Donald Justice interview with Nancy Fushan

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April 25, 1980
Nancy Fushan - Interviewer, Donald Justice - Interviewee and Reader
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MPR’s Nancy Fushan interviews Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Donald Justice. Segment also includes Justice reading his poetry.

Transcript:

(00:00:00) Yes, I think it's always been a source for imagination and and and for art not forever. You're not for every writer or every artist but for a great many in practically any persuasion practically any
(00:00:16) Century the fact is that memory can be ephemeral the kettle
(00:00:19) but that's a part of the of The Treasure of it to try to catch it and while it and it's if you don't mind my saying so and it's
(00:00:30) Evanescence, is there something about the form poetry that lends itself to capture.
(00:00:36) Well, I would like to think so. Yes my large part of my intention and writing a poem is to record to fix something and the memory lends itself to that Temptation. Anyway, very readily
(00:00:50) when you look at that volume. What progressions do you see in your work?
(00:00:54) Well, I think that the early poems show someone trying to practice what I'd vertical the art rather than the craft trying. To learn how to do certain things and I would like to thank the last poems show somebody doing certain things.
(00:01:14) Let's get a find an example of them this very
(00:01:17) simple way of thinking of it would be in terms of form not very not very many people. I suppose are interested in forms are writing informs now, but I always watch from the outset and one point after another in the first book is an attempt to exploit something I saw in poetry formally. For instance. There are one or two sonnets and oh very easy and standard form. Then there are poems in a variety of meters that I just wanted to get this sound off right get the hang up and I it turns out at least from my own special point of view that this was handy and useful for the future because if I came to the point where I wanted to do something similar again, I had a little covenants that I might be able to the second poem I'm that I wrote is called women in love and it was an attempt to deal with a very artificial form called the villanelle not turned out I couldn't cope with it. So I made modifications and it's boiled it down and and and wrote my own quasi villanelle it always comes and when it comes they know and that's one of the refrain lines you see to will it is enough to take them
(00:02:27) there the neck is this to fasten and
(00:02:30) not let go that's the other refrain line and that part of the pleasure will be if there. And it will be to hear those coming back in and new ways their limbs are Charmed. They cannot stay or go desire is limbo. They're unhappy there it always comes and when it comes they know their choice of
(00:02:49) Hell's would be the one they know Dante describes it
(00:02:53) the wind
(00:02:54) circling their the neck is this to fasten and not let go the wind carries them where they want to go and that seems cruel to strangers passing there. It always comes and when it comes they know the neck is this to fasten and not let go in some ways. That's as nice to read to see on the page as it repeats as it is to
(00:03:17) hear. Oh, I think so. Yes. I write poems principally to be read on the page. But so they will contain their
(00:03:23) sound. Would you read something from the later part that demonstrates you're just using forms as a
(00:03:28) take-off Point. Well, here's the here's a poem that's been put a put on a
(00:03:32) broadsheet for this book fair.
(00:03:35) Just signing all the copy. So I remember that this one was the one chosen it's called in the attic and it's a it's a distant echo of an old form that Victor Hugo is called upon tomb and it's too complicated to explain but it involves repetition. It's also in an elaborate pattern and part of the interest here is to make it seem to come
(00:03:58) out naturally, of course instead of instead of forced
(00:04:01) and this is a memory pointment back. That's the subject of the point. In the Attic, there's a half hour towards dusk when flies trapped by the summer
(00:04:10) screens expire musically in the dust of Sills and
(00:04:15) ceilings slope
(00:04:16) towards remembrance
(00:04:18) the same Crimson afternoons expire of the same few rooftops repeatedly only being stored up for remembrance.
(00:04:27) They somehow escape the ordinary childhood is like that repeatedly lost in the very longer zdechlik. It redeems one forgets how small and ordinary the world looked once by dusk light from above
(00:04:43) but not the moment which redeems The Drowsy are areas of the
(00:04:47) Flies and the chin settles onto Palms above numbed elbows propped on riding Sills.

Transcripts

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SPEAKER 1: Yes, I think it's always been a source for imagination and for art, not for every writer or every artist, but for a great many, in practically any persuasion and practically any century.

SPEAKER 2: The fact is that memory can be ephemeral.

SPEAKER 1: Oh, yeah. Well, that's a part of the treasure of it, to try to catch it in its, if you don't mind my saying so, in its evanescence.

SPEAKER 2: Is there something about the form poetry that lends itself to capturing that?

SPEAKER 1: Well I would like to think so, yes. A large part of my intention in writing a poem is to record to fix something. And the memory lends itself to that temptation anyway very readily.

SPEAKER 2: When you look at that volume, what progressions do you see in your work?

SPEAKER 1: Well, I think that the early poems show someone trying to practice what I prefer to call the art rather than the craft, trying to learn how to do certain things. And I would like to think that the last poems show somebody doing certain things.

SPEAKER 2: Can I ask you to find an example of that?

SPEAKER 1: Well, there's a very simple way of thinking of it, would be in terms of form. Not very many people, I suppose, are interested in forms, or writing in forms now. But I always was from the outset. And one poem after another in the first book is an attempt to exploit something I saw in poetry formerly. For instance, there are one or two sonnets, very easy in standard form.

Then there are poems in a variety of meters that I just wanted to get the sound off, I get the hang of. And it turns out, at least from my own special point of view, that this was handy and useful for the future. Because if I came to the point where I wanted to do something similar again, I had a little confidence that I might be able to.

The second poem that I wrote is called Women in love, and it was an attempt to deal with a very artificial form called the villanelle. Now it turned out I couldn't cope with it. So I made modifications, boiled it down, and wrote my own quasi villanelle. It always comes. And when it comes, they know. Now that's one of the refrain lines you see. To will it is enough to take them there. The knack is this, to fasten and not let go. That's the other refrain line. And part of the pleasure, if there is any, will be to hear those coming back in new ways.

Their limbs are charmed. They cannot stay or go. Desire is limbo. They're unhappy there. It always comes. And when it comes, they know. Their choice of hells would be the one they know. Dante describes it, the wind circling there. The neck Is this, to fasten and not let go. The wind carries them where they want to go. And that seems cruel to strangers passing there. It always comes. And when it comes, they know. The knack is this, to fasten and not let go.

SPEAKER 2: In some ways that's as nice to read, to see on the page as it repeats, as it is to hear.

SPEAKER 1: Oh, I think so. Yes. I write poems principally to be read on the page so that they will contain their sound.

SPEAKER 2: Would you read something from the later part that demonstrates your just using forms as a takeoff point?

SPEAKER 1: Well, here's a poem that's been put on a broadsheet for this book fair. I was just signing all the copies, so I remembered that this was the one chosen. It's called "In The Attic". And it's a distant echo of an old form that Victor Hugo used called the pantoum. And it's too complicated to explain, but it involves repetition. It's also in an elaborate pattern. And part of the interest here is to make it seem to come out naturally, of course, instead of forced. And this is a memory poem. In fact, that's the subject of the poem, memory.

"In The Attic". There's a half hour towards dusk, when flies, trapped by the summer screens, expire musically in the dust of sills and ceilings slope towards remembrance. The same crimson afternoons expire over the same few rooftops repeatedly. Only being stored up for remembrance, they somehow escape the ordinary.

Childhood is like that, repeatedly lost in the very longueurs it redeems. One forgets how small and ordinary the world looked once by dusk light from above, but not the moment which redeems the drowsy arias of the flies. And the chin settles onto palms above numbed elbows propped on rotting sills.

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