John Foy’s third book of poems, No One Leaves the World Unhurt, won the Donald Justice Poetry Prize and was published this year (2021) by Autumn House Press. His second book, Night Vision, won the New Criterion Poetry Prize (St. Augustine’s Press, 2016). His poems have been included in the Swallow Anthology of New American Poets, The Raintown Review Anthology, and Rabbit Ears, an anthology of poems about TV. His work has appeared widely in journals and online. He lives in New York.
1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first book taught me about savagery. You have to cut away what doesn’t work. There may be poems you love about your mother or father or your dog or your political views, but if they don’t work as poems, they have to go. You need, I think, to bring together only those poems that come through the blast furnace, and then see what it is they require to complete the picture. I did go on to write well about my mother, father, and dog, and those poems found places in my books, but it took time, tempering, and revision. My most recent work is broader in scope and tone. It includes more dark humor and pays closer attention to form. The newer poems are, I think, less self-consciously “poems.” Playful but deadly.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
When I was a child, my mother read poems to my two sisters and me. One she always read was a haunting poem called “Some One” by Walter de la Mare (1913). The shiver stayed with me. Few words, all simple, magically frightening. That’s how it began. In ninth grade (I was 15 years old), I had an English teacher who changed my life. His name was – is – Peter Balakian. Our class discussions on “Skunk Hour,” by Robert Lowell, and “A Refusal to Mourn,” by Dylan Thomas, were defining moments. At that time Peter himself was an aspiring poet in his mid-twenties. He got us talking about Bob Dylan lyrics, which he’d write on the board. It was clear he enjoyed what he was doing. He moved around the room with the easy confidence of an athlete, and his teaching style was the same. He was not “an English teacher” but a friend who wanted to share with the class the writings he loved. He wanted to talk about them and hear what we had to say. He confessed that he had decided against Law School to pursue teaching and poetry. He had been a baseball star and football star in his student days. I was a middling athlete, at best, but I could relate. I thought, well, I want to be like him. (I began publishing poems in our high school literary magazine.) He went on to do a PhD at Brown on Theodore Roethke, and he became an eminent poet and a world-renowned scholar of the Armenian genocide. He won the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry for Ozone Journal in 2016. He has long been the Donald M. and Constance H. Rebar Professor of Humanities at Colgate University, where he is also the Director of Creative Writing. He published some of my early poems in the Graham House Review, which he edited with the poet Bruce Smith. He wrote a blurb for my second book. I see him sometimes when he comes down to NYC, and he has hosted me as a featured reader at Colgate. So thanks to Peter Balakian, I began to write poetry.
My first published poems appeared in Canadian magazines, for which I remain grateful. I was studying English Literature at McGill and submitting to journals like The Antigonish Review, the Quarterly Review, and Poetry Canada Review, edited by Clifton Whiten. He included me in an anthology called, unsurprisingly, New Voices. I also had poems published in McGill’s literary journal, Scrivener. It was at McGill, and in Montreal generally, that I met Louis Dudek, Peter Van Toorn, Ken Norris, and Stephen Brockwell (a fellow student at the time).
3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
I can’t say I have projects. The poems come one by one, month by month. I’ve never had a grand vision. I just write whatever feels necessary at the time. If a vision emerges, it comes as a revelation from the work, as a result, not as part of a pre-conceived plan. The inspirations come quickly, the writing goes slowly. Final poems rarely look like the first draft. I keep copious notes in my notebooks, which are always close at hand, so I consult them whenever needed. I also keep an extensive archive of drafts on my computer. I always have something to work on, fast or slow.
4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
Well, I trundle out the old clichés because they’re true. The show usually begins with something I’ve come across that I like: a word, an image, a phrase, a line from another poem, an idea from some other work, a news headline (serious or inane), or a thing I’ve heard someone say. Sometimes it comes from the name of a street in Paris or a bird or some piece of advanced military weaponry. These are the way in. I work a poem up from these simple beginnings. It might happen over the course of a week or a month. It might happen over the span of 10 years. I don’t throw anything away. I don’t care about time.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
Yes, public readings have been important. Before the pandemic, they were live, which was thrilling and essential. During the pandemic, they’ve been on Zoom, which is a bit bloodless but better than nothing, and I thank those who have hosted them. Because Zoom readings are not bound by location, they will likely be the way of the future. And that’s good, up to a point. The fact is, though, there’s no bar! No face-to-face camaraderie. I want to be in a room with poets and a bar. I’m happy to say I just was! I co-curate a reading series uptown in NYC called the Morningside Poetry Series (with Linda Stern and David M. Katz – we were formerly known as the Red Harlem Readers). We’ve been doing this for over 12 years. Our events are currently held at a bar called Suite on Amsterdam Avenue at the corner of West 109th Street. On Sunday, September 26, 2021 (last weekend, as I write this), I hosted our first live event in over two years. It was an open-mic free-for-all. A great re-commingling of poets and friends. We had over 20 people. Folks are hungry to get back to the real thing. Everyone was vaccinated, and you had to show proof of vaccination to get in. The drinks were cheap, the mic was working, and the poetry was excellent.
