimate, in 10 short lines. If that isn’t magic, I don’t know what is.
Slow Bleed is a dramatic depiction of racial tensions. Do you believe that mankind will ever stop perpetuating hate?
I have to believe that humans inherently desire love; yet, something keeps us in perpetual fear of otherness. Western philosophy ruined a lot for us by telling us our cognitions were superior and, alas, detaching us, as humans, from other beings and living things. This domination complex, this one-over-other way of navigating this world, tears a riff in our humanity, in our natural state of connection to the world around us. Why can’t we be a connected natural being AND be special?
Someone once said that artists are required to pay attention; I agree, but long before I knew I was an artist, I knew paying attention was a tremendous and horrible gift, one that required me to ingest what I witnessed, ingest the world around me, and to be in a constant state of process about what I see, what I experience, and the stories of others. I’ve heard white folks say time and time again that they’ve “never thought of that before” when it comes to various social justice and equity issues. Frankly, that privilege is one, that being a person of color, I’ve never possessed. Being bi-racial, I walk around in a constant state of otherness. I find that my strength comes from this lens, this questioning the world around me, constantly wondering Why? instead of accepting the world, and How to change what feels incorrect? We all feel it, that moment when you were little, on the playground, when the bully corners the kid. Did you turn away? Did you get in that bully’s face? Were you the cornered kid?
Many people don’t understand the sheer and utter beauty of being other, of having a unique voice, gait, thought processes, and that we are all other in some respect. As humans, we all are lovely colors, possess different abilities, think in exciting ways, and love uniquely in our hearts. The more we understand our otherness, as individuals and as a collective society, our gaze will soften toward each other; we’ll look lovingly upon the differences that we ‘think’ separate us and begin to understand that these difference deeply bind us, far more than any divide. This, of course, is the utopian.
The reality: our country and world are riddled with hate. The reality: there’s a lot of work to do. The reality: if you wait for the utopian to miraculously appear, you are waiting in vain, friend. Roll up your sleeves, friends, and don’t sit this one out. Our country needs your voice more now than ever. Race tensions run deep in this country. The more we let racism reign, let racism continue to slink covertly into our everyday existence, let historical-racial-amnesia sweep over the country, the scarier this place becomes. Let’s hold each other up—lift each other up to fight against hate. Let’s ask more questions to dispel fear, to dissipate hate, to call the current inequitable norms into question. I am tired of the rules being made by those in power and with privilege: rules not designed by marginalized populations and not designed for marginalized populations. We must fight hate with education, love, resilience, and a strong collective voice. Your voice is your strength now, let it be heard.
What a lovely question. Thank you so much for asking it. Poetry allows for magic—magic to unhide what is hidden, magic to transform, magic to experience in words and in intensities. Intensities, such as pain, guilt, and forgiveness are all part of the human condition. The more we write about these intensities with authenticity, we open the door to processing and mending, both individually and collectively.
I, like many, grew up with a history of violence in the family. It’s a story that many share, unfortunately. However, the force that you sense in “Beneath the stairwell” goes beyond the physical, to the realm of what we can control and what we cannot control, some of which may be fate and some of which are our actions and thoughts toward our situation. Let me set the stage, slightly, for this poem. I grew up in an old motel, off a basically deserved highway, with my siblings, mom and grandparents. My grandparents were from the generation that survived the Great Depression, but carried it with them like scars behind their ears. They were from the generation that didn’t speak about un-pleasantries. My brother, sister, and I were the products of my mom’s failed marriage to a Mexican man. To my white grandparents, we were un-pleasantries, at least when we were young. I grew up understanding more of gaps and holes than the history of my family and my place in it. I remember my mother being full of fear all the time: fear of inclement weather, fear of not arriving to work on time, fear of going to the foodbank alone, fear of being judged in our small community.
Throughout my life I have wondered: How much of life is a force on us? Not to be confused with forced on us, but an actual force. How much of this force can we meld, change? Here evolves the setting for “Beneath the stairwell”. This poem is a contemplation on various events that merged together in my memory. The best way to describe this poem is a depiction of harsh-love: of being cared for when not particularly liked, such as out of obligation, or role or duty. It’s the moment in the poem where the child looks around, surveying the scene, and feels the dead mouse’s eyes apologizing to her. It’s the apology one never really receives in life, the one you don’t know you need until a decapitated head shows you that you do. It’s a healing poem. Healing for me? Perhaps. Healing for others? Perhaps. This is the power of poetry. The art and process of poetry reveals things to both writer and reader on the journey. It allows the needed exploration, but also a deeper, more complex method to harness a moment not fully understood, to become something more, something more meaningful. Many readers will engage with this poem differently, or that is my hope. In its strangeness, in the simple moment, so much is said, but verbally not said. Poetry can capture something so profound so intimate, in 10 short lines. If that isn’t magic, I don’t know what is.
Slow Bleed is a dramatic depiction of racial tensions. Do you believe that mankind will ever stop perpetuating hate?
