Be witnesses.

Interview with Philip Terman, by Marianne Kunkel
 
Philip Terman's most recent collection of poems is Rabbis of the Air (Autumn House P). New poems appear in the Laurel Review, Tar River Poetry, and Blood to Remember: American Poets on the Holocaust. He is a co-director of the Chautauqua Writers Festival.

MK: The first two of your three poems in the fall 2010 issue of Prairie Schooner, “At My Grandparents’ Grave” and “At Auschwitz-Berkanau,” rely heavily on negation. In the first poem, you describe a scene by listing what it does not look like, and in the second poem you deny the poetic quality of images as you are illustrating them. What is gained by avoiding more obviously straightforward statements in these two poems? 

PT: Excellent observation. Both of these poems, of course, make reference to the Holocaust--the Auschwitz poem in an obviously direct way, and the grandparents' poem only at the end, which surprised me as I arrived there in the process of composing the piece. The strategy of “negation” is an attempt to not romanticize, yet both poems, I think, try to say that the natural human connection (in the “grandparents” poem that between the speaker and the subjects and the relationship between the grandparents, and in the Auschwitz poem the appearance of the frog, which reminds the speaker of his daughter)--the source of the poetry--the “presence,” the opposite of “negation” is strengthened.

It seems likely that the “negation” is connected in that way:  it is, as Adorno and so many others have said, “barbaric” to write after such enormously tragic events, but as poets and citizens we must chronicle them in our own way, we must, if the “muse” (or whatever it is that directs our poetic visions) calls our attention to them, be witnesses. Auschwitz-Birkenau is that part of the camp that has been left untouched--the other part, the main camp, has been turned into an archival museum with educational displays, but Birkenau, or Auschwitz II--three kilometers away--is as close to how it was--barbed wire, open fields, the dilapidating barracks, etc, and therefore more affecting to me. It’s of course impossible to stand and walk in that place without being moved, yet there’s also that sense of inexpressibility: you don’t and you do want to articulate a response to being in such a singular place. I wanted to both write about it and resist writing about it, and the contradiction itself is the source of the poem. I wanted to be strict about just listing observations, but that list, in its rhythm of going deeper into the connection the language was drawing between me and Birkenau, more and more became “poetic,” exactly what I was attempting to resist, and thus heightening that tension. The speaker is trying to keep out what is normally construed as “poetic”--i.e, the lyrical, the beautiful, the transcendent--of course, the last thing one wants in a poem about Auschwitz is the beautiful and transcendent. Yet the speaker’s rhythm leads him into connecting the scraps of “nature” and,  therefore, “beauty” that he finds at the end of the poem--the “glassy eyes of the green frog” leads him to remember how he would look for frogs with his daughter at his pond at home, and so “poetry” in its romantic, lyrical, and perhaps nostalgic sense--rears its “ugly” (pun intended) head, and so the speaker has lost: the “beautiful,”  in fact, does enter into a poem that supposedly wants to chronicle “no poetry.” Perhaps it’s simply human to want to find some scraps of beauty even in the most desolate of circumstances, just as the “husbands/and wives would search through//barbed wire for each others’ eyes.”  It’s impossible to eradicate our human capacity for love.

As “At Auschwitz-Berkanau” is an attempt to not romanticize the Holocaust, “At My Grandparents’ Grave” wants to work against the traditional notion that visiting someone's grave has a larger, more romantic “ulterior” motive. I wanted to say that my mother and I only went to the grave to remember her parents--not to romanticize them by turning them into great lovers or sages. Perhaps, in the tradition of W.C. Williams, (“so much depends…”) what it wants to say is that their simple lives—“kibbutzing in the kitchen,” “sewing buttons on a dress”--is itself poetic--that the fact of their survival--in the light of their being Jewish immigrants for Eastern Europe and that they could very well have--had they not immigrated--been victims of the Holocaust--is poetic enough. Again, the “negation” reinforces and provides counter-weight to “presence”—what’s not reinforces what is.

All three of the poems appearing in the issue are arranged in three-line stanzas. What does a three-line stanza offer you as a writer that, say, a four-line or block stanza does not?

