Infinite gratitude to transcendent North American poet Shazia Hafiz Ramji for this very candid conversation about life and ache and other such things. She lives on unceded Coast Salish land where she wrote her first book, Port of Being, which received the 2017 Robert Kroetsch Award for Innovative Poetry, judged by Wayde Compton, and is now available for purchase through Invisible Publishing. In April 2018, she founded Intersections, a series dedicated to featuring BIPOC and women to discuss the craft of writing and the writing life from an intersectional lens.
How did you end up in the world of poetry?
It’s hard to say exactly how I ended up in the world of poetry. I’d been writing poems before I knew what they were, until a wonderful teacher saw them and said that they were poems! In terms of publication, I sent out my first poems to CV2 magazine who accepted them, and that was very surprising and life-affirming. But before that, when I was really young, around 10-13 years old, my teacher made a spesh poetry section in the school newsletter, and she’d ask me for one every week! And still before that, I’d write little lines in front of the TV or between Game Boy sessions, not knowing that they were poems! It felt like a compulsion to write when I was little, and some days it still feels that way.
Hmmm, what do you mean by compulsion? Like, is it that you feel like you need to?
Yes, I feel like I need to. Sometimes I get a tight feeling in my throat, kind of like when you need to cry or need to say something but can’t, and usually that’s when the need to write is the strongest. I feel really unbalanced and kinda nuts when I don’t write.
Yeah, I hear you. Is that how Port of Being came about?
Port of Being came about through that kind of feeling in the throat, yes! I remember feeling a deep sorrow walking the city one day. I say sorrow because it was an intense feeling of sadness that I felt in my body (not the kind of sadness that makes one cry), something I needed to articulate. The first poem I wrote towards it was to try to see that sorrow which I think arose from sensing (hopefully not projecting) a kind of loneliness in everyone around me that day. But I was also working thru a couple of really difficult things. A thief stalked me a couple years ago for a few months. Later, after being inspired by Vito Acconci’s performance artwork called Following Piece, I walked the city and collected snippets of speech which gave rise to the book. I talked a little bit about it in CBC North by Northwest too.
You talked about how the book was born out of a deep sorrow. Would you say poets, or artists in general I suppose, need to be a little sad to create?
That is a deceptively simple question! I’ll speak only for myself here, but I like a little sadness and a little darkness. It’s rare that I gravitate towards poems that aren’t infused with dark emotions. I think sadness allows us to see with a different kind of clarity, so I think it definitely contributes to poetry, which often arises out of feelings of inadequacy or the need to articulate the inexpressible.
Interesting way to put it! I imagine trying to get this ache temporarily out of your body can feel a lot like purging, so would you say writing makes you feel more energized or exhausted?
I think writing is exhausting, but I also feel like I need to do it or I wouldn’t feel fine. It’s emotionally draining for me when I’m beginning or trying to go deeper, but it’s energizing when I’m deep in it. The fulfillment of being in that state is unparalleled!
I hear you. Would you have Rx for other poets who experience this burnout?
I was thinking of exhaustion in the sense of emotional exhaustion. Sometimes the feelings are too deep and painful but I have to think about them and feel them and sit with them before the tears turn into poet juice! I do get burnt out though. Then I binge watch movies. Usually slow and quiet movies, like Chris Marker’s Sans Soleil. Sometimes I row a boat on a lake, if I got paid that week and have some spare $ (and if I’m ready for the arm burn the next day). I think it’s generally a good idea for poets and writers to do more of the things they like. I speak for myself here but it’s very easy to get caught up in one’s head, and doing other things I enjoy like making music, listening, walking the city, making field recordings... it makes me a much better writer (and person).
Who, in your eyes, is an underappreciated poet?
Jennifer Moxley. Her poems are just sparkling. I first learned about her when I read The Atrophy of Private Life. And then I fell in love.
What poets/authors did you dislike at first but then grew into?
I gravitate towards poets who bother me and whom I may only like to some extent. John Berryman was someone I liked immediately but disliked after reading him repeatedly. He is still on my bedside and I like him sometimes and don’t like him sometimes, and that’s why he’s important for me. The polyphonies and characters that run through The Dream Songs are astounding. The misogyny and self-loathing are also astounding. I do adore him though. Sometimes. 🙃
What, in your eyes, does someone need to be a good poet?
