The Architecture of a Poem — An Interview with George Jack
by Jason Bulger
George Jack, whom I met through This Very Journal almost three years ago, is a writer living in Concord, New Hampshire who agreed to have a lengthy discussion about his work, the New Hampshire/New England poetry scene and the notion that snails, too, may require burial in a pyramid worthy of Amenhotep IV. His forthcoming book, Indiglorious, will be released by Cosmopsis Books in early 2010. Find out more at indiglorious.com.
JB: One of the first things that struck me as I got to know you was how hard you work to stay involved in the New England (especially New Hampshire) poetry scene. What types of events do you go to, and who seems to be participating?
GJ: I try as much as I can, family obligations and work permitting, to go to poetry events all over New Hampshire. New Hampshire has one of the most fertile poetry communities, state for state, anywhere. More popular events take the form of open mics – these are gatherings of poets, sometimes poets and musicians, which are held usually on a monthly basis at a particular set venue. There is a host, one or two features – “headlining” poets who begin the evening with maybe a twenty to thirty minute slot devoted exclusively to them reading work of their choice – followed by an open mic segment, which includes a list of readers who previously signed up. I mainly read at events on the NH Seacoast, which has a very vibrant and diverse scene of readers; central NH has events up the Route 93 belt from Derry (former home of Robert Frost) to Manchester to Concord to Plymouth. Of course every April during National Poetry Month the seacoast has the Jazzmouth festival, which attracts poetry enthusiasts from all over the country who descend on Portsmouth for three days, going to workshops and hearing not only up-and-coming poets but legends like Ed Sanders, Donald Hall, and David Amram. Participants at these events can range from high school and college students just starting out, trying to find their own particular voice or ear, to poets who publish quite a bit and use the forums to “workshop” new pieces in front of crowds. It’s all good, whatever level the work is at – it is just great to go somewhere where one might order a large earl grey tea and be in the company of a group of people who love writing, reading, and listening to poetry for a couple of hours.
JB: I find the process of “trying out new pieces” utterly fascinating, as if they were each budding members of a poetry team. In television and movies, creators do this type of thing all the time, but they pass out questionnaires to the audience members. In absence of that detailed information, how does a poet at one of these events get feedback from their work? Applause? Apparent attention level?
GJ: I think it’s more along the lines of apparent attention level; perhaps there is a word or key phrase or image that the poet thinks will have some sort of impact, and the audience’s reaction can bear this out. Or maybe a line or phrase or word seemed ideal in the construction of the poem but this isn’t borne out in the cold light of day (or dimly lit coffeehouse light) in front of other artists whose opinions and spontaneous reactions one might set store by. Sometimes feedback at a break or after the event is either sought out or given, as if the sentiment of the tribe may be part of a determining factor in: Did the piece work in performance? Did part of it have the impact I was seeking in a live setting? Does it work on the page but not spoken? For me, I almost sense an unwritten standard by which the New Hampshire – and by extension, New England – region’s poetry is judged, and participating in the public forums around the state is a way of running it by the tribe and the clergy therein, if you will. It has been a helpful training ground in my development and an influence on what I hope is the quality of the work I present.
JB: That makes perfect sense. It is interesting to note that while you’re up there you’re focusing on both what you’re reading and what you’re sensing from the audience. When you perform your work, which has its own unique style, how do people seem to react to it? Do they recognize the “found” words, which are combinations of words that you assemble to make new words, right away?
GJ: If I’m performing a piece with “found” words, I try to arrange the overall poem so that they stand out in performance; on page I try to space them out and place them at the end of lines so I know to deliver them with the right emphasis or cadence, also leaving a beat or two after a word I really want the audience to hook into by giving them a bit of space to break down the roots of the word. For me, one of the better realizations of my attempts at this kind of craft is the poem “Escarcophagus.” The title is comprised of distinctive parts of two root words, and if enough of the roots of each word are there, then the word will be clear to the listener. In the case of “escarcophagus,” I wanted to render a word that conveyed the idea that snails in their adult stage form a coiled shell, which I perceived as the snail’s home, shelter, but also the sort of vessel it will be carrying around until it dies. So the word I came up with was part snail, escargot, and part coffin/burial vault – in this case the word. So it’s about placement and cadence, but I find that all I have to do is start a piece with a found word, and it is not difficult to hook people in to what the word-image is trying to do or say. When it is done well, it’s about creating a new image, a new way of crystallizing, with what is hopefully a different kind of compressed wordplay, a word-picture in a distinctive format that is surprising and stimulating for the listener and/or reader.
JB: How did you come about a style where you used word com-binations to this effect?
