By Nicole Sealey
Patricia Smith’s poetic voice has been described as bluesy, honest, passionate, searing, tender, unflinching, visceral, and well crafted. It’s a voice influenced by her hometown of Chicago and her father, Otis Smith, who was her earliest example of a creative writer and whose example she respectfully lives as a poet. Smith is a poetic dynamo. She has performed alongside Gwendolyn Brooks, Rita Dove, Walter Mosley, Ntozake Shange, among others and has amassed as many enthusiasts as she has awards and honors. Her newest book of poems, Teahouse of the Almighty, is the winner of the 2005 National Poetry Series and the 2007 Chautauqua Literary Journal Award, and was named best poetry book of 2006 by About.com. Further, in 2006, Smith was inducted into the International Hall of Fame for Writers of African Descent at the Gwendolyn Brooks Center at Chicago State University. Pat Smith found time to talk with me very candidly about her writing life and her new book.
Nicole Sealey: If readers are looking for the Smith who wrote Close to Death; Big Towns, Big Talk; and Life According to Motown, would they be able to find her in Teahouse of the Almighty?
Patricia Smith: She’s older, more battle-weary, and eternally grateful for both the triumphs and scars. Each book is like a snapshot of where I was at the time, both emotionally and creatively. But, as my grandmother used to say, “Time changes thangs.”
When I started, I tended to over-introduce my poems, to set them too firmly in place, not giving the reader a chance to bring anything to the table. And because I worked primarily from the stage, the poems tended to take on a conversational tone even if one wasn’t warranted. Now, because I’ve listened to and read hundreds of poems that have helped to hone my voice–and because I’m in a rigorous and thoroughly enjoyable MFA program right now–my poems have become more concise and targeted. They also go deeper than ever. I don’t think I’m afraid to say anything now.
My voice refuses to stay still long enough to be described. I don’t ever want to be characterized. That’s why I’m always looking for unexpected entry points into my poems. We’re most intrigued by the things we can find no way to describe.
NS: How is the MFA coming along?
PS: The MFA is fine, amazing. Although I’ve already been teaching for years, and one would think I’m just in the program to become “official,” I’ve discovered that I’m hungry for so much that I missed out on. I’m into sonnets and ghazals. This semester I’m knee-deep in prosody. I want to find out how the bones of a poem support its body. And I was lucky enough to have an absolutely amazing mentor for my very first MFA semester–Dennis Nurkse, the former poet laureate of Brooklyn and a stellar professor at Sarah Lawrence College. He managed to give me the grounding I’ve needed while encouraging me to break rules whenever I can. I’ll forever be indebted to him and to pretty much everyone at Stonecoast for helping me realize that pursuing an MFA was exactly the right thing for me to do.
NS: Teahouse is your first book of poems since Close to Death was published in 1993.
PS: I’ve never really focused on publishing. Poetry never really came alive for me until I took the stage, so I spent several years just living with my own voice. My first three books came about because there was someone connected to publishing in the audience. I never sought out any publishing opportunities, because I’ve never thought that books were necessary to “legitimize” me as a writer.
I don’t think poets need to be legitimized. In fact, that’s a huge problem. Kids don’t write because they think there’s a certain path they have to follow, and that someone has to sanction their presence on that path. Many so-called “performance poets” feel that they’re not true writers unless they’re published somewhere and, of course, that’s ridiculous. The minute you put pen to paper and write something that is on your mind, you’re legitimate. No publication, no degree, no grant money can give you the same kind of power you can give yourself.
NS: Publisher’s Weekly magazine hails you for your ability to be a good poet on page as you are on stage. Why do you think the charisma with which you perform survives the printed page? Why has it endured in Teahouse?
PS: I really don’t see the thick line that so many people seem to have drawn between poetry on the page and poetry on the stage. If you are impassioned about your writing, if it comes from a primal place, it will have an effect no matter where you plop it down. The work that is meant to work will work. If it’s on stage, and all it is theatrical air, that will eventually come out in the wash. If it’s on the page, haughty and technically efficient, but devoid of emotion, it will reach no one.
