Gailmarie Pahmeier Interview

Why I Like Some Country Songs

Johnny King’s big sister Betsey taught baton
in the backyard of their house, the only
original farmhouse in the little
brick suburb where my sister and I grew
up. My sister studied the art of toss
and twirl, her shiny green streamers catching
sun, all sparkle, sparkle.  My job was to walk
her home after class to supper and our
family’s quiet nights of cards, coffee,
my mother’s nick, nick, of knitting needles.
I loved the wait for her, how Betsey barked
out choreography, how all the girls
marched and panted. And I also loved
to watch Johnny King’s daddy, the only man
for miles who wore overalls, worked on
engines not his own, not just to pass
a lazy Saturday. And Johnny King?
He was the boy I might have loved, all black
curls and a sideways smile.  In fifth grade
he wrote an essay, first sentence — The settlers
were captured by Narrative Americans –
our teacher laughed, Johnny blushed, surprised,
sat inside the awkward claps of equally
confused classmates, but now I think I get it,
that Johnny might have known something fine
all along, must have had something of his sister’s
grace and his father’s skill, must have had a tale
or two worth telling, could capture a woman
and hold her. And if Johnny King had known
I could love him, I’d be the woman held,
the one who cleans the fish and washes the fruit,
boils the potatoes. I’d have a purpose
and a good heart, a man who came home most
every night with a story about how the wrist
can turn quite perfectly and make something fly,
how some things sputter to life with mere heat, some oil.

When in St. Louis, Consider the Saint

But first you must indulge in the requisite
ride in the Arch, 631 feet of pentecostal
promise, sunstruck mandorla reflecting
the urgent churn of the Mississippi below.
Stroll a ways to the Old Cathedral, light
a candle for your mother, your son, the dog
left to die on the tracks, all of the poor.
Eat toasted ravioli on The Hill, wander through
a church parking lot for fried chicken, or better,
pork steaks long cloaked in multiple bottles
of viscous sauce, served alongside baked onion,
sweet pickle and melon, ice-cold cans of Busch beer.
When in St. Louis, walk, eat, drink, and pray, but do
consider the saint himself, a mama’s boy
at heart, no soldier that one.  Consider
his long marriage to his teen sweetie,
their eleven alive children, his adored
possessions — the true Crown, a piece of the Cross.
And don’t forget to consider his glorious
head of hair, powdery curls, masterful
layering, near-perfect texture.  So when
in St. Louis enter a wig shop, try on
as many new selves as you can, try to believe
in each one, the mussed blonde, the sculpted redhead,
the coy brunette. Pay attention to the man
in the back booth, his tender touch as he adjusts
a woman’s turban, tells her it’ll all be OK, honey,
your new wig’s got real attitude.  Do all these
things while you can still speak, before the lump’s
irreverent insistence, while you can still see
more than smoke and shadow, before the cane,
the chair, the bed, the gate.  So when in St. Louis
consider the saint, and walk, eat, drink, pray.
Witness and testify.

I have known and loved Gailmarie and her work for more than 20 years. Her poetry hits me right in the solar plexus every time. We’ve seen each other through a lot of highs and lows, and that’s a wonderful kind of history to have with a woman friend. But additionally, when I read Gailmarie’s poems, I feel I am gleaning insights from the unbreakable, broken heart of womanhood.

Jeanmarie Simpson: Your poetry feels very homey and domestic, but there’s a longing there. Does this reflect something about you, or is it more about your observations about the world? Is it a combination of both and other things?

Gailmarie Pahmeier: The first time I was called a “domestic” poet, I was appalled. I thought the moniker was some sort of insult, as if the reviewer were suggesting that my subject matter and sense of character voices were somehow pedestrian, not worthy of poetry. I’ve since learned that the term  “domestic,” when applied to a poet or his or her poetry, is actually just a way of identifying the essence of the material; being a domestic poet means that one is exploring, examining, and celebrating primarily interpersonal relationships. I’m interested in family, in sexuality, in issues of class identity, and how our daily selves — the ways we try to matter in the world — shape what we might consider our legacies. I’m writing mostly in the voices of women who come from working class backgrounds, and you’re right — that does reflect something about me because that’s the people I come from — roofers, waitresses, grocery clerks… These people — these women — have historically been the unsung of our culture — a culture that admires success (but ironically seems to hate those who succeed as much as those who fail!) — success measured in wealth and fame. The people I’m writing about are those who don’t reach the American Dream, but that doesn’t mean they’re not trying to…and they have some great stories to tell us — stories about compromise and community, about faith and disillusionment, about hope and love. So yes, there’s longing in my work –longing to find a place where one can belong.

JS: How do you work? How do you make a poem? How important to your process is standard poetic structure?

