Interview with Major Jackson

I caught up with Major Jackson, via e-mail, in fits and spurts over the last year or so, during his trips between Vermont and North Carolina (he teaches at the University of Vermont and Queens University), a brief meeting in Vancouver at the AWP conference (his drink–at least on that night–was gin & tonic), and the seemingly joyful (maybe he was kidding) postponement of his second book Hoops (his first: the Cave Canem Poetry Award winning Leaving Saturn). His take on MFA programs and poetry collectives, especially for someone so involved with both, is particularly intriguing. Here, in its entirety, is our e-discussion about everything from revision and sampling to the forms and institutions of contemporary poetry:

CT: Hoops. Both the title of a poem in Leaving Saturn and the title of your forthcoming second collection. This word seems to have multiple cultural implications. Why has it figured so prominently in your work so far?

MJ: “Hoops” is mildly autobiographical. There was a time in my youth when I played basketball endlessly, from morning to night. I was a runt and so did not have dreams of the NBA like my friends endowed with the gift of height, but not necessarily, the skills. What I liked most was the immersion, bouncing and running my way into the game where all was intuition, play, and side-glances. The best pick-up games were the ones where ‘formal time’ fell away and became subject to our manipulation, a lyric space of leaps and jump-shots. The team which controls time often wins the game. A host of writers have made basketball [a] meditative subject for life and art; I guess I am extending that conversation. “Hoops” refers to the title poem written in quatrains; because of the poem’s formal demands, it took me a long time to complete. Writing it taught me much about the poem as a kind of court and how one stylizes within boundaries. It is the big question to address when writing formal poems.

CT: Is the “Hoops” in the upcoming book the same poem that appears in Leaving Saturn?

MJ: It’s the extended remix, that was published in Callaloo , Volume 26, Number 2, Winter 2003, “Hoops”. I made some significant changes and added three more sections. If you’ll notice, only [Part I] is published in Leaving Saturn.

CT: Right. I wanted to ask you about the “unfinished” nature of that “Hoops” and the use of it as an overt arc between your first two collections. So, from a formal standpoint, can you talk about the decision to include Part I. in Leaving Saturn as an unfinished piece and including the newer version in Hoops? I mean did you know it was unfinished at the time? Glück has an essay about the beauty of an unfinished work of art. Something left mid-stroke has the allure of an activity interrupted. Is this upcoming version “finished” or is it going to be an extended project? And with all of this, how do you look at “the book,” the collection of poems, as a formal construction? This is sort of an artifact vs. process question. There is something irreverent, in the face of “the book”, that you are doing with “Hoops” isn’t there? Is the genre of the re-mix, a hip-hop genre (or one that hip-hop now owns), something you see entering poetry? Can we poets learn about revision from hip-hop artists who seem to be more open to their audience about their process?

MJ: “Hoops” was a grueling poem to write. The four-part poem took me a long time to complete and to feel satisfied with its outcome. I remember being so immersed in its construction, so at awe with what I was learning about movement in a poem, the many uses of the quatrain, how like-sounding words have this embedded narrative or history between them, how its possible to tap into a word’s lineage. By the time I was putting Leaving Saturn together as a manuscript, I had written the first two sections. I felt very proud of the opening section because I could tell I was entering into this history of the form, the ballad, and bringing to it my world, the world of the streets with all its anti-heroes and tragedy. I wanted to include it as part of the manuscript for it seemed to represent the aesthetic project I had laid out for myself. For me, sections of a long poem or a sequence should yield their own separate pleasures distinct from the total work of art; so in my mind, Part I. could carry its own weight and make a contribution to the total vision of Leaving Saturn .

But, are we ever really satisfied with anything in the world? Is it not all temporary? Our pleasures? I would riff and say all of life is a mid-stroke, an ideal abandoned until we return to labor at its perfection. Although “Hoops” has been published in Callaloo , I am still unsatisfied with a few components, but I obsess and will tear at myself just to sharpen and fulfill its intentions just a slight bit more, then comes disfigurement. The poem may simply reflect my compulsive manic thirst for perfection in an imperfect world.

Yes, I knew “Hoops” would appear in the next book; a certain poet accused me of getting mileage out of the poem, as if it were my intention to add to the next book’s page count. Seriously, please. Works of art are vulnerable to our new insights, to our growth, and movement in the world. We come to see them daily or even the course of a few months in a new light, which may not be fair, which is why I do not rush a poem into publication. I know I could improve upon it. However, I like Lowell’s approach to Notebooks and its subsequent off-shoots. There’s something astonishing about that insistence to get it right, about that very personal and public display of how poems unfold to their final blossom.