 

The three-line stanza, the contemporary non-rhyming (and, one could say, “lazy”) terza rima seems quite pervasive, and I suppose I'm not very experimental in my forms. I envy those who are, and I'm trying to work with alternative ways of presenting lines and stanzas, of using the page space. But I'm usually more concerned with the narrative and music of the poem, and admittedly I often would rather not spend time monkeying around with arrangement. One could, of course, spend hours and hours experimenting with arrangement! I'll admit that that doesn't interest me as much as getting the story and music right (perhaps one characteristic of the more narrative oriented poet). One reason for the three line stanzas, I think, is that there's a natural tendency to think in “threes”--it's a magical number for some reason, and perhaps the poetic urge picks up on that. I occasionally write poems that use the “block stanza,” but those are mostly shorter poems--perhaps no more than twenty lines. If a poem gets any longer, I like to let some air in, and slow it down some, thus making the stanzas and lines more prominent. I also think that how poets use language leads them to gravitate towards certain forms. Also, crafting any regular stanzaic pattern creates some surprises--there's going to be several line and stanza breaks that are more interesting than others and that the form itself produces naturally.

The epigraph to “At Auschwitz-Berkanau” is a quote by Theodor Adorno rejecting the existence of poetry after the Holocaust. You then, through poetry, give new meaning to remnants of, and our cultural memory about, a concentration camp. In contrast to Adorno’s quote, do you have a favorite quote about poetry that you find motivating and affirming?

 

Yes! I find many quotes to be “motivating and affirming”--one is Kafka's “writing is a form of prayer.” Another is from a James Wright poem:  “There must be something beautiful in my body./I am so happy.” Perhaps these two representative quotes together form a great part of my poetics: the spiritual and the earthly.

Congratulations on your most recently published poetry book, Rabbis of the Air (Autumn House Press, 2007). The book’s cover image—of a gnarled tree branch in front of gauzy clouds and a bright blue sky—is striking. How did you decide on the image? As a multi-published author, what would you say is the role of the book’s cover image?

 

Thanks for your observation of the book’s cover. I can say that the cover was designed by Kathy Boykowycz, who is the designer for Autumn House Press. I absolutely love the cover, and she did a wonderful job with that image. The image, to me, reflects the two qualities mentioned in the above response: the spiritual and the  earthy--which I think the book is attempting to struggle with. Though of course the old adage of not judging a book by its cover is true, I think the cover provides opportunities for another art form--and artist--to come into play; to add another dimension to what’s inside. Writing being such a solitary activity, I love collaborating with other artists whenever the opportunity arises, and the cover is an opportunity for that.

You wear many hats—poet, co-director of the Chautauqua Writers’ Festival, contributing editor for the literary journal Chautauqua and English professor at Clarion University of Pennsylvania. What position brings you most joy and has this changed over your career?

 

I'm excited about each of the poetry/literary projects I engage in. I think of writing as a kind of factory: we need many components to keep it running: the writing of it, of course, (which, admittedly, is my primary concern), but writers need communities--opportunities for networking: classes, readings, journals--and communities need writers to chronicle/witness in creative language what it's like to live in a certain place at a certain time. The literary word is everywhere. I'm particularly interested in fostering writing and writers who may be in the “woodwork,” as it were. All it takes is to provide a space, perhaps a class or two, an inexpensive publication, and writers will appear—often with poems and stories that are as good as anything else written anywhere.  It heightens the quality of life in the community, and lets writers know that they're not alone in their struggles.

Comments

[gynecologist chandler]

I am going to be one of them in the future. The book is simply exceptional!

[ugg.com]

Amazing! The power of printing by hand! Wish I could see the show. Love random collaboration like this. Cheers to all involved.

[red sole]

HHH Yes, the design of national policy is important, how our economic development plans for the next five years, how the implementation, how to make our economy even faster. Are designed to advance our focus to invest money in what ways it should be carefully arranged.

[Mulberry UK Factory]

I'm looking for a great quotes that i can use on my everyday task and duties. Lucky enough to drop by on your blog. Thanks.

[moncler down jackets]

I follow you VIA GFC and I love your blog!