GJ: I was trying to come up with newer ways to write descriptively, attempting to come up with words and language that I’d never encountered but would make instant sense to someone hearing it for the first time. I had been invited to read at a poetry event in a bar in Dover, New Hampshire in 2006, and a poet in attendance named John Michael Albert was very responsive to a couple of neologisms in a poem of mine titled “603.” After that, I thought I would try more actively developing some in a longer poem I was working on. The next month I went to an open mic in Rochester, New Hampshire, at a coffee place, and Mike Albert was hosting. When I got to a part in my poem where I described how each tree in a forest has its own individual way that the bark covers it and came up with the phrase “deoxyribonucleistically accented,” Mike caught it. He told me later that “deoxyribonucleistically,” besides being a “found end-adverb,” was a single word constructed entirely in iambic pentameter. He reads 3 - 5 books of poetry a week and claims he’d never heard that done before. So he has been very encouraging of my work from that event on. I knew I was on to something.
JB: New words pop up all the time, and poets have been using neologisms since the art of writing began (Dante was a frequent coiner of new words), but something is different about the words you use in your poetry. There’s usually a playfulness, sometimes a sadness, but always a “Eureka!” moment when you come across these words, their effect lasting at least through the length of the poem and often longer. Do you start with a “found” word and write the poem around it, or do you start with the need for expression and include these words as they enter your head?
GJ: With the found word usually comes the image or theme I want to write the poem about. So I start with the found word, knowing what I want to say or convey but maybe not how I’m going to do it yet, and then I may or may not make a list of words or phrases from which I want the reader to derive the “Eureka!” moment. It’s around those “building blocks” that I form the piece. In the poem “Arachnitechture,” which is meant to break down the crafting or architecture of spider webs from a few different points of view, I came up with the word and then a short list of words and phrases – in this case things like “cobwoven,” “invisihesion,” “arachnitethered,” etc. From those I began articulating what I wanted to say, distributing the words and phrases at key points throughout, until realizing a cohesive draft. A new word or phrase may occur to me while I’m doing this but I usually start with a set process.
JB: In some ways it sounds like a carpenter who prepares all of the materials before building. Or maybe more like a road trip with a few key stops but endless possibilities of how you can reach your final destination.
Both analogies speak to what I attempt to do – in both composition and performance. It aspires to be part carpentry and part architecture in that I want to make something distinctive that will also last. The road trip applies to performing the piece or a whole reading – I’m in the driver’s seat and I want the passengers to have fun while experiencing something that stands up favorably to other journeys they’ve taken. Like a crew of friends going on a road trip with expectations of fun and taking in new sights, audiences already want to be entertained or have their intellects stimulated, so they’re already halfway there. They want to be both comfortable that one knows what one is doing and they either want to get their pulses racing, hear or see something they didn’t know they existed before, have a “Eureka!” moment, or a com-bination of all three.
JB: Wow. That’s a lot going on, but invigorating at the same time. I also have to ask you about your voice-over work, most notably your role as “Whole Wheat Bread” in the PBS broadband program Lunch Lab. My guess is that you battle some sort of evil doppelgänger named White Bread whose bleaching process and refined sugars have stripped him of his power – true?
GJ: Ha! The segments I voice are not as action packed as that...Whole Wheat and “Pineapple” are two guests on a talk show segment hosted by “Professor Fizzy” on Lunch Lab. Whole Wheat and White appear on the show together and do not battle. Maybe if it goes from broadband to broadcast they’ll expand the roles and it’ll be bleach vs. fiber and may the better loaf win. I do voice work for commercials when I can and this project came up, my daughter loves it; I’m looking to do more children’s oriented media when the opportunities present themselves.
JB: Any chance you could sneak a found word in there? What could Whole Wheat Bread say?
GJ: “White Bread – you are an albinofibrious purveyor of empticaloried enbleachment.”
JB: I couldn’t have said it better, but good luck sneaking that in.
GJ: Nah, I know you’re just kidding but if I were writing the script, just as with a poem or prose piece I would try not to put anything in that didn’t fit. I just wanted to clarify that the found words are thought up and applied in an attempt to find new ways to express a truth or philosophy, or flesh out imagery. How you’re saying something or doing something is almost as important was what you’re saying, the truth you’re trying to convey behind the craft you utilize. No matter the style or execution I always want whoever sees or hears my work to think they have taken in a poem that’s at least trying to be true to its intent, heard an excellent voice over, or whatever it is I am applying that philosophy to.
JB: Any parting thoughts?
GJ: I just want to think my daughter Bella for her unconditional love and my wife Jenn for all of her love and support in this undertaking. Also I hope the style of the book is enjoyable and that readers find interesting perspectives and points of view. I’m honored and want to thank everyone in advance for reading.
This interview originally appeared in Cosmopsis Quarterly 4 - Fall 2009. Click here to order a copy or subscribe.