Showing posts with label Sherry Johnson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sherry Johnson. Show all posts

20200910

An interview with Sherry Johnson


Sherry Johnson is the author of two books of poetry, Pale Grace and Hymns to Phenomena. Her poems have appeared in many journals, magazines and anthologies, most recently in The Malahat Review and forthcoming in CV2 and The Iowa Review. Also a film critic, her articles have appeared in Senses of Cinema, MUBI Notebook, the Swedish academic journal Film International and others.

How did you begin writing, and what keeps you going?

I was an avid reader from an early age and began writing poetry in my early teens. At the age of about 12 I first encountered Emily Dickinson (There is a certain slant of light) and Alfred Lord Tennyson (Break, break, break,\On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!\And I would that my tongue could utter\The thoughts that arise in me.) Their language recurred in my mind, and the feeling their poetry initially gave me was like that of shock combined with extreme joy. I began to suspect that I was a poet like them, and wrote a lot of bad poetry as any beginner does. I write poetry I suppose in order to recapture that initial feeling of discovering language for the sake of language. What fuels my language is often the language of other poets, the favorites I keep returning to, and there are always new discoveries. I am currently completing a manuscript of all ekphrasis. So aside from influences of language, I am also influenced by the visual language of whatever subject I choose to focus on. What has surprised me about ekphrasis is just how varied my response has been to the many visual works I have chosen. I never know what will unfold when I sit down to write a new poem. And what is most unexpected is what makes it all gratifying in the end.

What poets have influenced the ways in which you write?

There are too many to list here of course and as I noted, my poetry is influenced by factors other than poetry. In Canada, I especially admire Anne Carson, Anne Szumigalski, Margaret Atwood, Margaret Avison, Christopher Dewdney and Sharon Thesen is a poet I have been wanting to return to. I read a couple of poems which took my breath away online and I'm wondering why her work is not everywhere. I'm going to order her book The Receiver sometime soon. For American poets I especially love C. D. Wright, Mary Jo Bang, John Yau and Charles Wright. Celan in German and Rimbaud in French. In Italian, I love Eugenio Montale, although I don't really read Italian. I just read Montale.

Have you noticed a difference in the ways in which you approach the individual poem after you began publishing full-length collections?

The more I write I think the more I seek perfection and work harder at the craft aspect of writing, maybe too much sometimes. Writing is certainly more than inspiration. At the same time though I've become more open about the direction a poem will take. I realize that the possibilities of poetry are almost endless.

How important has mentorship been to your work? Is there anyone who specifically assisted your development as a writer?

Many people assisted me as a young writer. In hindsight, I feel I learned the most from Anne Szumigalski, as an example of a woman who labored and labored against the odds. She was a truly amazing woman. I attended a writing group in her house in the late 90s where she awed us with her erudition, linguistic attainments (I believe that by the time of her death she had studied over 20 languages) and her fantastic scones and homemade jams.

You’ve published poetry as well as film criticism. What is the difference between working on poems to working critical prose? Do the two sides of your writing interact at all?

There is some confluence in mood\subject\approach between poem and essay to be sure. Of course I don't wish to be too clinical in a poem or too flighty in an article. I only write criticism about films I find to be truly inspiring, so I do try to temper myself. And I do long to say something in a poem, even if I know it isn't necessary.
Can you name a poet you think should be receiving more attention?

Are people familiar with John Yau's poetry in Canada?!! It is something I have only discovered in the past couple of years. I encountered Yau through an article he had written on Cy Twombly. I love Twombly's paintings and Yau managed to express so much I couldn't have elucidated myself regarding his work. From there, I read his poetry and a really awesome anthology he put together of poets writing on the painter Neo Rauch. Also, I was truly impressed with a poem on the train site recently by David Martin. I don't know if I've ever read his poetry anywhere else, but I know I'd like to read more.

20200907

Stillleben mit drei Orangen / Still Life With Three Oranges (Cuno Amiet; oil on canvas, 1907-08)



Sherry Johnson




                                       Angles glyphed in softness
to keep the softness from rotting. Somewhere
between form and pleasure; one blindly depthsounds
the length of some pliant, swaying barrier
with the feel of a velvet cordon
snaking a waiting line at the bank. Cold wink
of a metal hasp curved at the end of it. Snap
                      & click & let it slip. Business
is business as they say. As they say. And here
business is oranges. Plated and paint-scaped. Sunk
with such a totality into their names as to sit
nearly umbrageless, echo-less. As the pale pink
money of such little-mouthed flowers, their smudged
work at light-silkening and how they shut up
(so quiet-like) as a group about it.