Hmm… All poets need to have a stable financial life, free time, and a room of their own where they can write. Of course that’s ideal though... and I’ve definitely still been a poet and had none of those things (I still don’t have a stable financial life, haha). Honestly, it’s hard to say what a poet needs to be good. I’ve personally needed to allow myself to be analytical and deeply emotional at the same time. I’m both of these things very strongly and although it might sound like a paradox, I feel sure that these two conflicting ways (being analytical / feeling very deeply) contribute to poetry. I think this tension has led me to good work.
By “good” I mean honest, surprising, and receptive poems. My favourite poets are shamefully honest, but not in a way where honesty is performed for shock value or sensationalism. I guess I mean honest in the sense that they respect where the poem takes them and the discoveries and surprises that arise, which sometimes contradict what they had wanted to say. I guess this could also be called receptivity. Not receptiveness in the sense of being impressionable though. (I think poets in general have an excess of their own personality and are not impressionable ... haha.)
I think good poems also engage with the world and they bring what’s out there to what’s inside, and then turn it back out.
What’s a piece of literature you find yourself going back to no matter how you’re feeling?
Please don’t hate me for this, but I return to Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. That book seriously saved my life. I’m not even joking. I know it has a bad reputation but it came to me at a time when I needed it the most. I was overcoming clinical depression and was in recovery from addiction, and it is extremely difficult to speak about those experiences without sounding and feeling like a cliche. I saw myself in Infinite Jest. I felt so understood. I’ll never stop being grateful for what this book did for me. Also, poems by Dionne Brand, especially her books Inventory and Ossuaries. She shows me how to find myself in the diaspora. Whenever I read her work I often feel a sense of being understood too, and of seeing the world newly. I have also turned to Kaveh Akbar far too much since I got his book. That book has been in my cooking pot, in my tub, in my bed, on the bus, on the plane, at my parents house. I freaking love his work.
Is the justified to say the act of writing is a spiritual practice? What does yours look like?
Oooh, this is a good question. I don’t really know, because I don’t have a spiritual practice. Though, I was brought up Muslim and did pray, and sometimes when I’m writing, the act of giving oneself over to the poem feels similar to praying. It feels especially spiritual to me now as I work with the stories of my ancestors. I trust the “path” more now, which means I hope to be surprised and discover something I didn’t know while in the act of writing. If I do this it means I’ve submitted myself to something greater. That makes me happy - to go so deep into oneself in order to move away from oneself.
When do you find yourself writing the most?
These days it’s when I can feel my ancestors. I want to speak to them so much I have trouble breathing sometimes when the questions overwhelm, and again I get that choking feeling in my throat, and a poem is born. I also find myself writing when I’m calm and not worried about money. This is increasingly rare, but I write well on days I get paid, haha. When I’m relaxed, I can give my attention to seemingly banal details and notice how sweet and precious they may be. When I notice this when I’m sad and worried, I feel Hamlet-like and can’t make myself write.
What other writers/poets/artists are you friends with, and how do they help you be a better one yourself?
There are far too many people who have helped me and whom I consider friends, but I’ll name a few off the top of my head: Ian Williams, Yilin Wang, Leigh Nash, Erin Soros, Geoffrey Nilson, Jen Currin, Junie Desil. How do they help me? By continuing to believe in me.
Would you recommend other people read poetry? Why?
I can’t say no.
Poetry makes change happen in very small ways and this is a good thing.
It makes me attentive to the world and it imbues my actions and words with a depth of understanding (I hope...) that is always heightened when I’ve been reading. I notice it’s influence when I haven’t been reading much of it. I get cranky and feel lonely.
What’s the one thing you’d give up to be a better poet?
This is an interesting and difficult question because I would like to give up my self-doubt. I’m not focusing on it when I’m deep in a project and have a rhythm going, but otherwise I’m plagued by it and it’s very unpleasant. But this same self-doubt is also important for my process. I guess I don’t really know.
Before you go, where can people keep up with you?
My Twitter, and here.