A Coruscating Conversation with Sarah Sousa

Photo Credit: Tobias LaMontagne

Sarah Sousa is the author of the poetry collections See the Wolf, named a 2019 ‘Must Read’ book by the Massachusetts Center for the Book, Split the Crow and Church of Needles, as well as the chapbooks Yell, which won the Summer Tide Pool Prize at C&R Press, and Hex which won the Cow Creek Chapbook Prize. Her poems have appeared in the Massachusetts Review, North American Review, the Southern Poetry Review, and Verse Daily, among others. Her collage/visual poetry has appeared in Tupelo Quarterly, Matter Press , and New Delta Review. Honors include a Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Fellowship and a Massachusetts Cultural Council Fellowship. 

I had the pleasure of asking Sarah about the moment she fell in love with poetry, the differences and similarities between writing poetry and writing lyrics, and so much more.

UZOMAH: What is your favorite part of a poem?

SARAH: I love a good last line. Whether it’s a strong drop-the-mic type or a more subtle ending, the ability to bring a poem to a close effectively is challenging but so satisfying when it happens.

U: Can you recall the moment you fell in love with writing and poetry?

S: I can’t recall a specific moment, more an accrual of love and appreciation. I’ve been writing poetry since I was a child and always resonated with the power of Emily Dickinson’s work, then Sylvia Plath, Joy Harjo, Rita Dove, and Louise Gluck. I mostly remember a deep desire to want to write like the poets I admired. I also remember crying in frustration the first time I had to ‘properly’ revise a poem for an undergrad poetry workshop. I didn’t know what I was doing or how to begin making the poem I had feverishly written into a better one. As time went on, the process of initial writing and revision became more seamless, of-a-piece, and enjoyable. 

U: What are some themes you want to explore more through poetry?

S: Liminal spaces and phases of life. The surreal nature of time and the dissonance between the way we experience it internally and the way it advances externally. The theme of dwelling, the symbiotic relationship between place and individual, the way a person makes a space more organic, makes it home and the space, in turn, shapes the person. By extension, I’ve always been interested in the way a physical place (its soil, water, topography, wildlife) becomes physically part of us. I grew up in the suburbs but have lived in rural New England on acreage my entire adult life: drinking well water, gardening, raising animals, spinning and weaving, barefoot for most of the summer, making little baskets out of grass and roots and other ways of bringing the outdoors in. After 14 years living on a farm in western Massachusetts, I recently moved to a new property, still in New England and with a bit of land, but a completely different topography. I’ve moved several times in the past but have never been in one spot for 14 years. I’m fascinated by my internal weather, the wildly fluctuating emotions, flood of memories, the strange feeling that part of me is still in my old home, walking the rooms like a ghost. It has me wondering what portion of our identities is constant? How much change does it take to fundamentally alter who a person is?

U: What was the editing process like when finishing your first collection of poems? Did anything change with your subsequent collections?

S: Like a lot of first collections, mine contained poems written over the course of about five years that I felt were strong. Essentially, it was rounded out and honed during my MFA at Bennington College. The poems were written prior to the program and during it. My subsequent collections were much more cohesive. I felt as though I made more conscious decisions in shaping the manuscripts, understanding the juxtaposition of poems, and creating a greater narrative arc throughout the collection rather than simply proceeding poem by poem. I’ve come to love the process of ordering poems into a collection and editing the whole, and it's a creative act apart from writing the poems themselves.

U: How do chapbooks and complete collections differ for you, or are they the same?

S: They do differ. The basic difference, of course, is length, but I think that fact also dictates content to a certain extent; essentially, a book that’s the length of a chapter. And like a chapter, a chapbook should tackle a fairly tight and cohesive theme. Chapbooks of around 20 pages are fun to write, and it’s enough space to explore a series of poems without overreaching. Full-length collections are more of a commitment and long-term project, meant to be lived with, written into, and through on a day-to-day basis.

U: Are there any visual artists you like? How do they influence your writing?

S: I’ve always loved the work of Andrew Wyeth, his landscapes and houses primarily. He has a way of capturing both the people who inhabit them and the character of the places themselves, a little like the way Shirley Jackson’s houses become main characters in her work. I’m drawn to cyanotypes both contemporary and historic. Some of the fern and seaweed specimens in Anna Atkins's cyanotypes are so ethereal. I’m also a fiber artist (spinning, weaving, some basketry) and gravitate toward contemporary and historic fiber art. I really like the work of British fiber artist Alice Fox. And the nettle dress project by Allan Brown, also a British textile artist. Brown harvested, processed, and wove nettle over seven years, culminating in a dress he made from the woven nettle fabric. That kind of project thrills me.  

I’ve written many ekphrastic poems; one, after Judith Slaying Holofernes by Artemisia Gentileschi, was included in the limited-edition artist book Mother Monument by artists Holly Trostle Brigham and MaryAnn Miller. Eight poets took part, writing ekphrastic poems for eight pieces of classic art. One of the books resides at the Smithsonian.

U: What is something you cannot live without as a writer/poet?

S: Books! I love all genres, but tend to go through phases where I’m more interested in reading fiction or non-fiction. I have a few books going at a time. I love old mysteries and historical fiction, but I’m also a history hobbyist in general. I love artists’ and writers’ letters and diaries as well as non-fiction written in diary form. I love reading deeply on topics for poetry research, sometimes the information never gets used, but the process is usually the most fun part anyway. I could read a book on nearly any topic as long as it’s interesting and well-written.

U: How are lyrics like poetry and poetry like lyrics set to music?

S: Most music couldn’t be stand-alone poetry and most poetry couldn’t be set to music. They’re different animals. Musicians are lucky because they have a melody that goes straight to the gut and evokes emotion like scent or taste. That’s probably why music is a popular art form in the way poetry isn’t. Poets have to rely on a person taking the initiative to sit down and read, to hash out the written cues on a page: lineation, space, rhythm, etc. I wouldn’t want to work in a popular art form with all the demands that would entail. Of course, I don’t have a musical bone in my body. I appreciate the wildly artistic nature of free verse, the lack of rules, and the ability to be rhythmic or dissonant as I please. 

U: How has poetry helped you find yourself and where you sit with and within the world?

S: I’ve always been a poet, always had that grain of poet inside me. And I’ve always been drawn to poetry, the stripped-down truth and power that poetry is capable of. Writing, compiling and publishing collections has been fun, challenging and transformative. Presenting at conferences, giving readings and leading workshops has helped me become more self-possessed and confident. Being in creative flow is my favorite place to be. But I’m at that age where identifying so wholly with one part of my personality can feel problematic, especially in the era of social media and internet culture where every person is their own brand. Digital culture has opened up the poetry world to so many voices, stories and styles, and that’s the great part. Thirty years ago, most successful poets were of a certain age, gender, race and often background and poetry was very academic. There’s more light and air in the room; that’s to everyone’s benefit. But social media culture has molded poetry in its own image, along with all of the arts really, and I don’t think artists and the creative process benefit from being in the spotlight 24/7. Artists definitely don’t benefit from having to constantly stand on a ‘platform’, sounding all the right notes, always ready with an opinion, and sharing both personally and professionally. I grew up in a pre-internet generation so that may contribute to my feelings. I just believe more in the spell-casting, shape-shifting nature of the creative process, of magical discoveries happening in the darkness of the subconscious. I don’t like the idea of losing private joys, thoughts, pleasures, secrets, and things that exist just to be experienced and then disappear. I’ll always consider myself a poet but I don’t identify with that role as completely as I used to. Nowadays I’m happy to be creative in any medium that calls to me.

Please visit her site for more information about Sarah’s poetry and writing.