                                        And what of the punch-card cardboard
postcard’s quadrangle broached counterpoise? Infuses                            
a papery sense into leaves, a beige shrug. The painter’s
equivalency of an area rug. Register a hole-punch
glance just once — then move on. To black area blocked
behind fronds and pot / does not impart a sense of itself
to anything, remains delimited and distant; a knees
-pulled-up-under-the-chin-of-itself black look.

Memento mori for the Eurasian oriole he glimpsed
out of the pleated, flash-shot panes of the east oriel. A screen
                                                                   / screen winging shut and
yellow of feather admixed with split bone, coiled gut; he
angled the thing haphazard on a gash / scraped
once with the trowel and it vanished
as instantly as intimated. Light stayed liquid and brass.

Memento mori for 4 ‘o clock tea. For the jubilant, fleet skiing parties.

Memento mori for the many small lies navigated
in order to accommodate a social ease.

Memento mori for the poor and squalid,
                                                                                 and for those who are without locks.

Memento mori for the oily, fingerprinted scroll of the exhausted
tube of Mummy Brown, made from the chocolate-coloured, ground-up
remains of 6 separate Egyptians. Bury it with funeral rites in the garden.

Memento mori for the late light diffracted on the snow-crusted
peaks, and for the one who looked up, and — in
                                      looking — plummeted a moment down the mountain with it.

Memento mori for those who died in the mines — extracting the pigments.

Memento mori for the question which stood up defiantly
in the soul, bivouacked a brief time in the ribs, made it
all the way up into the throat’s pink vaults — then promptly died there.

Memento mori for the chrome points
flashing between bearings, the lace collars and volatile smell of wood polish.

Memento mori for the tabby found drowned in the cistern. The soft,
                                                                     limp leadenness of it. Its glassy green gaze.

Memento mori for the yellowed ledger
from the last century, with its 5 water-stained, empty pages.

Memento mori for the frame. And for the casual, flaccid
brushwork accentuating cloth’s tooth. This second hand
                                                            feeling hung on the hook

of an August day when absolutely nothing (everything) was immanent. 




Sherry Johnson is the author of two books of poetry, Pale Grace and Hymns to Phenomena. Her poems have appeared in many journals, magazines and anthologies, most recently in The Malahat Review and forthcoming in CV2 and The Iowa Review. Also a film critic, her articles have appeared in Senses of Cinema, MUBI Notebook, the Swedish academic journal Film International and others.

20200727

Palenqueras de Noviembre (Ana Mercedes Hoyos; oil on canvas, 2000)


Sherry Johnson





A woman is never her dress, we might say.

In memory we might say, part of her
becoming a multi-coloured dress, or
several of them, arranged into a screen.

Time-ratcheted immobility of sickness… Sorting
the assorted details; oblivion’s white brushwork-light
filling the crevices of a lost word. Plumb in the middle of a

mid-afternoon walk to the market. The joyous
snapshotted seconds become skewed
and granulated.  All we can do then is lay our

cheeks on the frameless cloth, wonder about it a lot.
Blankly its folds in the light of the sky under
the sun, no safety net to catch us. Plantains

                               and mangos shored
/ heavy, the skin-split line in balance
against it as though a game, both play and strategy.

Precious scraps talk. To us about it
in the way the dead or poets do. Which
when it happens means it’s really worth something

Maybe cut 3 clashing sections of her dress, stretch
                       it right over the frame and hang it
on the mustard-coloured wall there, an outdoor

gallery piece and memento of the NOT-postcard
variety a painter might bring back with her, token
of these fruit market Palenqueras of Cartagena.




Sherry Johnson is the author of two books of poetry, Pale Grace and Hymns to Phenomena. Her poems have appeared in many journals, magazines and anthologies, most recently in The Malahat Review and forthcoming in CV2 and The Iowa Review. Also a film critic, her articles have appeared in Senses of Cinema, MUBI Notebook, the Swedish academic journal Film International and others.