'I write poems to devastate and startle myself': Matthea Harvey in Conversation

We missed this one last week—bummer! But now we're taking the afternoon to get caught up with Matthea Harvey, who's in conversation with Jane Huffman at Sundress Blog. Much ground is covered, from maintaining (caring?) for Harvey's miniatures, thoughts on VIDA's importance, children's literature, Emily Dickinson, and with special attention to Harvey's craft and career. Along those lines, here's a brief look into this rich conversation:

JH: I adore your essay on Dada and the abecedarian that was published in American Poet and your analysis of the lushness and possibility of language. I also appreciate the essay’s acknowledgement of the pitfalls of too much possibility—a world in which nothing happens because anything can happen—and the way that a fixed form can offset that: “something large (i.e., the century or the message of the poem) squeezing through something small and restrictive (the small openings of the bullet holes in the supper plate as embodied by each letter of the alphabet).” Here’s my question: in your poetry that is not constrained by standard formal parameters, what constraining measures do you use to strike that balance? Is there such thing as “too far” in the poetry of imagination? How to you know if you’ve crossed the line?

MH: I do delight in constraints at times and sometimes they’re invisible. For example in the series of mermaid poems in If the Tabloids are True What are You? I limited myself to only using adjectives before the word “mermaid” that ended in “d” or “t.” I could probably have written fifty mermaid poems, but I wasn’t interested in only doing that. As far as imagination goes, I don’t know of any poet who’s ever gone too far. I’d love to experience crossing that line.

JH: In my own experience in workshops and in academic settings, I have often found that whimsy in poetry is often labeled as “cute,” “precious,” or “girly” especially, it seems, when women’s writing is on the table. Have you been accused of girlishness or preciousness? If so, do you attempt to combat that or do you embrace it?

MH: Oh yes. My work is frequently described as whimsical or quirky or cute and I have noticed that male writers who write about similar subjects are more likely to be commended for their ruthless fun or muscular imagination. I think on a surface level my work does sometimes explore whimsy, but what’s underneath is a lot more scary. Yes, there are tiny ponies in “The Crowds Cheered as Gloom Galloped Away” but it should be noted that they all die as part of human beings trying to eradicate sadness. I write poems to devastate and startle myself and others—and certainly killing the cute is one way of doing that.

Go to Sundress to get the rest!