“I’ll Remind You That All Books Are Made Out of Light: An Interview with Martin Rock
Karl Zuehlke (KZ): Dear Martin, there is something I cannot quite quantify about how you put words together into such solid lines. I don’t know that I want to know. Your lines and sentences justify themselves somehow in my mind; as a reader I love the precise cuts through the flesh and fabric and time and being. Would you please talk about how your voice evolved, how it solidified into Dear Mark?
Martin Rock (MR): I feel like each poem dictates its own voice, and as a poet I hope to be always evolving rather than evolved. But I’m glad you think of “flesh and fabric and time and being.” A more direct way to answer your question might be to give a list of poets who have influenced me, but I know I’ll inevitably leave too many out. I try to read across schools and time-periods and cultures. I don’t pretend that reading a work in translation is equivalent to reading the original, but the collaboration between translator and poet can provide invaluable whispers, and helps me break away from familiar tropes. And of course the ‘real world’ also exerts its influence. I like Stevens’s idea that “the poet is the priest of the invisible” & I think the invisible carries its own voice.
KZ: The act of translating is an interesting model. As I read Dear Mark, it is all thriller and no filler, and Rothko’s paintings are settings, symbolic environments your imagination populates or explores, plays with and expands. At the same time, though, I think the paintings become surfaces between the reader and the poems, yourself and Rothko. In “Serigraph, Acrylic on Paper, 1968″ you write:
“There are two of us in the room.
Or there is one
& we are cut in half
by the bending of light
in gallons of paint.”
Standing in front of a painting divides the viewer from the artist by a stretch of canvas, the nails holding the canvas to the frame, and time. The painter was there, and there are traces of that presence in the paint. Similarly perhaps, we could view these poems as a record of that interaction? There is a record of Martin Rock in the poems, that we can find in the words?
MR: That’s an interesting thing to think about — the conversation that happens between artist and viewer. You call the paintings “symbolic environments” but I try to be mindful of their physical nature when I’m in front of a canvas. To look at brushstrokes up close and see the materiality of paint or the texture of the canvas beneath it evokes the artist’s physical presence as well, absent only by time. In the same way I’ve convinced myself of the presence of ghosts in shadow, I’ve felt the artist standing behind me when looking at a painting. I imagine these poems contain something of me in the same way a canvas contains its artist, but I don’t think they’re complete until they’re read and assimilated. In “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” Eliot suggests that a new work of art modifies all the “existing monuments” that came before it. I hope these poems enter into the kind of genuine communion of which Eliot speaks.
The poem you’ve quoted here was the first poem of the project. In 2010 my friend Brian Trimboli put an image of “Serigraph, Acrylic on Paper, 1968” on the TV we’d set up as a computer monitor. Though I don’t often smoke pot, that night I had. I remember feeling as though I was reeling in psychic matter from another dimension and trapping it, ghostbuster-style, in my poem. It upsets me that our culture allows the acknowledged use of psychoactive substances to deny verity to a perceived experience. But it’s important that I mention I came to this project while in an altered state, and that Rothko’s work has a quality that returns me to that state without the need to alter my brain chemistry exogenously.
I think Rothko is one of Longfellow’s Promethean bards who travel outside the realm of typical human experience and bring back a piece of that world for the rest of us; this is one reason his paintings are sometimes referred to as portals or doorways. The chapbook was written with this kind of psychonautic questing in mind. If Rothko has mined some spiritual quarry in the creation of his art, my work is an attempt to seek out those echoes and filter them through the lens of another consciousness (my own) and another medium (poetry).
KZ: You might have created an echo chamber of your very own. Also, I am fascinated that Dear Mark developed as an aftereffect of a collaboration between yourself and Brian, whereas your first chapbook Fish, You Bird was a more direct collaboration between yourself and Phillip Ischy. In some respects Dear Mark is also collaborative: the book’s title suggests apostrophe as the heading of a letter addressed to Rothko. While you do draw on any number of sources, the poems you write retain their own integrity. They compose a surface that intersects with the work of another but that is not dependent on it. Perhaps you could talk a little about your process: how much of your work is inspired by collaboration? How do you maintain that balance between your own work and your inspirations?
MR: I wouldn’t say Brian and I were collaborators except in the way that friendship is an act of collaboration. He did provide the prompt, and without that I never would have written the book. That said, Dear Mark is collaborative in that it is ekphrastic. On the other hand, Fish You Bird was a collaboration with Phil completely. We wrote those poems between Texas and Japan and New York over the course of about 6 years, each as a response to the previous in an approximation of the renga-jo, an ancient Japanese form. For more info about that project, here is a link to our interview with Traci Brimhall at her collaboration blog, We Are Homer. I hope to someday see all 100 of them published, as Pilot published a selection of 18 to fit the form of the accordion-fold chapbook. I also want to acknowledge the work of Betsy Wheeler and Meghan Dewar who put beautiful and important books into the world with their press, though it is now defunct.
KZ: I was lucky enough to once read all 100, and I would love to see them bound and stitched into a volume. You succeeded I think also with your most recent project. Good ekphrastic poetry expands the world of the image, but great poems written about art take over that world. I am consistently impressed by the capacity of your poems to exist independent of Rothko’s paintings and yet originate from them, to activate a surface and yet imagine it completely in your own mind. How might you respond to those that fear collaboration might stifle their creativity?
MR: I guess I’d suggest they don’t collaborate. I’m not flying any banners here. But artists concerned about guarding their creativity as though it’s some kind of rare and delicate animal might find that it actually prefers to be part of a phalanx, or colony, or swarm. I’m all about inclusion rather than exclusion. If something works for you, great. If not, don’t do it.
KZ: This question is about your poem “No. 9, Dark over light Earth, 1954,” which appeared in The Bakery, and in which you write, “It seems you view daytime as heavier / than night.” It seems to me that much of your collaborative approach is based on empathy: the record of your thoughts about the art someone else produced. Is it your capacity for empathy that allows you to create something of your own from this process, or do you find yourself conflicted?
MR: That line owes a lot of its existence to the poems of Shuntaro Tanikawa, a living Japanese poet I admire who has written about the density of daylight that blocks our view of the rest of the universe, or at least that is my interpretation of his words. I really think all poets and lovers of poetry should seek out his work. There are a few out-of-print books of his in translation. He’s amazing.
I also think it’s interesting what you’re saying here about empathy. I certainly try to be empathetic in my dealings with other living beings and in my approach to art—and I attempted to tread lightly when dealing with Rothko’s life in this chapbook because I wanted the book to be more about his art than about his terrible death—but I wouldn’t have thought that recording one’s own reaction to art or revealing one’s visions could be an act of empathy, though I suppose it can. I also think it is important to distinguish between what I consider to be ekphrastic writing, which can be, as you describe, a record of thoughts based on the art of someone else, and what I typically think of as “collaboration” which is created when two or more people join together intentionally to create a new work. It is impossible for me to know what Rothko would think about Dear Mark, for instance, or if he’d even have wanted the book to exist.