...with Tom Mallouk

 
 


Dr. Tom Mallouk has long been an integral part of the poetry community in the Pennsylvania and New Jersey regions sharing his poetry at readings and in journals. His work covers an intimate range of subjects including family, healing from trauma, and his view of the human spirit. He infuses his poetry with insights gained from his years as a psychotherapist, this perspective imbued with his unfailing belief in restoration and recovery. His generosity and support for the art of poetry is known and appreciated by many.

Tom has been a practicing psychotherapist for fifty years. For the past twelve, he has been transforming his interest in the healing possibilities of conversation and the spoken word into poetry. His poems have appeared in literary journals, including GW Review, The Pisgah Review, The Quercus Review, River Heron Review, US 1 Worksheets, The Schuylkill Valley Journal and The Sun. His chapbook Nantucket Revisited was published in May, 2013. A second chapbook The Write Metaphor will be coming out in June 2023, and a full-length volume titled Rupture, Repair and Redemption will follow in the fall. In addition to writing, Tom is an avid golfer and fisherman. He resides in Doylestown, PA with his wife Dr. Eileen Engle with whom he has raised two daughters, Kaitlin and Meghan.

RHR: Tell us about your role as Poet Laureate of Bucks County.

Tom Mallouk: I had no idea what it would feel like to be poet laureate. I tried for so many years and was runner up three times. All I knew was that I wanted to win but since I won, I have been surprised by my sense of duty to the poetry community. For this year, I represent poetry to and for Bucks County. My mission has been to both increase the audience for poetry and to promote the poets of Bucks County who I believe deserve a wider readership.

After vetting several possibilities, including posting poetry in the parks of Bucks County in prominent places on walking trails and park benches, I arrived at the idea of trying to find a local newspaper that would feature a poem on a regular basis in their publication. It turns out I have a connection with one of the members of the board of the Bucks County Herald. Marv Woodall, the board member to whom I had originally pitched the idea, stepped up and decided to use his charitable foundation to fund the first year of Poet’s Corner.

Since then I have applied for a grant from the Academy of American Poets to fund the second year of the project and provide seed money to help other local counties begin the process of getting poetry into local publications, thereby widening and deepening the audience for poetry. I have the fantasy of poems returning to the cultural landscape as part of everyday life. For that to happen, poetry needs to care about the audience and connecting with people at a level where they reside. For that reason, I’m a big fan of more accessible poetry that still maintains a high level of craft and nuance.


RHR:
Does an idea for a poem haunt you or do you hunt for an idea?

Tom Mallouk: I feel as though poems reside just below the level of conscious thought. In that way, they are always with me but don’t get on the page until I turn my attention away from my conscious preoccupations and towards a less ordinary way of thinking. that requires me to suspend disbelief and put myself in a receptive frame of mind, a kind of gentle inquiring of what’s going on at that level of consciousness. I suppose you could say that I’m not exactly haunted by the poem and I don’t exactly hunt for it either.


RHR:
How do you determine what makes a poem successful?

Tom Mallouk: For me a poem is successful when it pleases me to have written it and when the listener or reader is pleased as well. The most successful poems are ones that get at an emotional truth I have been struggling to articulate. When I am able to write in this way, I find myself more stably grounded and the poems tend to have an emotional impact on the reader or listener.


RHR:
Whose name do you invoke at your shrine to poetry?

Tom Mallouk: There is not one name at my “shrine to poetry“ but among the candidates are: Rilke, Jack Gilbert, Mary Oliver, Charles Simic, Maxine Kumin, William Stafford, Seamus Heaney and WB Yeats. There are also many living poets I admire.


RHR:
Tell us about your writing process.

