Ankh’s 2019 interview with me:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/09/15/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-ankh-spice/?preview=true

Ankh’s on his latest book:

Q2: How important is nature in your poetry?

It’s pivotal. I can’t write a poem where it isn’t, because a wide-open awareness of the natural world is my default state. When you have no skin, everything sings to you, for good or ill, and nothing keys more true than the natural world. It’s also the very seat of my own spirituality – yes, I absolutely do believe in old incarnations of forest and wave and wind and dirt and star and stone. Perhaps it’s because I’m fortunate to have been born as a guest in a place where natural beauty is legendary, nature has a living mythological voice right there in the landscape you’re walking on, but honestly I think the singing happens everywhere. Once you open your eyes and ears to it, realise that you’re an intimate part of season and cycle and elemental ebb and flow, you’ll carry that forever, and I do think that to view ourselves as somehow separate from our environment is a tragedy. My poem ‘A shell returns to the sea’ was written for a friend in hospital in the middle of a very big city, where two kids from Aotearoa both felt as far from the ocean as we’d ever been, and my realisation in a moment desperate to reassure him was that even the glass in the windows, the concrete in the corridor, was born on a beach. So, not just us in our animate arrogance, but almost everything we process as artificial, owes its debt to the old origins somewhere along the line. And living in a place that is literally all coastline, where weather likes to be extreme, and a place that’s really vulnerable to environmental change, also gives my poems a duty to carry that weight – as a poet I don’t get to celebrate the marvel without also being aware of the toll. If you’re the sort of person who can ignore what we’re doing to the cradle that sustains us, then what’s in your chest works differently from what’s in mine. If you’re the sort of person who can ignore that this cradle is some kind of ridiculous miracle all the way back to that first puff of gas, then likewise. But as a poet I really want you to feel that too, so I guess I’m constantly drawing on that awe-sense to share it, like a kid with an incredible beetle – ‘See? Oh my gods, do you *really see this* though?’ 

*******

More tomorrow.

Ankh’s 2019 interview with me:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/09/15/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-ankh-spice/?preview=true

Ankh’s on his latest book

Q1: How did you decide on the order of the poems in your book?

This is a great question, Paul. It took a lot of doing, particularly for a full collection, and for one this size, and because I’d never done this before.
At the start, I had no idea how I was going to approach it – or even what exactly I was looking at in terms of this manuscript, because its history was quite chaotic. I’d put it aside for over a year, apart from intermittently adding new poems that seemed to fit. So I began by printing out the whole thing as it then was. I used startlingly-coloured paper tags stuck to the pages to identify overarching/recurring themes, and cheated a bit by using my strange flavour of synaesthesia, to also identify the poems by their colour-feel in my brain. That’s about emotional resonance, the musical key of their language, their shape, their weight, all sorts of things that probably wouldn’t connect them to anyone but me, but that process gave me threads to follow. At that stage I also loosely coded the manuscript into what I believed might be three different books.
I’d had the idea for the sections based on the parts of the fountain before Femme Salvé approached me, and had drawn up a sheet of words, sensations, feelings, themes, keys, and colours that belonged to each of the sections, which really helped me start to sort the poems in earnest. I gave that sheet to Amanda McLeod once she had the very first messy draft of the manuscript, and she did a great deal of work on ordering the poems based around those key ideas. She used a floor-to-ceiling whiteboard with poem titles and shifted them around visually, which sort of matched my own process, but writ large. She also followed some of the same threads from poem to poem, picking up matching words, themes, or complimentary ideas within lines across poems. It helped that Amanda is frankly a wizard at this part, and we agreed that because of the sections and those threads this could work very well as one book, that it didn’t need to become three more obviously-themed chapbooks. 
Once we were generally happy with the poems and the way they fit within sections, I was hugely fortunate to work with Eli Horan, who has done this for numerous books, in video sessions over several weeks. We swapped some newer poems in, removed quite a few more, and carefully followed each thread to retain continuity while we did all that. We also looked, at that stage, at following a bit of a voyage in the sections, but using more emotional chiaroscuro than anything as solid as plot. Thinking about how the reader, if they did happen to read continuously (though I don’t believe many people do for a full collection) would need to have a softer sort of rest/breath after a piece that demanded a lot of them, like islands to land on for a while when the sea has been a bit rough. We also carefully evaluated the beginning and end poems in each section for their feel as opening or closing windows illuminating the intent of the section, and changed quite a few of these.

I think you could probably do this forever and still not feel it was complete, because it is absolutely not a science or formula, a lot of it is intuition. I shifted one very key poem the night before this book went to first proof print, it always sounded a little discord in my head where it was, and I couldn’t truly explain why, but I’m glad I did.
The shorter answer is that ordering isn’t that dissimilar to following the intuitions that tell me one word fits better than another when writing a poem, or that one line follows another. It’s the same kind of lateral leaping after threads, but the scale of it meant I was very grateful to have the editors’ expertise on my side. Without them the task would have felt so monumental I may never have felt able to complete it.

