+questions. answers / excerpt.

a. van jordan
writer. poet

Somewhere along the way, A Van Jordan learned how to make a page sing. Perhaps it was the time he put in developing his voice in the DC literary community. Or maybe it was during his preparation for Rise, his first book of poetry which won the PEN/Oakland Josephine Miles Award. Or perhaps it was through practice and attention to detail. Or perhaps, simple as it may sound, he was just born to do this. Or maybe, perhaps maybe, is it some combination of all of the above.

However he came about this particular skill, the cat can write and his recent book M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A, which was awarded the 2005 Anisfield-Wolf Book Award for Fiction, is proof positive. A drum-tight conception that merges lyricism and historical perspective into a cohesive narrative, M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A is the work of a man in full authority of his creative powers. Nat Creole had the chance to talk with Van and get his ideas on the subject of language, music, developing as a writer and creating things of value.

Nat Creole: Tell us a little about your background.  What helped crystallize in your mind that you wanted to be a writer?

A. Van Jordan: I wanted to be a filmmaker, but film schools don’t offer much financial assistance. I was nearly 30 when I made the commitment to writing. By then, I had paid all of my student loans off; I wasn’t ready to go back into debt. And during this time, I was living in DC. I started attending open mikes at local coffee shops, It’s Your Mug in Georgetown run by Toni Asante Lightfoot, mainly. And this brought me into an entirely new community, a community of writers. Later, November 15, 1994, I attended a reading by Cornelius Eady at the Folger Shakespeare Theater. When Cornelius read his poem Gratitude, everything came together for me. I heard a voice that validated my own. E. Ethelbert Miller introduced him that night. Both of these guys became mentors and inspiration for me. I spent many days at the edge of Ethelbert’s desk in his office, and I would send him work that he would mark up and send back to me. He read a lot of bad poems.

In 1996, I attended a workshop with Joy Harjo that really opened up my voice; she’s an amazing poet and an amazing spirit. From there, I was ready to enter the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College and took an MFA from there in 1998. There I had the chance to work with Claudia Rankine, Agha Shahid Ali, Eleanor Wilner and Carl Phillips. I’ve had a lot of mentors along the way.

NC: In M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A, you literally recreate the life of MacNolia Cox, the first Black American to reach the final round of the national spelling bee competition.  What attracted you to this woman's story and lead you to express it through narrative poetry?

AVJ: Her story is one we hear all the time: some black person was the first to do something; then they’re forgotten. So I was attracted to the dynamic of historical erasure and the artistic problem of trying to recreate it. Poetry is the highest form of language and I needed a medium that would allow me to toggle between many voices, seamlessly. I thought this would be simply a few poems in a series, but it distended into a full-length book once I delved deeper into the research.

NC: I find it interesting that you have flushed out the backdrop of the story, in part, by incorporating historical figures such as Jesse Owens, Josephine Baker and Richard Pryor. What led you to include these three figures in particular? 

AVJ: These figures factor in as time markers. That is to say, they become emblematic of their time. Richard Pryor is the 70s, for instance; Josephine Baker and Asa Phillip Randolph, 1936, etc. I didn’t want to simply throw dates on the page; I wanted people to understand what else was going on in the country at that moment within MacNolia’s narrative. 

NC: There is a strong musical element to M-A-C-N-O-L-IA that goes beyond the undeniably lyrical quality to the writing.  Have you spent some time with an instrument?  If so, how has that affected your use of language?

AVJ: I like how you phrased that: “Spent some time with an instrument,” which is more accurate than did I play one. I did play trombone, seriously, from age 12 to 22 when I graduated college. Since then, I don’t play frequently enough to say I still “play” it. Nonetheless, the time I’ve spent with it has informed my sense of meter in the formal poems within M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A, and the sprung rhythm, which is likened to modal music, in my free verse.

NC: In addition to its lyrical quality, M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A suggests a certain command of structure in the way that you shift and move from form to form to suit your needs.  Does this ability come from hard work, intuitive feel or both? 