I have to believe that humans inherently desire love; yet, something keeps us in perpetual fear of otherness. Western philosophy ruined a lot for us by telling us our cognitions were superior and, alas, detaching us, as humans, from other beings and living things. This domination complex, this one-over-other way of navigating this world, tears a riff in our humanity, in our natural state of connection to the world around us. Why can’t we be a connected natural being AND be special?
Someone once said that artists are required to pay attention; I agree, but long before I knew I was an artist, I knew paying attention was a tremendous and horrible gift, one that required me to ingest what I witnessed, ingest the world around me, and to be in a constant state of process about what I see, what I experience, and the stories of others. I’ve heard white folks say time and time again that they’ve “never thought of that before” when it comes to various social justice and equity issues. Frankly, that privilege is one, that being a person of color, I’ve never possessed. Being bi-racial, I walk around in a constant state of otherness. I find that my strength comes from this lens, this questioning the world around me, constantly wondering Why? instead of accepting the world, and How to change what feels incorrect? We all feel it, that moment when you were little, on the playground, when the bully corners the kid. Did you turn away? Did you get in that bully’s face? Were you the cornered kid?
Many people don’t understand the sheer and utter beauty of being other, of having a unique voice, gait, thought processes, and that we are all other in some respect. As humans, we all are lovely colors, possess different abilities, think in exciting ways, and love uniquely in our hearts. The more we understand our otherness, as individuals and as a collective society, our gaze will soften toward each other; we’ll look lovingly upon the differences that we ‘think’ separate us and begin to understand that these difference deeply bind us, far more than any divide. This, of course, is the utopian.
The reality: our country and world are riddled with hate. The reality: there’s a lot of work to do. The reality: if you wait for the utopian to miraculously appear, you are waiting in vain, friend. Roll up your sleeves, friends, and don’t sit this one out. Our country needs your voice more now than ever. Race tensions run deep in this country. The more we let racism reign, let racism continue to slink covertly into our everyday existence, let historical-racial-amnesia sweep over the country, the scarier this place becomes. Let’s hold each other up—lift each other up to fight against hate. Let’s ask more questions to dispel fear, to dissipate hate, to call the current inequitable norms into question. I am tired of the rules being made by those in power and with privilege: rules not designed by marginalized populations and not designed for marginalized populations. We must fight hate with education, love, resilience, and a strong collective voice. Your voice is your strength now, let it be heard.
* * *
Slow Bleed
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What we don’t say; omissions; the wide-wide stretches
out in front of you & you afraid to say white; how we measure percentage; say blood; & know something in wound; your face in distort; reflection of reflection; & your mother in sobs on the curb; the edifice of a brick building with the food bank in its belly; curse you for sharing; bi-racial: a badge; how no one cares for badges in these parts; what white requires of the brown; little brown everything, yet not; you in revel of race again; do not speak of race: all the things you were told to hide you from you; you, languages apart; say native tongue, say your tongue twisted before birth; say anything over & over to mean nothing of experience in a school yard with knuckles on flesh not your own & the split of a lip in slow bleed. |
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What’s the most recent story you heard that restored your faith in humanity?
So much of this is needed right now—our voices and stories. November was bleak for many. Much of our country doesn’t want to acknowledge that marginalized populations felt betrayed by the election and saw the results as a social trauma. Personally, I am still processing my own fear, rage, and desire to demonstrate activism in my daily life. Are we returning to a social amnesia when it comes to race in this country? The cynical side of me acknowledges our country has always tried to sweep wicked problems like race tensions under the rug. The hopeful side sees progress around me everywhere. The other day my niece and I were talking and I mentioned how no one is really ‘normal,’ that all people have strange quirks about them, to which Goose (that’s her nickname) replied, “And that’s good, right Aunt Felicia, because we are all strange in our own way” with a huge, confident smile on her face. This moment restored my faith in humanity. Goose, my nine-year-old niece, so wise beyond her years, completely understood what it means to be human. Perhaps this story is cheating, perhaps I needed a more grandiose story, but I don’t think so. These compounding moments of awareness, contemplation, and connection are all we need as humans to better our society, to understand our differences connect us, not separate us.
What’s your attitude towards TV? What do you binge watch?
I am a Generation Xer who witnessed television evolve. It’s a part of the culture I was born into. I keep television light, though, for mainly entertainment. I prefer to read my news. Oh, I am a mystery fanatic, and a horror movie fanatic. My partner and I have seen all 13 seasons of Agatha Christie’s Poirot many, many times. I love the Masterpiece Theatre Sherlock and love Alfred Hitchcock Presents episodes. I really enjoy smart shows that make me think; the mystery dimension always sucks me in.
What are the publications you read almost on a daily basis? What’s on this poet’s playlist?
I read Poetry Daily, well, daily, and Boston Review. I am one of those people who knows words to songs, but not the titles or artists. One of my favorite songs is “Brandy” by The Looking Glass. My playlist has everything from The Zombies to Mumford and Sons to JayZ to Johnny Cash to Lady Gaga. It’s a lovely, lovey train wreck. One of my best friends takes me to Dave Matthew’s Band concerts as well, so that’s in there too, and I always think of Shi. Shi, I am thinking of you now, with kissy lips and batting eyes.
What is the recipe for good poetry? Who are the poets whose works you see as most relevant in today’s world?