Where to find a copy: https://femmesalvebooks.net/the-water-engine-by-ankh-spice/

Trigger Warning PEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE ARE ADVISED THAT THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS EXPLORE FAMILY DYSFUNCTION AND ABUSE ISSUES Zero Gravity Gayle J. Greenlea Excerpt for 12 November, 2021 <chapter> Two continued Hilary rang the bell and was buzzed in. The interior was dimly lit with black decor, leather furniture, and crystal-cut chandeliers spindling from the ceiling. The floor was Italian ceramic tile. A bored-looking receptionist sat behind the desk. Hilary suspected she was trans. Her hair and makeup were exquisite and she had cheekbones to die for. “Welcome to Secret Desire,” the woman said, “where your most secret desire is fulfilled. What can we do for you today, pet?” Hilary said she was looking for Penelope and the receptionist raised a delicate eyebrow. “Oh, yes. Penelope’s one of our best. You want an hour or her special?” she inquired in a faintly husky voice. -Gayle J. Greenlea YOU’RE THE DEAD TO ME Second week – Growing – Day Eleven Day Five

Dead leaf says to the earth:

“There are so many others”

“Forget till later.”

Bios And Links -Gayle J. Greenlea is an American-Australian poet and counselor for survivors of sexual and gender-related violence. Her poem, Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her first novel, Zero Gravity, at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia and The Australian Health Review.

Trigger Warning

PEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE ARE ADVISED THAT THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS EXPLORE FAMILY DYSFUNCTION AND ABUSE ISSUES

Zero Gravity

Gayle J. Greenlea

Excerpt for 11 November, 2021

<chapter> Two continued

        While Siobhan was nipping the hair of the dog on Oxford Street, Hilary took the train to Kings Cross. She’d found some clothes she kept in her stash at Ryan’s place: brown skirt with turquoise threads running through, turquoise blouse and pale brown and teal batik-print scarf which she tied around her neck. Boots finished her off. Showered and dressed, she felt almost human. Thank God for coffee. It gave her mind some semblance of order and calmed the headache.  
         Hilary had a lead she wanted to follow. It may be the weekend, and she wasn’t assigned, but that had never stopped her. In fact, if her boss Martin Goundry at the Sydney Morning Herald knew what she was up to, she’d have some explaining to do. She exited the train station and walked the short half-block to an innocuous charcoal-coloured building on Kellett Street. There was no sign to mark its identity. Only a large number “52”.

-Gayle J. Greenlea

YOU’RE THE DEAD TO ME

Second week – Growing – Day Eleven

Day Four

Dead leaf asks the Earth:
“Have I ever been stone dead?
“No, just recycled.”

-Paul Brookes

Bios And Links

-Gayle J. Greenlea

is an American-Australian poet and counselor for survivors of sexual and gender-related violence. Her poem, Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her first novel, Zero Gravity, at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia and The Australian Health Review.

 

Trigger Warning

PEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE ARE ADVISED THAT THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS EXPLORE FAMILY DYSFUNCTION AND ABUSE ISSUES

Zero Gravity

Gayle J. Greenlea

Excerpt for 10 November, 2021

<chapter> Two continued

Half an hour later, Siobhan was smoking a cigarette and nursing a gin and tonic in the umbrellaed outdoor seating area of a pub on Oxford Street, mobile phone in hand. “Hilary? It’s me. Will you meet me at Interlude in Newtown in an hour? And Hilary. I’m sorry. Let’s talk.” She snapped the phone shut and managed a smile for the bartender who was collecting empty glasses and glancing appreciatively at her cleavage, snugly framed in a low-cut emerald green top. Just as well she was only at the first stop of her pub run for the evening. Better to avoid further complications, she thought, sighing over the man from behind as he headed back to the bar with a leaning tower of chinking bar glass.

-Gayle J. Greenlea

YOU’RE THE DEAD TO ME

Second week – Growing – Day Ten

Day Three

Earth says to Dead Leaf.
“What takes you into itself.”
“Someone take me in”

Bios And Links

-Gayle J. Greenlea

is an American-Australian poet and counselor for survivors of sexual and gender-related violence. Her poem, Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her first novel, Zero Gravity, at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia and The Australian Health Review.