Tom Mallouk: A poem, for me, generally begins in one of two ways: with a fragment of thought or image that I write down before it dissipates or a nearly fully formed poem. In the first case, I may write a few lines at that moment but I don’t push the process if the flow stops. I never throw it away but keep yellow writing pads with these scribblings. At some point later and often much later I’ll return to whatever I’ve written, and something germinates. Once it’s sufficiently fleshed out, I’ll show it to my wife and then to other poetry friends to workshop. Eventually, I decide I’ve done enough with it and file it in a word folder. I don’t submit a lot of work for publication but when I do, I often revise the poem yet again before sending it out.

The poems that come to me more or less fully formed are increasingly rare. But I always feel blessed when they arrive. And try not to mess with them too much. The more common version where I have to build the poem from the ground up can sometimes lead to an awful lot of machinations. This little poem I’ve recently written, articulates it pretty well.

How to Give Up Writing a Poem

First try like hell to write one. No fair
if all you do is refuse to get started. Stare
at the blank page and regret how writing
a poem is so tied to your self-esteem,
you feel it (the page I mean) like a weight

sitting on your chest, a bully challenging
you to make it get off. Then, notice how hard
it is to breathe, how all this effort snuffs out
whatever comes into your head before you can
grasp a pen or get your fingers to the keyboard.

Next, search through random word files
on your laptop, for abandoned fragments.
Then, work them into a longer fragment
or combine them with other fragments
before discarding the whole sad mess

because among other things you realize
how often you repeat the word “fragment.“
Finally, circle back to the original blank page,
yell “Go fuck yourself!“ and lean your forehead
on the edge of the desk to pray. This will not produce

any poetry but makes for a good visual when you hand
your workshop mates a blank page and tell this story.


RHR:
If you could bequeath a skill or attitude to other poets, what would it be?

Tom Mallouk: The one skill I would bequeath to other poets is the ability to present their poems to an audience. The attitude should be an intense desire to connect with the audience and this requires that the poet not simply read from the page but to look up and make a kind of eye contact with the listener and “tell“ the poem to the listener. Writing a poem, while solitary, always involves in my experience an imaginary other. But presenting a poem is a relational process. Too often, I have been to readings that essentially consists of the poet reading words on a page in a barely audible voice followed by polite applause where it’s hard for me to imagine that the audience has either actually heard the words or been moved by them. It has been said that a good ritual should produce tears and in my mind a poetry reading is a ritual.


RHR:
What in your life prepared you to become a poet?

Tom Mallouk: More than anything what prepared me to be a poet was to live a childhood and early adult life that left me entirely bewildered. By age 20, I was in that famous state of chaos that Gregory Orr speaks about when he asserts that poetry takes place at the threshold between chaos and order in the life of the poet. That state was paired with an intense need to understand and propelled me to write poetry.

...with J. C. Todd

 

J. C. Todd

 

J. C. Todd’s books are Beyond Repair (2021), an Able Muse Press Award special selection, What Space This Body (Wind, 2008), The Damages of Morning (Moonstone Press, 2019) and three chapbooks. A bilingual (English/Lithuanian) book of her selected poems is forthcoming in 2023 from the PDR Festival in Lithuania. Winner of the 2016 Rita Dove Poetry Prize and a commended winner in the 2021 National Poetry Competition of the Poetry Society of the UK, she also has been a finalist in the Robert H. Winner and Lucille Medwick contests of the Poetry Society of America and held fellowships from the Pew Center for Arts & Heritage and Pennsylvania Council on the Arts. Poems and interviews have appeared in Baltimore Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, The Night Heron Barks, The Paris Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She has been a faculty member in the Creative Writing at Bryn Mawr College, Kutztown College, and the MFA Program at Rosemont College. Learn more about J. C. Todd by visiting her Website.

We first met J. C. at a Geraldine R. Dodge poetry workshop back in 1996. There, she generously led her workshop participants in a concluding cento-like poem exercise, a copy of which remains in one of our special binders devoted to noteworthy poetry-related experiences. From the start, we were taken by J. C.’s intelligent and creative approach to grappling with societal, personal, and political issues. She has a keen eye and heart for the nuances of human nature and uses impactful langaguage to engage her readers in ways that are thought-provoking and lingering. We are pleased to present her RHR interview.