CT: Now I am definitely going to harp on the “re-mix” as a genre, especially in light of Lowell. How do you see yourself as a reviser with respect to these two lineages: Anglo-Saxon poetry–Lowell turned the notebooks into The Dolphin and History–and hip-hop? The reason why I am interested is because you re-use “don’t stop the body rock,” a universally borrowed hip-hop refrain (I first came to it via Newcleus’ “Jam On It”: “don’t stop the body rock ’til your eyesight starts to get hazy”). How does this borrowing, this reaching back into a lineage, this re-mixing (both personal and historically cultural) play off of Lowell’s version of revision? What part does irreverence play in this process (I am thinking of Lowell’s using his wife’s letters as poems and even mc’s biting each others rhymes/samples/etc.)? Or is it irreverent? Maybe it is just evolution. Though I remember first hearing Puffy’s sample of the Police and getting angry (even angrier when Sting sung the song with him…but then my view on that sort of thing changed drastically).

MJ: The re-mix honors the original; so much of our daily lives is inauthentic. The collage, the sample, the remix, gumbo, all work to recontextualize and reinvigorate how we experience and taste the world around us. Rather than view poems as foundations, which is the inheritance of canons that inevitably create hierarchy, I think it best we view poems, or all work of arts, as touchstones, measures for what is possible in human expression and meaning. The remix allows us to view standards (and yes, even our clichéd lives) with new sets of eyewear or earwear. T.S. Eliot sampled. Bearden re-mixed. It’s the great, modernist trick. The thing to remember also is that this is how the past manifests itself in the present, how it influences and yields New Art, how it extends the conversation. I can site many examples of this, but I love Cake’s version of the Gloria Gaynor disco classic, “I Will Survive.”

CT: That’s a great example. Who, in both hip-hop and poetry do you feel is making the best use of the re-mix?

MJ: I wish I were that close to hip-hop, like I once had been, to speak authoritatively, to rediscover who is on top of the remix. Outside of my favorite, all-time artists and groups (De La Soul, Mos Def, Talib Kweli, The Roots Crew, Common, Nas) I do not listen as much - unless something comes my way. So much has changed in the music; some of it for the better, yet most of it for the bad. So, I stay close to the classics: two turntables and a microphone.

CT: I know you’ve worked with the Roots at both the Bride and on some album liner notes. Why did you chose them to collaborate with? What other bands would you like to work with?

MJ: We were young and ambitious. Pre-recording, pre-contract and all, I billed The (Square) Roots as an opening act for the poet Amiri Baraka at the Painted Bride. We jammed once in the basement of this take-out cheese-steak joint on University of Pennsylvania’s campus. So, I knew their sound, their sense of community, and saw that they were in the tradition. I mean the lineage between Baraka (and many other poets of the Black Arts Movement) and hip-hop, that rage and flow, was a natural connection to make as a literary curator at a contemporary arts center. It was also my coming out, how I announced my aesthetic and the next movement in contemporary performance.

That night, as an opener, Ahmir (?uestlove), again aware of tradition, asked me and my cohort Wadud, an amazing poet and thinker, who I self-published a chapbook with, to walk through the audience yelling Fire, while behind us he played his sticks, on the back of people’s chairs, up and down the stairs, on the stage, then finally on his drums. Wadud and I laid down some poems of our own, chanting Fire throughout the whole piece. Then Tarik and Malik and the rest of the crew joined in. It was spontaneous and a fitting opening for the night. Amiri Baraka along with Larry Neal edited a seminal anthology of poetry back in 1968 titled Black Fire, most likely in homage of the Harlem Renaissance publication of young black writers including Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, and Wallace Thurman.

CT: Speaking of the link between music/performance, can you talk about the controversial topic of spoken word/slam vs. traditional poetry? Are they the same genre? Are they working together or against one another?

MJ: I believe time will reveal that the topic of spoken word poetry is not as controversial as we are experiencing it up close. The range and depth of human expression will make its imprint on all forms of media, and these newer forms are as legitimate as the time-honored, text-based poetry. What will emerge, I believe and hope, is a criteria, most likely different, by which to assess the value and originality of these new forms. In my opinion, all forms of poetry are about sharing the human song, and if nothing else in the best case scenario, they invite engagement across artificial boundaries. We’ve seen it already. Oral versus literate culture is also a discussion about class. Once we explode that conversation, we will unearth the falsity of elitism and all of its ugly incarnations. What debases the art form, spoken and conventional poetry, is the growing rate of illiteracy in this country and the diminishing reading public. So that, a poetry of complexity and innovation has to give way to a poetry of dullness and easy generalizations; it is a poetry that appeals to familiar denominations, over-abused rhetoric, well-worn truisms, the sayable said over and over again–nothing that challenges and widens our experience of the world. That’s why spoken word is so rebuked; it is too immediate. There is no room for reflection, just give it to them until they laugh or cry like little verbal machines.

