Interview

Nearing Narcoma Winner of the 2003 MSR Poetry Book Award
Interview by M.Scott Douglass

MSD: Nearing Narcoma is your first book and covers what seems to be a
lot of territory. How long did you work on this manuscript before you felt
it was ready to fill a book?

MM: I’m not sure how to answer that. The poems in the book encompass
the past twenty years, which may help explain the amount of territory it
covers. But I’ve had enough poems to fill a book for the same twenty
years, though that book has changed over time. I left a good many poems
out of Nearing Narcoma that I may use in a future book.

MSD: This was not the only contest into which you had entered some
version of Nearing Narcoma. You mentioned at least one version, Tiny
Airports, when I called to tell you your collection had been selected by
Joy Harjo. There were subtle differences between the two, mostly a matter
of arrangement. How important do you think sequence is in the poetry
contest cosmos?

MM: When entering a competition, I was told to front-load the
manuscript with my strongest work so the contest readers, who have way
too many manuscripts to read, would keep reading mine. I’d actually
entered a number of other contests and fared well, finishing as a finalist or
semi-finalist in several. Without the present divisions, the collection may
have seemed less ordered, though I’d arranged the poems thoughtfully.
However, I think it ultimately comes down to the poems themselves.

MSD: Every person from the preliminary readers up through Joy Harjo
raved about Nearing Narcoma as being very alive, energetic, and engaging.
Do you think that kind of praise on a first book makes it a difficult act to
follow? And what are you working on as a follow up?

MM: That’s more of a compliment than a question, so thanks. I’m glad
others appreciate what I have to offer as a poet. It’s extremely gratifying.
Having a book that people like makes me feel that I haven’t been wasting
my life. If anything, it’s easier to continue trying to write the kind of
poems I enjoy reading: smart, funny, pointed. I’m currently circulating a
chapbook of new poems for publication. When I feel I have another book,
I’ll send it out, too.

MSD: And when you starting sending out books again, will you look
toward contests or do you see other opportunities arising from winning
this award?

MM: Contests are probably the best way for an unknown to get his or her
book read by a publisher, so I’ll probably try that route again.

MSD: Do you have a critique group that you work with in the development
stages of your work or do you work alone? Can you tell us something
about your editing or refining processes?

MM: I work alone. I freeze if someone else comes in the room while I’m
writing. I don’t know how others are able to work in groups. I cringe at
workshops that have group writing assignments. I feel as if I’m before a
weird tribunal that wants to determine if I’ve ever had a creative thought.
Everyone around me is writing page after page, face aglow, while I’m
scratching down the same inane line over and over: I live in a shoe box,
or something.

I like to sit at my desk, at my computer, where I have a dictionary
and the godsend of spell-check at my disposal. And coffee. If I’m lucky,
I have an idea that I can flesh out. If not, I have a vault of failed poems
and miscellaneous lines I’ve accumulated over the years to get me started.
Also, I like to free-write, save what I wrote and not open the file for several
years, until it’s forgotten, so when I come back to it, I see it as new.
Revision is the key to good writing, I always say, because I like to
revise. It appeals to my analytical nature. I spend more time revising
than creating. In fact, I probably spend more hours revising than doing
anything else, except maybe sleeping. I often go through countless
drafts, sometimes removing or adding entire sections, sometimes merely
tweaking a few lines.

My basic goals are to eliminate unessential elements without losing
the spirit of the poem, and to employ interesting language without it
sounding forced. There’s great irony in reworking a line day after day
until it comes across as offhand.

MSD: Based on your bio in Nearing Narcoma, you seem like a very
private person. I was wondering if you would be willing to elaborate some
on your educational background and how you came to poetry?