NS: You once wrote, “Language is the most unflinching weaponry, the simplest salvation, the hardest spit. I write. Then I search for a stage.”
PS: Lots of people think that what makes you strong is the stage–the ability to stand up in front of an audience of strangers and share what are sometimes painful intimacies. But the stage should never come first, should never be the goal. The language itself, not the means of conveying it, is where the true power lies.
NS: On the book jacket, Kwame Dawes affirms that “[Your] secret is an absolute comfort in [your] own voice–[your] poems arrive with assurance and force.” Were you always so comfortable?
PS: I don’t think any poet starts out with an assured and forceful voice. There is lots of trial and error, assorted heartbreak and some very bladed lessons to be learned before a true voice–the one that tells your truths–emerges. And then there’s another process involved in becoming comfortable with that voice. It doesn’t always say soft things.
NS: In “Stop the Presses” you write, “We need soft words for hard things…” In your work, whom do you cushion the blow for?
PS: While I write that we need “soft words,” I don’t necessarily believe that I should use them in my own work. When you’re an artist, somewhere along the line you make a commitment to let the blow do what it does–sans cushioning. I’ve made that commitment.
NS: Your poems are prefaced with a quote by Gwendolyn Brooks.
PS: Gwen is a big sister, a Chicago gal who was driven by similar demons and walked the same streets. Any writer from Chicago will tell you how forceful those ties are. Gwen always seemed to find the language for our lives. And she never cut that life loose, never listened to those who insisted she “ascend.” I love those stockings that were always rolled up just below her knees. I loved that head wrap. I loved those coke-bottle specs. And no one, no one, has ever found a way to say what she said in her poems.
NS: The last line of “It had the Beat Inevitable” reads, “Gwen Brooks hissed Follow. We had no choice.” What other writers prompted you to Follow?
PS: It was just Gwen. Black gal. Chicago. Not afraid of venturing into the alley instead of sticking to the boulevard. It was always just Gwen.
NS: If Gwendolyn Brooks were alive today and you had the opportunity to sit and talk with her about anything, what would the conversation entail?
PS: My guess is we’d talk about the blessing, and tragedy, of being a colored girl with a poet’s eye. You see so much, including things you weren’t meant to know.
NS: Though witty at its conclusion, “Mississippi’s Legs” is melancholic–sad even. Do you want your readers to laugh or cry at its end?
PS: I want them to feel a sense of triumph. I love old blues women, their gold teeth, their grunts, their thick legs and bottomless well of soul. What matters most to the rest of the world doesn’t matter to them. All they care about is how the soul speaks. All they need is a stage and a blue light, and maybe a beer and some collard greens. They wear their heartbreak on their sleeves, and they’re proud of it.
NS: In an earlier interview you told me of the time when you discussed writing for a living with your mother. Upon hearing your decision she said, “Only white men do that!”
PS: My mother has never been able to shake her Southern, subservient notions–they’re too deeply ingrained to change. Even my success as a writer is not enough. While I’m sure she realizes by now that not only white men are writers, I believe she still thinks white men wield the power-and that any triumph in my career can be traced back to some white man pulling the strings and signing the checks. And is she right? Ummm…
NS: You open Teahouse with “Building Nicole’s Mama” and close with “When the Burning Begins.” Beyond fluidity, is the order in which pieces are presented important? And, what is the significance of beginning with “Building” and ending with “Burning?”
PS: No significance, Nic, at least not in the titles of the poems. I really just thought the poems made good bookends. And I often start and end my readings with those pieces.
I try to have some kind of vague narrative thread running through the pieces. Balance is often difficult when you’re so close to the poems, so I usually call on one or two trusted friends to give the manuscript a second eye. In the case of Teahouse, that trusted friend was Kwame Dawes, who was invaluable in assuring the success of the finished product.