GP: Well, for one thing, I work slowly — too slowly! I tell my students that it takes me a year and a day to make a poem — a year to roll it around in my head and along my tongue, and a day to get it on the page, at least in an early draft. It’s not uncommon for me to do 10, 12, even 20 drafts of a poem, even one with casual or conversational diction. I have to work to make it sound like a natural utterance. To more specifically respond to your questions — I’m always “sketching.” I call note-taking and journal writing “sketching.” This is essentially playing with an image or a line or a character’s voice. I came to poetry early as a fiction writer. I always knew I wanted to tell stories. What moved me toward trying to become a poet is what I think you mean by “standard poetic structure.” Poems — even those we call free verse (I personally don’t really like that term. I like the term “organic”) — are not chopped up prose pieces. Music matters in a poem; rhythm matters; sound matters. When I first started writing poems seriously, I wrote only in form — sonnets, sestinas, villanelles, etc.  Working in form teaches one how to make music with language. I still write in form on occasion, but I do think that there’s “form” in my work, even though now most of what I do is looser. But again, it gots to have rhythm!

JS: Did you write as a child?

GP: Oh, yeah, didn’t we all? Wasn’t telling and listening to stories important to all of us? Some of us — those who become writers and poets — are still children in many ways: listen to me; we’re saying…this happened! So yes, I wrote stories.  My best childhood girlfriend had a gift for drawing, so we collaborated on several “books.” I wrote the stories and she did the illustrations, and we sold them from a picnic table in the front yard of my parents’ house. They went for 25 cents apiece and had titles like Down on the Farm or Brenda Gets Married. Mostly neighbors bought the work, and we often sold lemonade alongside the books. We aimed to please! Thankfully, most people returned the books to my mother, who kept them for years and sent them to me about a decade ago. The writing is, of course, juvenile and a bit humbling, but there’s charming sincerity to the work. And my girlfriend is dead now, so the books matter to me in ways I couldn’t have known years ago.

JS: What inspired your writing in the beginning?

GP: Reading. I’ve always loved books and stories and poems and plays… Good teachers too — I learned early that everyone has a story to tell, but not everyone can tell her story well. We have to study, to work to get to that place where our stories matter to others. I was encouraged by good teachers in grade school, high school, college, and grad school. I want to stress that most of my education was before the big “self-esteem” movement — the period in education when everyone was told that he or she was somehow special and worthy of attention. I didn’t get that. I was encouraged to work hard, but I was never coddled. I had plenty of red marks on my papers!

JS: How important are your religious/spiritual connections to your writing?

GP: I think you remember that I went to college as a Religious Studies major. My goal back then was to complete that degree, go to seminary, and become a minister. I figured that I could still write stories, maybe even under a pen-name. Again, it was a good teacher who steered me toward creative writing, away from my original “life plan” and toward one that ultimately included teaching and working in the arts. I remember he said something like this: “So you want to write well and read deeply and talk about what you write and read? Do you really need a black robe to do that? Aren’t there other ways to minister to the culture?” He was right.  I’m also now studying the lives of the Catholic saints. In fact, that was my research area on a recent sabbatical.  What great stories! I’ve sketched several poems that include references to various saints and their patronages, although only one poem in this potential series has been published. It’s called “When in St. Louis, Consider the Saint.” I loved learning that Saint Louis was the patron saint of wigmakers, and that led me toward a poem — how could it not?

JS: I’ve enjoyed participating in several of your classes. You are so laid-back and yet such a tough task-master. You never settle for less than excellence. How does this feed your own artistic process?

GP: My students tell me I set the bar fairly high.  They also say it’s an invisible bar, so they work hard to reach it, even though they’re not sure where it is! The best learning in the classroom setting is what’s learned from other students — one’s peers are one’s best critics, and I, too, learn from my students.  I often wish I could steal from them! Some of them are doing really wonderful, sophisticated work. But what is excellence? By whose standards? I think most of us can spot a bad poem a mile away, but it’s often really hard to talk about a good poem, particularly one that speaks to us in some primal, elemental way.  I think good poetry nods toward tradition, is musical, suggests a new way of “seeing,” and matters to a reader. But there’s no one true way to make art that matters. I tell my students to pay attention to craft, to think “small,” to think in terms of detail and image… Thinking “small” doesn’t mean thinking “small-mindedly,” it means paying attention.

JS: Who are a few of your favorite writers?

GP: I dread questions like this. If you ask me tomorrow, I’ll come up with other names, but today I’ll go with Dorianne Laux, Claudia Emerson, Kim Addonizio, David Lee, Billy Collins…just to rattle off a few contemporaries. But hey, who doesn’t return to the classics? To Shakespeare? To Donne? To Chaucer?

JS: What are you working on now? What’s next?

GP: Well, I have a new book coming out in 2010 from Red Hen Press. You remember the manuscript in which I used family letters to fashion a narrative. It finally found a home. I’m really looking forward to seeing it, and Red Hen does beautiful books. The publisher, Kate Gale, is quite a fine poet, so I’m honored to be part of her press. I’m also working on the series of Saints poems, and I’m collaborating on a book with the poet Tom Meschery. Our working title is Some Men and Some Women, and in the poems we explore experiences from both “masculine” and “feminine” perspectives.  I’m having fun with this project, and it’s really an honor and a privilege to work with Tom. And then, who knows? But I know there are stories out there, and I hope to keep telling them.

The House on Breakaheart Road, a book of poems by Gailmarie Pahmeier, can be found for sale here.