Interview with Lola Haskins
RSP: Have you been involved with local poetry communities?
LH: Actually, I tend to be monastic. The exception to that has been that a group of four of us has been meeting every other week from January until April for many years. I have lots of wonderful writer friends I keep up with through the net though, and see every once in awhile. And whenever anyone asks me to do something locally I do it. I also, for years, did writers in the schools in middle and high schools. I adored doing that. It’s such a shame it’s not an active program any more.
RSP: How do you prepare yourself for poetry readings?
LH: I get very very quiet. And I sing the poems to myself, one at a time.
RSP: Do you have a set progression, a way of doing things?
LH: Other than that, not really. I always read from memory, rather than from the page, because I think that if you believe in something you owe it to the audience to hide as little as possible. That’s hard for me sometimes, because I feel really exposed up there because there’s nothing in front of my face and nowhere to look except out. On the other hand, it can be wonderful. We have so many common experiences and loves, and poetry is a way we can come very close, very fast. I don’t mean my own especially, I mean anyone’s.
RSP: Are there any particularly touching, funny, or embarrassing incidents involving poetry readings or book signings that you'd like to share?
LH: How about some of each? I gave a reading in Arkansas once where a couple came up to me afterwards to tell me how they met. He’d placed an ad for a wife in a paper in Texas, and when she sent her measurements, he said he knew she was the one, and he hopped in his pickup truck to go get her.
And they’ve lived happily ever since. They showed me a binder of her poems about the Trail of Tears—there weren’t any tears between them, that was for sure. At that same reading was a busdriver, who for years had jotted down poetry while he was waiting for passengers. He had thousands of pages, and was clearly a sweet man whose time had been well spent.
Oh, and I signed my music book for the piano teacher I dedicated it to, got her names backwards “Carolyn Lois” instead of Lois Carolyn” and had to palm the book fast.
On the touching side, I read in rural Georgia a poem about how little time we have. The last line is “These are the twelve minutes of our lives”. And I said that I figured I had maybe four left, and I wanted to be sure I didn’t waste them.
After the reading I went back to the motel and as I walked in, my phone was ringing. It was a student who’d heard me tell her professor out in the hall where I was staying. She said, you know what you said about the twelve minutes? And I said of course. And she said, well, I’ve never done anything like this before in my whole life, but would you have a cup of tea with me this afternoon.
So of course I did, and we talked a long time, and afterwards she went away to change her major, which she said she’d been afraid to do until now. What a brave young woman—she was only 19 and very shy, and she spoke right up. I know I could never have done that at her age.
RSP: When your son was young, you must have found it difficult to juggle motherhood and poetry. What advice would you give to poets who are trying to find a balance between poetry and parenthood?
LH: Set some hours and stick to them. Don’t let anyone give you errands to run, don’t do the dishes, don’t do anything not related to poetry during those hours. And don’t slack off, even when nothing’s happening. That’s only a sign something will.
RSP: What schedule did you keep, and how did you organize your life to accommodate poetry and parenthood?
LH: Well, I worked too, so it was a bit complicated. My job involved teaching three days a week and there was prep to do on the off-days. But I kept two mornings pretty much sacred. The first few years I did this, my husband thought mornings were my “free time” so COULD do errands. But I figured it out, and started saying no.
RSP: Would you explain your current organizational scheme in depth? How do you do it, and are there any tricks or tips you would like to pass on to your readers?
LH: As to methodology… I admit to being less organized than I know I should be. I keep track of submissions with Microsoft excel, mags across the top, poems in the rows, dates in the cells. Also a separate list of acceptances by ms (I have several ongoing mss). But for years I used index cards, alphabetized by poem. I’d write the magazine down on the poem’s card when I sent it out, then if it was accepted, I’d move it to another section of the box with the mag circled. That worked pretty well, and had the advantage of not being killable by power outages. The problem was that I didn’t have a cross-reference of mags. I should think there are better ways than mine, but really if we were accountants we might not be poets.
RSP: If you could get a glimpse into the minds of three living poets - if you could witness their process and marvel at their inner stirrings, who would they be, and why?
LH: Good question- off the top of my head maybe Simic because I love his inventiveness, Merwin for the same reason, and Carol Frost because I think she’s brilliant. But there would be many. I hate to say three. And there are a number of dead ones who come to mind.
RSP: How do you work? When we envision you writing the poems we love so much, should we see you on the computer, lying cozy in bed, or by the seashore?
LH: Well, I write as if I were playing the piano. I’ve always written that way—it started with Underwoods, then it was Olivettis, then Selectrics and finally (at first, reluctantly), computers. I like not having to commit my body to the poem until it feels better than it does at first; I like the impersonality, in other words. It frees me from the necessity of being deathless, which I know I can’t be and as soon as I think I have to be (like when I pick up a pencil), my hand goes crampy and I can’t think. It’s a huge disadvantage because it means I really can’t do much WITHOUT a keyboard. I wish it were different, but it just isn’t.
RSP: Do you have a specific time of day, or do you write when you feel compelled to?
LH: I CAN do it any time, but I prefer mornings. If I’d waited to write until I was compelled, I’d never have written anything.
RSP: Do any of your writing implements have totemic value, such as a lucky pen, a special notebook, etc?
LH: Yes, not for writing but for book signing. I use purple pens from a feminist bookstore called Wild Iris whose owners have been very good to me.
RSP: How about your work space - with what items or images do you decorate your space for inspiration?
LH: I write in a cabin in the woods behind the house. Every wall except the one where my table is, is floor to ceiling books. Beside the table is a painting a Mexican painter sister did for me. And everywhere there are totems—all gifts, two hex-signs from an African-American artist friend over the door, a Ganesha over the desk, and on shelves-- a jade stone with a poem in characters, shells, bits of wood, so many things. I need all the help I can get.
RSP: What books are on your bed stand right now?
LH: The Heart of Buddhist Meditation, Soul Mountain, The Dress Lodger, and a book of Henry James’ short stories. And a couple of New Yorkers for when my attention span flags.