MM: Uh,no. Next question. Seriously, I’ve always seen myself as a
writer. Through grammar school up, I’ve written all kinds of stuff —
stories, poems, comics, criticism, reviews and revues, philosophic
treatises, mock essays, and other things that I don’t know how the hell to
label. In retrospect, given the stack of notebooks swelled with the infinite
tanka chain of my teen angst, it’s clear that my bent was toward poetry,
but I didn’t become serious about being a poet until I started college.
I’m not particularly guarded about my educational background.
Maybe a tad resentful. I was accepted in the MFA program at Iowa, which
is where I wanted to go.I couldn’t afford it, though in a way, I guess, I’m
still paying for it.

MSD: You couldn’t afford it, but are still paying for it — what does that
mean?

MM: Those damn student loans! No, I basically meant that a master’s
from USM doesn’t open a lot of doors, or at least it hasn’t for me. They
gave me an assistantship, so it was affordable. But I wonder, had I gone to
a more prestigious school if I would have made better connections, ones
that may have expedited my career as a poet and teacher.
Anyway, I received a bachelor’s from Marshall University, my
hometown college, where I majored in English, minored in psychology,
and edited the student literary magazine. I won several writing honors,
including the Jesse Stuart Award for a selection of poems and short
stories. I participated in a poetry club, which was comprised primarily of
professors who got together once a month to discuss their poems. I was
the only undergraduate asked to attend, so that was quite a feather.
I earned my master’s from the University of Southern Mississippi,
where the word genius was tossed around. It’s still up in the air who
they were talking about. As for me, I was the poetry editor of the student
literary magazine. Really, the best thing about my Mississippi experience
was being enrolled in a creative writing program. I met other writers close
to my age, who, especially among my circle of friends, thought it was
okay to have fun with literature. I wrote “Aspects of Dagwood,” which
opens Nearing Narcoma, while a student at USM. I’m proud of that.

MSD: As I was putting your book together I couldn’t help but notice that
you don’t have a large number of publishing credits in this collection. Did
you put a lot of effort into finding homes for individual poems or was your
focus on publishing a book?

MM: Ouch. That opens a wound. Ever since I was an undergraduate,
I’ve sent poems to magazines — an ungodly number of submissions a
year, maybe more — and out of those, I get two or three accepted. It’s very
frustrating. Several years ago, when I couldn’t get anything published, I
vowed to quit, as if anyone would have noticed, but I found not writing
even more stressful than dealing with failure. But I still don’t understand
why I can’t place poems more readily.

Until recently, I’ve approached book publication half-heartedly. With
the difficulty I have publishing in magazines, what were the odds of my
book being accepted? I tried a few publishers, and I have a couple of nice
letters to show for my earlier efforts.

MSD: I often hear that comment from writers and find it interesting
because the outlets for writers are increasing daily. Do you think the issue
could be that some writers, possibly yourself included, have winnowed
their “wants list” down to a specific group of most desirable magazines —
which just happen to be the most difficult to get into — instead of
expanding their efforts outside that box?

MM: Sure, I’d love to see my work in Poetry, The New Yorker, The Paris
Review, APR, and so forth, but I don’t kid myself. The odds of their
accepting the unsolicited work of an unknown are slim. I still try them,
but I recognize it’s like playing the lottery.

I don’t know about others, but I can tell you I send to a diverse group
of magazines. I have certain standards for literary magazines. For instance,
I shy away from ones that are Xeroxed, and I refuse to submit to those that
are mimeographed. That’s a fairly low bar. Most little magazines can’t be
found at bookstores or libraries, so I send blind to a lot of magazines that
next to no one’s heard of.

The idea that writers should buy sample copies is nuts. That’s part
of an evil global conspiracy to keep writers down. I can’t afford to pay
several bucks to every magazine that I submit to on the off chance they’ll
accept my work and pay me in contributors’ copies. The way I see it, you
roll the dice. If the poems don’t work for the editor, he/she has only to
stuff them back in an envelope and nobody gets hurt.

So much of the supposed do’s and don’ts of submissions is crap. Too
many magazines want writers to adhere to professional guidelines and
courtesies that they don’t bother to observe themselves.