NS: You were extremely close to your father before he died. Many of the pieces in Teahouse reflect this closeness, specifically “When the Burning Begins.” How important was it to get this very intimate moment between the two of you just right and on paper?
PS: My father and I were best friends and confidantes. I’ve spent my entire life trying to write something that truly captures the magic of our relationship, and I don’t think I’ve done that yet. Every attempt strengthens my memories of him. While the first poem I completed about my father after his death (“Sweet Daddy,” in both Life According to Motown and Big Towns, Big Talk) was extremely difficult–after all, I was admitting that he was actually gone–subsequent pieces have been like stark and tender snapshots of our time together. I was particularly happy with “When the Burning Begins” because it captures one of my most vivid memories of my father, and chronicles one of our favorite rituals.
NS: From “The World Won’t Wait” to “Scribe,” your son is a recurring character in Teahouse as well.
PS: I just like to comment on raising black boys, and the triumphs and heartbreak inherent in that process. When I say that writing is the way I process my life, it also helps me process the relationships that are the basis of that life. My relationship with my son is nothing like the relationship I had with my father. It’s basically a field of land mines. But I treasure the challenges, and I feel a responsibility to tell other mothers that those challenges are an essential part of the love.
NS: In “Boy Dies, Girlfriend Gets His Heart” and “Sacrifice” you use actual news stories to contextualize each poem. You’ve transformed these once very literal and formulaic news articles into poetry. Was the task taxing?
PS: Nope. As a matter of fact, a poet who is naturally curious (as all poets should be) will always search for the “other side” of any story. We’re bombarded by the news all the time-it’s not such a stretch to step into personas in order to get as close as we can to the pulse of those stories.
NS: Your transition from journalist to creative writer and creative writer to journalist reads seamlessly.
PS: Wow. I’m not sure how “seamless” the transition is. As you know, I was fired from my job as a journalist for–and this is a definite simplification–injecting my work with too much poetry. Essentially, at least for a time, the seam wasn’t there at all. Of course clear distinctions should be made, but there was a time when I wasn’t capable of making them. I think I had to be jolted, quite publicly and somewhat brutally, into being a poet. My journalistic background certainly influences my poetic voice in major ways, and that has turned out to be a great blessing. Now it’s okay to blur the line, or to erase it completely. As a journalist, that choice shouldn’t have been an option.
NS: This past year you were a staff instructor at the Cave Canem (CC) Retreat for African American Writers. What was that experience like?
PS: My association with Cave Canem has been a life-changing experience. This summer will mark my third year as both a faculty member at the summer retreat and the New York City regional workshop. It’s the community that some black writers spend their whole careers searching for.
At first I was mightily intimidated. I knew that many of the students were creative and academic heavy-hitters, and I couldn’t figure out why Cornelius and Toi kept insisting I come and teach. I didn’t feel particularly qualified. But I was misunderstanding the message of CC–it’s not about credentials, it’s about passion. The barriers we put up in the larger world suddenly aren’t there anymore. If I could choose one thing that caused me to grow the most as an artist–and person–it would be my time at CC. Both faculty and students can only be officially involved for three years, a policy designed to make room for more writers and viewpoints. I’m going to be a blubbering mess when I “graduate” this summer.
My only comfort? Knowing the community will always be there.
NS: What’s a typical day in the writing life of Pat Smith?
PS: I know writers are fond of saying “there are no typical days,” and in my case that’s true, true, true. I’m not one of those people who can say “I’m going to write every day from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.,” and then sit down to do it. I think of my muse as a physical presence, and I usually write voraciously when she’s in residence. (One of her names is Jimmie Savannah.) I write in a number of different genres, and I’m also a student and a teacher, so I never get bored. For instance, today I’m polishing up a new manuscript of Katrina poems, writing 3 pages of young adult novel and reading a whole mess o’ Auden so I can imitate him for a critical essay. I love my life.
NS: What would you like readers of Teahouse to walk away with?
PS: I’d like them to realize their own throats, their own capacity for storytelling.