CT: Another strain of questioning stems from the ideas of canon that you stirred up. I was wondering about the benefit of creating one’s own canon, both historically and contemporarily. I was wondering how this relates to schools or camps of poetry.

MJ: Personal canons, which arise out of need, are extraordinarily valuable. I cannot imagine anyone who considers herself a poet without one. One hopes that her/his canon has range and reflects a voracious appetite.

(However, I have always been troubled by that term; I shudder to think of the relationship between “canon” and cultural imperialism and the academy’s role in the creation of major, minor, and woefully forgotten, left behind, never to be heard from again poets. But, then again, this is a well-worn debate that I think has been somewhat resolved. I truly believe we practice and possess a more varied understanding and appreciation of the poetics globally practiced). Etymology aside, personal canons arise out of a burgeoning writer’s growing and evolving awareness of the decisive measure and standard of what makes a poem a poem, those lyrics that we internalize which guide and light the path towards our own discoveries and development. A friend and I are now leaving messages on each other’s voicemail of our favorite poems or recent discoveries. How enriched my life has been over the past few months. She has read me some Stephen Dunn, Gary Miranda, and Carolyn Forche, and I have read her some Thomas Hardy, Ron Padgett, and Sharon Olds. So canons are an expression of our judgment and refinement. What makes this a viable form of entertainment is that we share tastes, not all the time, but virtually, damn near every poem we’ve shared with each other creates a new contract with poetry or at minimum renews the subscription.

I am beginning to believe also that the poems that adhere most to our tongues, that we learn by heart, are also riveting inscriptions of our personal biographies. It’s like, truly, what is the soundtrack to your life? What poems tell your story here on earth? What literary meals have you feasted on? Wouldn’t that make a cool movie? Poetry’s version of High Fidelity.

When we make public our personal choices, as Eliot did with the Metaphysicals, we give credence to our own vision. We pull out our authoritative figures who give us license for our own forays, inventions, and breakthroughs like the experimental school of American verse has done with Gertrude Stein, Carl Rakosi, George Oppen, among others.

Only, unfortunately at times, when we do invoke our lineage as authority, it strikes me as a false gesture like that moment in the films where an imposter dressed up as a cop will flash very quickly his fake badge, which brings me to the subject of schools and camps. There you have it. Some people, I believe, are truly enamored with the idea of creating something new, Pound’s dictum on deep house mix, not really engaged in the act of building something in conversation with tradition, but merely done for the sake of disavowing tradition, overly familiar, you know?

I am more interested in the idea of a truly transcendent poetry which is different from the idea of masterpieces, which are exhibited and passed from teacher to student for our collective expressions of awe and wonder.

CT: Can you speak about the Dark Room Collective a little and the benefits of such organizations. And the potential problems that arise as a result of them. By this I mean, Kevin Young in his intro to Tracy Smith’s book, a book he chose for the Cave Canem, felt he had to justify or at least clarify how and why he chose a colleague in a blind competition. I feel that poetry is endangered by or at least limited by, as well as buoyed and strengthened by such connections. What are you thoughts on this catch 22?

MJ: What I am about to say should not in anyway discredit the Dark Room Collective or any collective start-ups that have arisen since those important years in Cambridge, for they met a need that no institution (Harvard, Radcliffe, BU, Art Institute, or otherwise) could fill because that was about vision foreign to their thinking, plus it would have been too staid. Those early readings featuring Ishmael Reed, Erica Hunt, Christopher Gilbert, Michael Harper, Derek Walcott, Thylias Moss, Cyrus Cassells, Ntozake Shange and many more were, from what I gather because I arrived after the glory years, were more guerilla, were more like a games of tag. “You’re it.” Who next? Who shall we hear from next month? What voice left/right of center deserves a forum from our communities of color? What young, aspiring writer gots something to say? So, yeah, that’s what it was about, and of course, a maelstrom of young devotees of the vision of black writing became a part of it all. I hope history accurately reflects the importance of the Dark Room Collective. American poetry is richer and more meaningful as a result of the presence of Carl Philips, Thomas Sayers Ellis,

Natasha Trethewey, Sharan Strange, John Keene, Kevin Young, and Tracy Smith. So many more former members of the DRC I could name. We’ll hear from them soon.

But the time of the collective is over. Too many are popping up, which diminishes the force of their intent and total resistance. I so romanticized the Futurists when I was younger. Youth attracts youth. I do not believe the future needs this way of indoctrinating writers into the art. I do not foresee guilds, elementary school classrooms, nor academies either as permanent instructional sites for poetry writing, and definitely not a charter school, although that would be interesting for a moment. A new form of learning will have to take place. In fact, let’s do away with all creative writing programs, low-residencies, and collectives. Where would that leave us? Lead us?