RHR: What is the best piece of writing advice you have ever been given?

JCT: You learn to write by writing.

As a writer, I want the elements of craft I have studied and practiced to become deeply inscribed in me so that they feel intuitive at a cellular level. In this way the writing becomes my teacher, leading to a moment when I let go and the writing takes over. Each word carries the trace of the word or phrase it emerges from and evolves toward, shaping grammar, syntax, etymological reverberations, sonics, image, story.

This is the experience I open to when I write, or perhaps it opens in me, or opens me. A flicker in the corner of my mind, an awareness. I pick up the pencil and journal/tablet/paper scrap and jot it down. In this moment, I don’t know what the ‘it’ is, I am writing to catch up with it, to see it, a kind of chase that sometimes leads to letting go.

Sometimes when I am on the computer, there will be a gap between what I am writing and something that flashes from a tangent—a glimpse or a word heard out of nowhere—and in that moment, I will leap into or be drawn into a different voice that pours words onto the screen. These are moments of impulse; some might say insight. I am not recording them or writing a poem from them; I am seeking them, hunting them down because they haunt me. And so a draft begins. It has no purpose; it is pure expression, not a poem but perhaps the place where a poem may grow.

I may have first heard “you learn to write by writing’ in a training session for teaching artists offered by the New Jersey State Arts Council. It has become so embedded in my practice as a teaching and writing artist that I do not recall the point of origin. As advice, it may be a corollary of  “you learn to write by reading.” Joyce Carol Oates has written, “Reading is the sole means by which we slip involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin, another’s voice, another’s soul.” I suspect she writes with more intention than I often do; the slipping into she describes also occurs, not “solely” but often, when I write, undirected and unfettered by personal intention.

Understood in its broadest scope, writing encompasses reading in that you read what you write; you read the subject and tone of its content and context which informs what you write next or what you revise; you read others’ work to discover possibility for your own. Any reader engaged with a piece of writing is inscribed by it, becoming a de-constructor and reviser, an active consciousness entering the text, discovering secrets and variants the writer may not be aware of, conveying the text into interactions the writer has not imagined. As a reader of their own writing, the writer enters into revision (seeing again), whether or not that is their intention. Here is where a poem may begin to emerge.

 

RHR: What have you learned about the way poems can speak to one another?

JCT: My most recent book, Beyond Repair, focuses on the effects of war trauma on women, both civilians and combatants. The first months of COVID isolation offered the ideal environment for curating it. The manuscript had already been chosen as a winner in the Able Muse Poetry Book contest, but I did not think it was ready for publication. Despite the strength of many of its poems, or perhaps because of their strength, its gravitational balance was off-kilter. It felt like an unstable planetary system.

There were two related sticking points. First, the center did not hold. Recognizing that imbalance, I realized that the relationships between the poems had not coalesced, meaning the force they exerted on each other had not formed a unified system of sound and sense. Once I addressed the manuscript as a solar system, I was able to edit: reorder poems so that their alliances/resonances/echoes were more palpable, adjust the tonal and prosodic range and variations, remove a few poems I loved that didn’t belong, and write new ones that strengthened cohesion. In this way the manuscript revealed its story to me, a story so interior I could not articulate it, although I could sense it.

Working with the knit of the poems showed me the shape that would hold them together. That story, which is multi-voiced and told in segments, has found a reader who articulates it eloquently, the poet Michael Collins. You can read his review of Beyond Repair in the January 2023 issue of North of Oxford.

RHR: Do you believe a poem can be overly crafted?

JCT: You can work a poem to death. Over-practicing craft can inflate a poem with ornament, stuff it beyond capacity with figures of speech, turn it into an obese, overblown performer of prosody. Craft can perform excisions of vitals, dull the poem’s appetite, hinder its curiosity, extinguish the spark of its origin. Or it can starve the poem, take away the nourishment of intuition, impulse, experimentation, play. In short, craft can be a form of abuse, malpractice, and authoritarian control. But craft is also the agent of art when used in the service of coherence of meaning and music. Applying craft with awareness can allow the poet to let go and leave behind her “darlings,” and it can nudge or catapult the poem beyond the poet’s original intentions into unexpected resonances, mysteries, discoveries.