All poetry has the potential to be impactful; it’s about that delicate relationship of reader to writer. What speaks to someone today, may not hold the same weight at another place and time. So, too, a book of poems you hurried through years ago, may surprise and elevate you today. Poetry, thank goodness, is elusive, like many art forms. Part subjectivity, part creative process, part individual innovation, part historical contextualization, poetry shifts and undoes itself, at times, to what is necessary in the art. What poetry does have to offer is: a place for contemplation; a place to experience and explore the world not bound by the same restrictions; a place to find meaning in the complex, the lovely, the moment; a place for voice when voice struggles. These offerings exist for both reader and writer.
Many, many relevant poets are doing necessary work in the world today. Instead of listing my favorites, I encourage you, dear reader, to find whose voices speak to you, whose words resonate through your pupils and down your spinal cord, the poet whose lines part your lips with an “O” ocean-wide. That is the necessary work for you; that is the work most relevant in your world.
So much of this is needed right now—our voices and stories. November was bleak for many. Much of our country doesn’t want to acknowledge that marginalized populations felt betrayed by the election and saw the results as a social trauma. Personally, I am still processing my own fear, rage, and desire to demonstrate activism in my daily life. Are we returning to a social amnesia when it comes to race in this country? The cynical side of me acknowledges our country has always tried to sweep wicked problems like race tensions under the rug. The hopeful side sees progress around me everywhere. The other day my niece and I were talking and I mentioned how no one is really ‘normal,’ that all people have strange quirks about them, to which Goose (that’s her nickname) replied, “And that’s good, right Aunt Felicia, because we are all strange in our own way” with a huge, confident smile on her face. This moment restored my faith in humanity. Goose, my nine-year-old niece, so wise beyond her years, completely understood what it means to be human. Perhaps this story is cheating, perhaps I needed a more grandiose story, but I don’t think so. These compounding moments of awareness, contemplation, and connection are all we need as humans to better our society, to understand our differences connect us, not separate us.
What’s your attitude towards TV? What do you binge watch?
I am a Generation Xer who witnessed television evolve. It’s a part of the culture I was born into. I keep television light, though, for mainly entertainment. I prefer to read my news. Oh, I am a mystery fanatic, and a horror movie fanatic. My partner and I have seen all 13 seasons of Agatha Christie’s Poirot many, many times. I love the Masterpiece Theatre Sherlock and love Alfred Hitchcock Presents episodes. I really enjoy smart shows that make me think; the mystery dimension always sucks me in.
What are the publications you read almost on a daily basis? What’s on this poet’s playlist?
I read Poetry Daily, well, daily, and Boston Review. I am one of those people who knows words to songs, but not the titles or artists. One of my favorite songs is “Brandy” by The Looking Glass. My playlist has everything from The Zombies to Mumford and Sons to JayZ to Johnny Cash to Lady Gaga. It’s a lovely, lovey train wreck. One of my best friends takes me to Dave Matthew’s Band concerts as well, so that’s in there too, and I always think of Shi. Shi, I am thinking of you now, with kissy lips and batting eyes.
What is the recipe for good poetry? Who are the poets whose works you see as most relevant in today’s world?
All poetry has the potential to be impactful; it’s about that delicate relationship of reader to writer. What speaks to someone today, may not hold the same weight at another place and time. So, too, a book of poems you hurried through years ago, may surprise and elevate you today. Poetry, thank goodness, is elusive, like many art forms. Part subjectivity, part creative process, part individual innovation, part historical contextualization, poetry shifts and undoes itself, at times, to what is necessary in the art. What poetry does have to offer is: a place for contemplation; a place to experience and explore the world not bound by the same restrictions; a place to find meaning in the complex, the lovely, the moment; a place for voice when voice struggles. These offerings exist for both reader and writer.
Many, many relevant poets are doing necessary work in the world today. Instead of listing my favorites, I encourage you, dear reader, to find whose voices speak to you, whose words resonate through your pupils and down your spinal cord, the poet whose lines part your lips with an “O” ocean-wide. That is the necessary work for you; that is the work most relevant in your world.
photo credit:
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Felicia Zamora is the author of the books Of Form & Gather, winner of the 2016 Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize from University of Notre Dame Press (2017) and & in Open, Marvel (Free Verse Editions/Parlor Press 2017). She won the 2015 Tomaž Šalamun Prize from Verse, and authored the chapbooks Imbibe {et alia} here (Dancing Girl Press 2016) and Moby-Dick Made Me Do It (2010). Her published works may be found or forthcoming in Columbia Poetry Review, Crazyhorse, Hotel Amerika, Indiana Review, Meridian, Notre Dame Review, North American Review, OmniVerse, Phoebe, Pleiades, Poetry Daily, Poetry Northwest, Puerto del Sol, Raleigh Review, Tarpaulin Sky Magazine, The Adirondack Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Michigan Quarterly, The New Guard, The Normal School, TriQuarterly Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Verse Daily, Witness Magazine, West Branch, and others. She is an associate poetry editor for the Colorado Review and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Colorado State University. She lives in Colorado with her partner, Chris, and their three dogs, Howser, Lorca, and Sherlock.
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