Connections are bound to happen in this art. When I first met Marie Howe, she spoke about the great family of poets. It makes total sense to me. One degree of separation is a fact among writers of poetry. Wow! What a family. Let me not become too gushy about what they could possibly mean for policies here and abroad. But as a friend recently stated, what world it would be if people did not give up their dreams of painting, acting, writing, dancing, a world where artists outnumbered bankers and lawyers. I do not see Kevin’s introduction as a defense by the way.

CT: No definitely not a defense. I thought it was more celebratory. I feel too often poets try to hide connections, making them seem covert, sneaky. I think if connections were more celebrated and discussed out in the open and in a positive light (I like your idea of family) less people would be accusatory towards others and in turn wouldn’t have to keep looking over their own shoulders. But I think this suspicion also, like you mentioned, has to do with the size of the family–you suggested the possibility of doing away with MFA’s and collectives all together. If you don’t mind, where do you think this would leave/lead us? Do you think that the professionalization of poetry has led to a different sort of poetic family?

If so, how does this effect the public readership (and speak to the idea of a shrinking/expanding public readership in general)? And how has it affected the “family” in general. I like how I’ve started talking about it like it was a mob family. But I think there is something to that. Do you, like me, feel that since poetry has become a bonafide professional field, that “other things” (besides good poetry) are involved in becoming successful? This is one of the things–besides basketball–that I thought of when I first encountered the title “Hoops”–the hoops one has to jump through in order to become a success, whether it be in life (your speaker discusses ways in which people survive in the “slum” and/or get out of it…playing ball, studying, hustling, etc.) or in one’s profession. Can you speak of this in terms of the profession of poetry as a poet and specifically as a black poet?

And to round out the interview, I want to return to your mention of High Fidelity. Desert Island Classic: Top Five books/poets/poems (you choose)?

MJ: Regarding “other things”, (regarding race?) involved in becoming successful: I know of no professional or non-professional interested in contributing to the cultural and intellectual life of their communities (artistic or otherwise) who does not understand the necessity of engaging and participating in the system of relations and associations that will allow them to achieve their goals. Talent for the sake of talent is the stuff of prodigies. At some point, one grows up. Are other skills needed to become a successful writer of poetry? Yes. Industry secrets. (No. I’m joking.) The most important competence, in the end, whether you’re Black or Latina or Asian or White, involves writing a poem that elicits the widest readership across such trivial boundaries. In short, the “other” abilities total to nil if a person’s work does not warrant reception or critical attention. There are no secrets. Success is a tricky word in the literary arts, especially if we are defining success in terms of publication. In my humble estimation, no young poet should ever think in those terms when it comes to their writing. They should, however, think of the successful realization of the vision of their work, the aesthetic leaps and innovations, the actualization of their voice within the larger conversation of poets.

What a fascinating thought to ponder. If we were to eradicate all MFA programs (by the way, being a cash cow and all, we are likely to experience a rainstorm of auto parts before such a miracle should occur) we would move towards the monastic tradition of learning. Happily, we would also lose the star-system that arises in MFA programs. No longer would someone ascend “professionally” as a result of being hand-picked by faculty. We’d return to the notion of self-study and wide-reading. The workshop session, where we gauge the worth of our work by the reaction of our peers, would be supplanted by our own assessment of where our work stands in relation to our own personal canon of poets and poems we admire. I cannot believe you got me to somewhat flesh out this proposal. Let’s not forget our bon voyage toast to heralded mediocrity.

My High Fidelity moment is quite private. Sorry.

Major Jackson ’s debut volume of poems, Leaving Saturn, selected by poet and novelist Al Young to receive the Cave Canem Poetry Prize for the best first book by an African American poet, was shortlisted for a National Book Critics Circle Award and has received critical attention in The Boston Globe , Christian Science Monitor , Parnassus , Philadelphia Inquirer , and on National Public Radio’s All Things Considered. His poems have appeared in the American Poetry Review , Boulevard , Callaloo , Grand Street , The New Yorker , Triquarterly , among other literary journals. Formerly a member of the famed Dark Room Collective, Major is the recipient of fellowships and awards from Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, Pew Fellowship in the Arts, Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, as well as a commission from The Chamber Orchestra of Philadelphia. In 2003, he received the prestigious Whiting Writers’ Award. He has given readings around the country and participated in many festivals including Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival, Poetry Society of America’s Festival of New American Poets, and The New Yorker Festival in Bryant Park, New York City. He is a graduate of Temple University and University of Oregon’s Creative Writing Program. Major Jackson is an associate professor of English at University of Vermont, a faculty member of the MFA Creative Writing Program at Queens University of Charlotte in North Carolina, and a former Witter Bynner Fellow for the Library of Congress. He lives in South Burlington, Vermont. His new collection of poems Hoops is forthcoming from W.W. Norton.