AVJ: I think this relates back to your previous question about the musical instrument. I can’t say I play trombone anymore because I don’t practice the trombone. I’m a poet because I practice it daily. If you don’t practice, you can’t play. I move between forms—sonnets, sestinas, haiku, blues, etc.—because I practice my forms like a musician practices scales and arpeggios, daily. Reading and writing, even if I’m just editing, is practice. It all builds muscle memory, even when I write bad poems; it all comes back to me when I allow myself to listen to the poem. Often, the poem is smarter than the poet, you realize that if you write long enough and keep the mind open to the discovery that comes from it, you’ll be led to moments of transcendence in the work, moments you couldn’t have planned when you sat down to write. It’s in your blood. If you’re not discovering anything in the process of writing the poem, the reader won’t either.

NC: In reading reactions to M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A, I've noticed that Rita Dove's Thomas and Beluah is often cited.  The piece that comes to my mind is Jean Toomer's Cane.  Who do you see as some of the writers and works that have influenced your approach to your writing?

AVJ: I kept Thomas and Beulah and Cane close at hand while I wrote M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A. I also had Sergie Eisenstein’s Film Form; Edward Hirsch’s Lay Back the Darkness and Earthly Measures; Michael Collier’s The Ledge; Marilyn Nelson’s Carver--all of her work, really; and Tim Seibles’ Hurdy Gurdy at hand, to name a few. I’m influenced by many writers, man, and I don’t have a problem acknowledging that. It’s all a part of the community; even a recluse doesn’t write in a vacuum if she or he’s a reader.  

NC: I would have to agree with that. What are some of the projects that you are currently working on? Do you feel any pressure to top the success you've already met in terms of awards and accolades?

AVJ : My new book is Quantum Lyrics. It uses quantum physics as its unifying theme. The book explores personal relationships and politics and tries to explain these tough scenarios through some of the theories and philosophies of physics. My journey through physics has been slow going, though, because it's an autodidactic process; I don't really have time with my teaching to take a class. Fortunately, I've been able to share some of the poems with Dr. Jim Kakalios at the University of Minnesota, and he has "checked," so to speak, some of the physics in the poems. It also explores Albert Einstein's work in human rights, and, particularly, American civil rights. Few people talk about his contributions, but he worked tirelessly for these causes. He was also good friends with Paul Robeson and Marian Anderson. This book has been challenging, but the muscle memory of each project helps me grow in my craft. Every attempt to write another book is a new learning experience for me, which is what keeps me so attracted to the process. The experience trumps the awards.

+ excerpt. m-a-c-n-o-l-i-a
a. van jordan
w.w. norton
“from”

from prep. 1. Starting at (a particular place or time): As in, John was from Chicago, but he played guitar straight from the Delta; he wore a blue suit from Robert Hall's; his hair smelled like coconut; his breath, like mint and bourbon; his hands felt like they were from slave times when he touched me—hungry, stealthy, trembling. 2. Out of: He pulled a knot of bills from his pocket, paid the man and we went upstairs. 3. Not near to or in contact with: He smoked the weed, but, surprisingly, he kept it from me. He said it would make me too self-conscious, and he wanted those feelings as far away from us as possible; he said a good part of my beauty was that I wasn't conscious of my beauty. Isn't that funny? So we drank Bloody Mothers (Hennessey and tomato juice), which was hard to keep from him—he always did like to drink. 4. Out of the control or authority of: I was released from my mama's house, from dreams of hands holding me down, from the threat of hands not pulling me up, from the man that knew me, but of whom I did not know; released from the dimming of twilight, from the brightness of morning; from the love I thought had to look like love; from the love I thought had to taste like love, from the love I thought I had to love like love. 5. Out of the totality of: I came from a family full of women; I came from a family full of believers; I came from a pack of witches—I'm just waiting to conjure my powers; I came from a legacy of lovers—I'm just waiting to seduce my seducer; I came from a pride of proud women, and we take good care of our young. 6. As being other or another than: He couldn't tell me from his mother; he couldn't tell me from his sister; he couldn't tell me from the last woman he had before me, and why should he—we're all the same woman. 7. With (some person, place, or thing) as the instrument, maker, or source: Here's a note from my mother, and you can take it as advice from me: A weak lover is more dangerous than a strong enemy; if you're going to love someone, make sure you know where they're coming from. 8. Because of: Becoming an alcoholic, learning to walk away, being a good speller, being good in bed, falling in love—they all come from practice. 9. Outside or beyond the possibility of: In the room, he kept me from leaving by keeping me curious; he kept me from drowning by holding my breath in his mouth; yes, he kept me from leaving till the next day when he said Leave. Then, he couldn't keep me from coming back.