Unfortunately, my experience is that a lot of magazines don’t bother
to respond, others wait maybe a year to mail a ratty rejection scrap that in
no way identifies the magazine, some scribble, “Good poems. Sorry we
can’t use them,” at the bottom of a subscription flyer, and a few actually
accept something. I don’t mean to suggest that all little magazines operate
unprofessionally, for thankfully that’s not true, but far too many do.

MSD: As the primary keybearer at Main Street Rag, I recognize that
winning our contest is not as prestigious as others you may have entered.
Have the expectations you had going in been realized? If not, where do
you think we may have fallen short?

MM: I’m very happy with the book. It looks good and reads well. If
I’m disappointed, it’s that Nearing Narcoma isn’t offered through major
distributors. But winning the contest was terrific. It gave me confidence,
renewed my faith in myself. I sincerely appreciate the opportunity you
and Main Street Rag have presented me.

MSD: There are many schools of thought in regard to the level of
involvement between the voice within a poem and the poet. How much
have your own personal experiences shaped the path you follow when
crafting a poem?

MM: My life’s dull. I’ve lived mostly in West Virginia, whose entire
population, if everybody would lay off the pork rinds, could fit inside
a football stadium. As you’ve noted, I’m very private, so I’ve created a
recurring persona, a literary avatar, who resembles me much in the same
way Internet chat room bios accurately describe their members, no pun
intended. The first person speaker often forms a closer, more intimate
relationship with the reader than a third person narrator, because the
poem, if successful, seems confessional.

Some of it’s true. For instance, the Dagwood poem, that really
happened. It was in the paper and everything. Also, I’m positive I saw
something about the Stooges on TV. And sadly, there's “Grandma Ex
Machina” which hits staggeringly close to home..

Sometimes there’s a kernel of truth. “Spirit of the Dead Watching”
tells of a house painter who dreams of an exotic existence. I used to paint
houses as a summer job while in college, but the rest is imagination —
except for the falling paint chips. Gravity, I can’t make that stuff up.
At other times, it’s complete fabrication. The mother in my poems
is not my real mother, but a personification of traditional values, a well-
worn conceit. I wrote the title poem, for instance, to parody Robert
Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, especially the father-
son bonding, which, perhaps because of his steely mask of machismo,
didn’t work out so well.

MSD: You mentioned earlier that you “cringe at workshops that have
group writing assignments,” but you also mentioned several people — I
believe you referred to them as mentors — who helped you with your
development. Who were they, what was the setting in which you
interacted,and is there some specific area of your writing that you think
benefited most by their tutelage (if that is the correct description)?

MM: I’ve always read a lot of poetry and criticism, and the poets I
return to as a reader have had as much to do with my development as any
individual, but the person who influenced me the most as a young poet
was John McKernan at Marshall. No one had encouraged me to pursue
poetry as a career before. The professors at USM, Rick Barthelme,
Angela Ball and David Berry, also encouraged me.

Several years ago, when I was ready to give up because of my lack
of publications, I decided, as if a last gasp, to attend Vermont College’s
Post Graduate Writers’ Conference, or the VCPGWC, as I like to call it.

I attended Roger Weingarten’s workshop, and I’ve been working with
him since. It helps me focus on the poetry and block out the distraction of
publishing. I also met Charles Webb at the Vermont Conference, and he
gave me solid advice about preparing my book.

Actually, I don’t know that I’ve ever referred to anyone as a mentor.
I’m a textbook example paranoid, so that’s probably not a word I’d use. I
may have said tormentors. I have a long list of those.

MSD: What writers do you return to as a reader and why?

MM: It’s impossible to name everyone, but the New York School poets—
O’Hara’s wit, Koch’s exuberance—are among my favorites. Could I have
written “Aspects of Dagwood” if not for Ashbery’s “Farm Implements
and Rutabagas in a Landscape”?