Trigger Warning

PEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE ARE ADVISED THAT THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS EXPLORE FAMILY DYSFUNCTION AND ABUSE ISSUES

Zero Gravity

Gayle J. Greenlea

Excerpt for 9 November, 2021

<chapter> Two continued

        The sense of achievement Siobhan had expected to feel when she bedded Ryan eluded her. Not that he wasn’t a good lay. In fact, he was. Sensational, in fact. God, he was a great fuck. And a spunk to boot. Brooding Heathcliff-good looks and Roma charm. But somehow, the idea that she could seduce him with her sister watching, and even participating, which had seemed exhilarating before, now depressed her more than ever. Why did she keep doing this to herself? Get one up on Hilary, show her she could have what she has, even take what she has — and why stop there – bloody hell, she could be Hilary if she wanted to. Each time she succeeded at one small self-indulgent triumph, she’d feel like she’d summited Everest — for about five minutes — then came the big plunge: the downward spiraling, quick-sand-sucking, soul-destroying black dog barking up her ass. No, not even modest flats would be adequate penance today. Perhaps a little therapeutic self-mutilation later. Siobhan sighed, pulled out her purse and made her way to the cash register.

-Gayle J. Greenlea

YOU’RE THE DEAD TO ME

Second week – Growing – Day Nine

Day Two

Dead leaf says to Earth:
“I’m not tree, I’m something else.
What am I to be?”

-Paul Brookes

Bios And Links

-Gayle J. Greenlea

is an American-Australian poet and counselor for survivors of sexual and gender-related violence. Her poem, Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her first novel, Zero Gravity, at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia and The Australian Health Review.

-Marcel Herms who describes it as A new face in hell. Inspired by Dante AND the Fall.

Inferno’s Frozen Circle

I

Lucifer,

the most beautiful fallen Angel of God
with pristine features and brown eyes,
blonde hair. His
beauty is an obsession of woman in sin.
Scorned by those righteous men of cloth
who lived in their own damnation. Like Carpeaux’s statue of Ugolino and His Sons,
their secret sins devoured them. Eating
away at their remorse as they feasted upon
the children of God. No
mirror exists to show the true face of
Lucifer.

II

Lusting,

writhing bodies of the damned are entombed
in ice in Inferno’s frozen circle. Never
to be freed of their sins on earth/
forever, open-mouthed, frozen-screams, hands: outstretched to the heavens, pleading for mercy. They took the seductive path of lust, greed
and pleaded for immortality.
In the throes of their vanity, Lucifer promised them false salvation in the serenity of hell/
where there is no umlilo and brimstone.
An accepted Dantesque portrayal of the beauty
of Gabriel— an Angel of many faces.

III

Charon,

ferried the damned across the frozen seas.
Fire-breathing serpents melt the icy waters that cracks upon the force of the bow of naked women. Seduced by the sins of the living and seduced by the beautiful face of
Him.
For immortal beauty, they now remain frozen
for eternity. Never to age and never to feel
the touch of love again.
Requiem in Inferno.

-Robin McNamara

Higher Callings

Human Reason,
You brilliant and reliable gift,
Your shortcomings aren’t your fault.

There’s simply more at stake.
We need every ounce of you, but
Dante already told us,

Virgil would only take us so far.
Espousing ourselves to bewilderment,
Allows journeying beyond intellect

To Humanity within.
Humanity demands a risk –
It’s a mystery asking us to stop solving it,

Our Humanity asks us to
Stop singing along
Absent-mindedly with the songs

We presume are our soundtracks.
Listen, instead,
For the potential melody outside one’s head.

Humanity
Differs from Reason.
Our mystery becomes the solution.
-SamanthaTerrell.com

Honeysuckle Liberation 

Dampness and honeysuckle
Mingle in thick evening air,
And I am immediately

Made aware
Of a place
Romanticized by time,
Before Dante Alighieri intrigued
Me with meter and rhyme;

Before growth inside this womb,
Swollen twice by life;
Before I was delivered
From a mind stricken with strife,
Freeing me to secure the transformative properties
Of a damp, and honeysuckle-laced reality.
-SamanthaTerrell.com (Previously published by Plants & Poetry Journal)

-Liam Flanagan

ACCIDENTAL INDUSTRY
From the wood
laid low too make it plain
and easy working Smithies for iron
two monks discovered and cast aside
black stuff that somehow caught fire,
like their terrified smiles.

Homespun yarns
from Cheshire caused a riot among the weavers ,
shreds of whom were given transportations
of terror like their horrified employers.

Navvies sweat
cut water and rail tracks
for coal to fire the engines revolutions
like the grief of widows.

Coal gas came
to blow expanding refractions of hot faces
into fragility like redundant workers.

-Paul Brookes (The first poem in my ancient first poetry pamphlet, The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, Dearne Press, 1993)

Bios and Links

-Robin McNamara

is a widely published poet based in Waterford City, Ireland. His debut pamphlet, Under a Mind’s Staircase was recently published with Hedgehog Poetry Press (2021)