I would not say that public readings were part of the creative process because “creating” a poem comes well before reading it in public. But readings are important because they help you gauge how your poems come across. You have to be able to stand up and talk to people in a room in a way that makes sense to them and respects their intelligence. You are not reading “at” people (that’s kind of disgusting). I like to think you are reading “for” people. Poems need to be at home on the page and the stage. They need, I think, to have the snap and vitality of a hook by Johnny Cash and the blinding, intuitive insight of a line by T. S. Eliot. They also need to be read well. This assumes that the poet-reader has at least an entry-level degree of competence in front of a microphone. This, alas, is not always the case.
6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
Theories are interesting, and I like to read about them. I believe, though, that they have little to do with writing. Or, I should say, they have little to do with craft. Craft is how you lay down a line, put words on a page. People in the water don’t need a theory. They need to know how to swim. So maybe my approach is about praxis, by which I mean an exercise of skill. I believe in technical discipline. To me, this is the same as saying that a guitarist needs to know how to finger an E minor chord. It’s about humility. It’s good to know how to play the English language, to submit yourself to its beauties, requirements, and complexities. I’m interested in loading common speech with as much meaning as possible. I want to make it cut and bleed, and I can’t see a better way of doing this except through the love of meter, sound, and syntax. I’m committed to the chord book of English prosody. Poets, like musicians, must know how to play their instrument. Miles Davis would agree. Shakespeare too. The current florescence of theory is good in a social and political sense. All voices need to be heard, all truths need to be told, and we need to enact social policies to help the marginalized and the disenfranchised. A poetry based on sociology and politics, however, risks losing value over time. It can also risk becoming boring. A poet still needs to lay down a good line. Subject matter alone does not make a poem.
The questions I’m trying to answer usually emerge after the fact. The poem, when it’s done, will reveal whatever questions I may have been trying to answer.
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I can’t prescribe anything for anyone. But if you ask, I would offer the thought that a poet only needs to write well. Your work may then last, and you will help the larger culture understand itself. When I say “to write well,” I am, indeed, begging the question. As Louis Armstrong said, “If you have to ask what jazz is, you’ll never know.” In practical terms, the poet needs to keep a bit of distance from the larger culture to better interrogate it, skewer it if needed. It does no good to blow up the car if you’re riding in it. You can’t rail against capitalism and love Kim Kardashian, the NFL, and Twitter. I like what James Joyce said: “silence, exile, and cunning.”
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
It has been an excellent experience for me. My recent book, No One Leaves the World Unhurt, was published by Autumn House Press. I had the honor of working with Christine Stroud (Editor in Chief) and Mike Good (Managing Editor). Both are fine poets in their own right and committed to the cause. It was a dream. I needed them, for sure, and I think they needed me. They helped me find an appropriate title for the book, which was traumatic at the time but a big win in the end. Throughout the editorial process, I worked closely with Mike Good. His granular line-by-line insights helped me avoid many slip-ups and added great value, and his patience was extraordinary. I was lucky to work with people like this. Poet-editors! Many thanks to Christine, Mike, and their team at Autumn House Press.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
“Most of you will fail.” I took this as a challenge. The insight was offered to a gathering of students in an expensive MFA program by a well-known poet. He was not sued or cancelled for saying this. It was before the feel-good days. His honesty was bracing. Folks, somewhere, had paid handsomely for these young, would-be poets to sit at his knee, but here they were taking the bitter pill. I was not discouraged. I doubled down, for years. He also said that if you consistently allocated 45 minutes per day to your poetry, you’d be doing well. Back then, 45 minutes sounded paltry. Now, I know otherwise.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?
It’s been relatively easy. I like writing essays and book reviews. It exercises a different part of the mind, it clarifies your thinking about what is important, and it brings you into the larger conversation. I’ve done a lot of that. But it’s time-consuming. Also, when you write reviews, you can sometimes make enemies. That’s OK, but it is not optimal. Poets on a sinking ship should not club each other in the knees. Now, I inscribe my critical ideas into the fabric of poems, so I don’t need to write essays. My thinking is embedded in the writing, demonstrated in the execution.