James Tate is great. Also, Kenneth Fearing, who, for the most part,
is overlooked. His poems have a wonderful noir quality — “Green Light,”
“Aphrodite Metropolis,” “Obituary” are a few that come to mind — but
they remain largely unread.

In my early twenties, I was an avid reader of Richard Hugo, which
perhaps shows up in my work by way of my numerous references
to driving. “Degrees of Hell at Hattiesburg” is not so much parody
as homage. The second person poems, too, are probably owed to his
influence as well.

MSD: The internet has exploded with online ‘zines. What do you think
of this venue as a publishing source? Do you ever send submissions to
online magazines?

MM: When they first started popping up, most ‘zines were spattered with
embarrassing, amateurish verse. But now there are quite a few good online
sources of poetry, including many online versions of respected literary
magazines. I’ve submitted to about a dozen, tops, but so far, only Red
Booth Review has posted my work. Of course, with no hard copy, online
publishing lacks the permanency of traditional magazines, though Red
Booth, to its credit, publishes a yearly paper anthology of its best.

MSD: You make a few rock‘n roll references in Nearing Narcoma. I
lived in West Virginia and have traveled through it frequently over the
past twenty years and it seems to me that rock‘n roll only recently hit the
airwaves there. What and when was your exposure to music?

MM: I grew up in the sixties, and I don’t know what part of West Virginia
you’re talking about, but we had rock’n ’roll radio in Huntington. My
mother used to keep the transistor tuned to WKEE, whose deejays Jim
Snyder and Jack O’Shea, the Flying Dutchman, claimed to play “all the
hits, all the time”. She liked the Beatles’ early stuff — you know, “She
Loves You” all the way through “Yesterday” — and, unlike the mother in
“Pie”, hated, despised, not to mention, loathed Elvis.

I listened to everything, and like everybody, collected albums. I
played guitar and sang, neither especially well, but since I knew the
chords and lyrics to roughly a kajillion songs, most people thought I did
okay. I was a huge Dylan fan, thought the Ramones rocked, and right
now, I’m listening to the Pixies.

MSD: Here’s a question I know is on the minds of many readers--though
you and I discussed it early on in the publishing process--why Nearing
Narcoma? Can you give readers a little insight as to where that title came
from and what it means to you?

MM: “Narcoma” is a narcotic induced stupor. The poem’s speaker is
a wigged-out junkie biker, and the monkey on his back, the titanic pill
of his mother, is driving him over the edge. “Narcoma” also sounds
like the name of a city, like Tacoma, so the title seems to suggest
travel. That works for both the poem and the book, given that all but a
handful of pieces in this collection mention cars, driving, or some sort of
transportation. Finally, “Narcoma” sounds like “Nirvana,” which alludes
to Pirsig’s book, but that ideal state eludes the speaker, unless it’s through
a heavy dose of sedatives. The last line of the poem, “there’s only so
much anyone can take,” is to be read literally and figuratively, and it’s that
edginess, that derision, that fuels many of the poems.

MSD: Your bio in the book tells us who you are not by mentioning the
pitching stats for a baseball player name Matt Morris. Who is Matt Morris
the poet?

MM: It’s funny you should ask. I live in a town of maybe a hundred
people, and I swear, half are named Matt Morris. Your wisely couched
question precludes me from pointing out, as I often need to do, that I’m
not the appraiser or the state shot-put champion. I could tell you that I’m a
Gemini who enjoys good books, fine art, and films of exceptional quality,
especially those in which chimps wear clothes, but really anything with
monkeys works for me.

The other day, though, I found a poem on the web by a different
Matt Morris. It was nothing like what I’d write, but I began to worry that
someone might confuse him for me. Frankly, the poem wasn’t very good,
so he should probably just give up. I’m sorry to be blunt, but I don’t want
to have to use my middle initial. Maybe I should just call myself “X.”
Who is Matt Morris the poet? The hell if I know. But if you find out,
tell him to change his freaking name.

from Main Street Rag