Leonard Gontarek recalls that Maureen Owen has highlighted the "bizarre and miraculous in the Ordinary" in his poetry. In the following conversation, conducted over several weeks mainly by email, the poet discusses the influence of art and photography on his writing, as well as his inclusive poetic which entails an exploration of the erotic, the obsessive, and the visionary.

Gontarek's numerous books include Zen For Beginners (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Irregular Prayer (Concrete Wolf Press, forthcoming.) "Codex," "Tryst," and "Study/Sidewalk," featured in the current DOJ, are included in the recent and as yet unpublished I Don't Care What I Eat As Long As It's Every Day. His poems have been published in a wide array of journals, recently in CrossConnect, APR, Field, Volt, Fence, New Zoo Review, Mudfish, and Painted Bride Quarterly.

For many years he has been familiar to poets and arts-lovers in Philadelphia and beyond as a presenter and promoter of poetry readings and affairs. He curates the ongoing Philadelphia Reading Series at the Book Corner (Friends of the Free Library, behind the Central Library 311 North 20th Street, Philadelphia.)—VF

Valerie Fox: Why is it that ventriloquist dummies turn up in your poems? ("Province," "Landscape With Snow Expected" in which there are two).

Leonard Gontarek: Let me begin with a statement that may put some things I say in a context. I am less interested in answering (in my poems) the big questions: Who are we?, Where did we come from?, Where are we going? (for instance), than in maintaining the purity of these questions. Of course, the answers may be inherently unanswerable, but the form and content of my poetry does not seek truths or solutions, I think, rather it protects the essential nature of the questions: its newness, its availability, its currency. Having said this, I think I use "ventriloquist dummies" in my poems because I like the challenge of using such an evocative object in a new way, say, the way Jasper Johns painted white or green American flags. I don't know if I succeed, I just know how much I fear the cliched. Can we discover the true meaning of the object by giving it a different meaning or context. I think and hope so. Is the ventriloquist dummy simply about "voice"? Yes, that too. Do I think it is a wonderful and frightening object (hence its attraction)? Yes. I owned one for a long time - so it is part of my life, as well.

VF: This interests me quite a lot—I find myself doing the same thing with objects I hang onto, or find. (Something I found that ended up in a lot of poems is a strange kind of love letter I found on the street!! It was actually a kind of secret admirer letter). And when one combines more than one object of interest it helps to create a poem which really blends metaphor and metonymy nicely, don't you think? So I'm wondering what other objects or kinds of objects inspire you or end up in your poems, and how does this work?

LG: I know what you mean about found objects suggesting poems. Your found love letter is a good example. I too have used letters once or twice. I broke up the lines into fragments (half-letters in a sense) and filled in the holes. It was good to work with someone else's emotions for a change - to get away from the Self of the poem. But I don't use any "real" objects, that is to say I'm not surrounded by a mysterious collection that brings the poems on. The natural world works that way for me, you may have noticed. I'm sure I have a set of nouns that I use obsessively, or simply often. Blackbirds come to mind. Most of the raw material comes out of my head, as they say. I'll repeat images from poem to poem. I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason for that - though I may not be the one to ask. I've had alligators "thumping through the plumbing" in a number of poems. That's a reference I know to the myth (is it?) about pet alligators being flushed down toilets throughout the city. I liked saying "the birds take to the branches like priests to whiskey" for a time in a number of different poems. I liked the light touch of it and the suggestion of the sacred. Light appears similarly described from poem to poem. I suppose I am appropriating myself - and there is the comfort of the familiar for the poet and the reader.

VF: You have mentioned to me your interest in photography. Can you say something about that?

LG: I wrote a sequence (80 or 90 poems) of "Studies" - the idea was to write like drawing - fast, obviously centered on one or two objects. So you see the interest in art - I assumed for a long time that poems were little paintings. If you could make the reader see what you did, they would follow you anywhere. Truth is, I was trying to convert myself - some things undoubtedly exist - are true - see? And I could see.

The interest in photography is similar: composition, focus on a limited number of objects - and there is all that pleasurable black and sepia. In particular, photography is a physical act - that has an allure for a poet who is chained to a desk. Yet, everything I do - everything - I know leads home to the poem.

VF: In addition to this photography collaboration I know you’ve done various other sorts of collaborations. Are you working on any currently?

LG: I am not presently working on a collaboration. Over the past few years I have worked live with musicians - primarily Mark Sarro. Solo electric guitar. Or ensemble: alto sax, banjo, sitar, percussion. If you can imagine that. They took a devotional attitude to poetry. It was thrilling - a kick. I think my collaborations have been selective and cautious. I know there is a novel out there co-written by John Ashbery and James Schuyler. Now I've never taken it real seriously. A lark, I thought. I am aware of the renga collaborative form. I've seen examples of this, of course, that work well. I am mostly interested in writer and artist collaborations. Jasper Johns and Samuel Beckett leaps to mind. Breathtaking stuff. I was involved for a period of time (my younger days?) with a poetry performance group (which I formed). Poetry, in my case, descended into comedy here. All very well-received. Fulfilling. In the end what I learned is how poetry works on the page - and how better to make it work.