11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
I work outside of academia, so I don’t have a predictable teaching schedule or semester calendar. I carve out time wherever I can. That is to say, I don’t have a routine. I do, though, have a method. I keep a notebook at hand. I always have something to write on, even if it’s a folded piece of paper in my pocket when I’m outside. Now, with an iPhone, I use the Notes app to input thoughts, phrases, etc. while I’m walking around. Whenever time permits, I sit down with my notes and mull over my jottings, consolidating them into drafts. I can do this either in a notebook or on a computer, whichever is more convenient at the time. The recording feature on the iPhone is also good. I record phrases and poems to hear how they carry on the voice.
For a long time now I’ve been working from home, even before the pandemic. In our living room, there are two computers: my work computer (used exclusively for work) and a big, desktop iMac. During a typical workday, I jump back and forth between computers to work, edit, compose, revise, etc. Also, our bookshelves are in the room, so I can pull down whatever book I need at any time, without losing a beat in my work-work or my poetry-work.
(To support myself and my family, I work as a senior financial editor. The only way we can afford to live in Manhattan, which is where we want to be. When people ask me what I do, I say “I’m the language guy in a house of numbers.” I’m immersed in language all day, albeit language in the service of things merely going up and down. Still, this keeps me knee-deep in the mysteries of the English sentence, its grammatical structures, its articulations, its maneuverability, and the beauties of its precision. I’m lucky. This kind of employment is not inconducive to writing poetry.)
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return to (for lack of a better word) for inspiration?
My writing never gets stalled. When I feel the need to start something new, I turn to my notebooks or to poems I love. I might drink a glass of wine and walk my dog. Maybe watch the news. I might go to a local bar on Broadway, where I sometimes hang out with a painter named Sean Clancy who loves Coleridge. I never complain.
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
- freshly mown lawns in summertime
- gasoline
- marijuana on a golf course at night
14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
All of the above. Also architecture, technology, war, louche Internet sites. Nothing is off limits.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Well, that’s a long list. The short list includes T.S. Eliot, Robert Frost, Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop, Seamus Heaney, Philip Larkin, Marilyn Hacker, William Matthews, Rhina Espaillat, and A. E. Stallings. The poets Peter Van Toorn and Stephen Brockwell in Canada have also kept me excited about poetry for a long time. Stephen is still writing, and his brilliant, incisive poetry demands and rewards close attention. Going further back, I would include Thomas Wyatt, Ben Jonson, George Herbert, Keats. Throw in some Shakespeare.
Among my cohorts, there is much excellent work being done. To name all the poets would be a long list. Besides Rhina Espaillat, A. E. Stallings, and Stephen Brockwell, there are talented poets to my left and right generating significant poetry. They’re a phone call away, or an e-mail, and some even live in my neighborhood. Some are in academia, and some are not. I am blessed to be living among these poets.
Also important to me are the letters of Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo and the letters of Elizabeth Bishop. Recently, I’ve been riveted by a book of essays by James Baldwin called Nobody Knows My Name – More Notes of a Native Son. James Baldwin is James Baldwin, and he cuts like a saber, unapologetically. The book is a first edition, from The Dial Press, New York, 1961, purchased from Adrian King-Edwards at The Word Bookstore on Rue Milton in Montreal.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Read Remembrance of Things Past. Become proficient in Spanish (I already speak French and Portuguese). To speak Spanish in New York is a social grace and a tactical advantage.
17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
I suppose I would have liked to be independently wealthy. I have also dreamed of being a professional, world-class cellist like Yo-Yo Ma (though I’ve never touched a cello) or a gardener in a remote monastery in Kentucky or somewhere in France. Given my personality and skill set, the second option would be best.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
- existential terror and despair
- psychological/emotional necessity
- the prospect of getting closer to intelligent women
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
The last great book I read was Moby Dick. Some good ones I’ve read recently include Just Kids, Patti Smith’s memoir about her youth in New York City with Robert Mapplethorpe in the early 1970s (she’s a fine prose writer), and an autobiography by some fellow named Bruce Springsteen – the guy has a way with words!
I don’t watch a lot of movies these days. There are too many, and most are second rate, at best, in the grand scheme of cinema. The last great film I saw was One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975, directed by Milos Forman, based on the 1962 novel by Ken Kesey, and starring Jack Nicholson). Also, I’d have to include The Deer Hunter (1978, directed by Michael Cimino) and Glengarry Glen Ross (1992, directed by James Foley, adapted by David Mamet from his own play).
One recent movie I did like was Paterson. It stars Adam Driver and Golshifteh Farahani, directed by Jim Jarmusch (2016). It’s an exquisitely moving film in which almost nothing happens! No sex, violence, car chases, cannibalism, or political posturing. I won’t say anything about the relevance of the title. Please just see the movie! I’ve watched it five times.
20 - What are you currently working on?
I’m working on some poems about garbage and pollution, including plastic. I’ve been thinking about the Gowanus Canal, in Brooklyn, which is reputedly the most polluted stretch of water on Earth. I can feel a poem coming.