 

RHR: Whose name do you invoke at your shrine to poetry?

JCT: I do not worship poetry, nor do I adore it in the sense of paying divine honors to it. Poetry itself and the writing of it can be an act of adoration, in that it beseeches, entreats, asks as in prayer. In this sense there might be a shrine to poetry, but I have not made one, not even in an ars poetica. I did worship at a shrine in my childhood home—a bookcase in the living room. It was about three feet high, its wood dark, perhaps mahogany, built to hold the twenty-four volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica, 14th edition, A new survey of universal knowledge. I couldn’t actually read the title but I memorized the first two words, asking my mother to say them repeatedly, and saying them over and over until I gathered the gold-toned letters into words I recognized, even that strange ‘ae’ configuration which didn’t appear in my Weekly Reader or in the Dick and Jane books used as early readers in primary school. The letters, so bright against the stolid navy blue of the book cloth, were the only gold in our home except for my parents’ wedding rings and a bracelet my mother wore on special occasions, so I understood they were valuable, although I didn’t know that word. I was maybe six when the bookcase and its contents became a shrine to language, where I performed the ritual of selecting a letter, pulling the heavy volume from the shelf onto the floor where I knelt, opening to random crinkly pages. I would choose a subject heading to spell to my mother: what is J-a-g-u-a-r? what is J-e-r-u-s-a-l-e-m?, then stare at the word and chant its sound until the two merged. That initial fascination with individual words, as units of printed letters and the sounds they are keyed to, continues. Saying aloud is an aspect of shaping every draft and revision I make.

Although I have not made a shrine to poetry, poetry has made a sanctuary for me, a refuge where I can tune to the conjoined mind-heart, to image, story, and sound. It is a space to evoke rather than invoke. I am not calling on others as authorities but rather calling forth resonances with them (writers, visual artists, composers, musicians, artisans, scientists, historians, social scientists) and with what I observe. If I invoke anything, it is vision—the first glimpse. And re-vision—seeing again, uncovering the layers so that the resonances rise.


RHR: Notebook paper or computer? Pen or pencil?

JCT: All, plus voice.

Paper and pencil for journal, notes on scraps of paper, longhand drafts on legal tablets. Pen when a pencil isn’t available. Writing by hand is akin to drawing, accessing the brain through pathways different than the percussive of the keyboard. Initially, I prefer to freewrite drafts by hand, making early revisions or asking questions. From there, I move to the computer to key in the draft, its early edits, notes on alternative phrasing, and ideas about how the draft might develop, although often when I’m keyboarding, I will also make notes by hand that I later enter into a computer file. After that, I work between the hand written versions and the printed-out digital versions to produce revised drafts that I save as a separate digital files. As you can see, despite the computer screen, it’s paper all the way. I usually handwrite lines to work on scansion or rephrasing. To concentrate on lineation, stanza breaks, punctuation, and spacing within lines and to check etymology, synonyms, and spelling, working with a digital file is more efficient. Throughout this process, which may continue for weeks, months, or years, I read aloud as I edit, so each draft is modified by voice, which is to say by breath. I do not record the voice iterations. One time I constructed poems primarily by voice was the sonnet crown “FUBAR’d” in Beyond Repair. I built each poem by voice and ear, line by line, then preserved the voiced drafts by hand. During the first spring of Covid, I composed one haiku by voice during a daily walk. With both of these voice-initiated poem series, the drafts ended up as computer documents.


Read J. C. Todd’s poem, “It’s War, Fadwa Says,” originally published in The Baha’i Review (Spring ‘2016) and in Beyond Repair (Able Muse Press, 2021):