I'm probably not involved in a collaboration at this time because none has presented itself - though I will always think in those terms. I do have a couple of parables/children's stories looking for an illustrator. It is a solitary craft though in the end. It's why we poets turn to it

VF: You are a great supporter of poetry in so many ways, editing, sponsorship of readings, and so on. What motivates you in these endeavors? And, if you like, you could share some interesting experiences you have had with guest writers, at open readings, etc.

LG: I'm glad you mention my editing, coordinating, publishing, etcetera. In a way this is a collaboration. I've not thought about why I do so much of it. I hope it's for all good reasons. I like giving poets a hand - especially those starting out. It's good for poetry, no? A mission here (not a crusade, mind you) is to develop an audience for poetry. A build it and they will come sort of thing. I have been pleased when poets have said I was the first one to support them - to give them a reading. I think open readings are important for poets, new and established, to get a feel for the scene, to get their sea legs. And no, it's not all heaven. Open readings can be grueling and gritty. Attending an open can be a good way to burn off days in Purgatory.

VF: For me, "Study/Sidewalk" is a fine example of something you're good at. The poem has a literal meaning—I get a strong image or picture of a scene. At the same time, it has a very imaginative and expansive meaning too. This is clear from the first two lines: "Waiting for the bus/five holes are drilled in the body." The entire poem is like that. By the time we get to "Maybe there's time to climb the monkey bars," near the end, we are able to read even that simple sentence in many ways. (Is the narrator remembering childhood experience, is he observing a child, is it meant metaphorically?) How do you go about achieving this?

LG: I think you are right about this, if by good at you mean slightly charged erotically and covertly political - as well as luring the reader into believing these "imaginative meanings" (as you so exactly call them) are fact. I think it is achieved in the tone. Do you mean how is that tone achieved, I may not be able to say. Frankly, the "climb the monkey bars" part still moves me - in the many ways you suggest it can be read. Sandro Chia says he doesn't paint to find "reasons", he paints to create the reasons. That interests me and seems about right at this time.

Perhaps stating the obvious, the political overtone in “Sidewalk”...It's as simple to buy a drill as it is a gun. On the other hand, there are even more ghastly killings than by guns. I have always considered the yellow chalk outline of bodies as a kind of graffiti. A number of poems (including this one) refer to a fear of planes (pre-9/11) - as it should be, a poet should have a touch of the visionary. I would guess I am not alone with this precognition: "The plane scratches the atmosphere We don't look up" . This poem resembles a radio with two stations coming in. I see that it demands much of the reader: it contains questions with question marks and questions without. What is the precedent for this? Yes there is menace here and yes there is a density. But it is about redemption: the photo in the wallet, the monkey bars, the perfume of the cop - it may even redeem our strangeness.

VF: As in perhaps the strangeness, which is so natural in human behavior but so often smoothed out (as in a face lift, or in overproduced recorded music). You provide space though, literally white space, and those questions (in your work generally) for the challenged reader not to feel put upon. You must trust you ear or your method or whatever, a lot. It is not easy to pull off that "two station" effect, any kind of multiple voice effect, really. Does that happen as you write? Or do you introduce it later, to make it strange?

LG: Two stations coming in at once? Maybe even three, it occurs to me.

I can see how you may wonder if I do the things I do to "make it strange". There seems no short supply of strangeness for me - so, yes, assuredly, it comes out in the initial writing. I may tinker with a couple effects - but I see my work as a poet to make the material less strange. Speaking of multiple voices: my idea of prayer is God interrupting me when I'm trying to carry on an intelligent conversation with myself. I'm deadly serious about this. It's a spiritual journey - the poem. That's what "the soul leaks out" is about. The soul is always leaking. And it - the soul - is indistinguishable from the rest of the world. That's what I think. That's the mystery.

VF: It's significant how here as you describe your work you use words like "covert" and "slightly" which imply but don’t necessarily require subtlety. In "Four Poems With Gratuitous Sex and Violence" in the "Hell" poem, you explicitly implicate the viewer in heinous onscreen acts. I’m wondering how people have reacted to work like this? It seems designed somewhat to make them uncomfortable. Has this kind of work of yours been misunderstood, at times? And how do you feel about some of the gratuitous not to mention extreme violence and ubiquitous sex in popular entertainment and advertising?

LG: I can see how there may be an adverse response to "Four Poems"and it may be, as you say, an intention of the poet to make the reader uncomfortable. I am sure I am misunderstood often. In this case for different reasons. I consider myself an innocent and my conscious intention in this poem was truth - by way of revealing, in frank tones, some things I may not be comfortable revealing. In the case of "Ziolokowska", the "translation" piece, the response to the eroticism has been positive and strong. This is a very serious area for me ... the erotic - I approach it from the dark and light side, I believe.

To return specifically to the question of sex and violence - the erotic. I see how “Four Poems” is disquieting for you. Part of it is dream. Part of it is how I see the world - we can agree the world can be grotesque. Yet I am more interested in the poetry of the erotic. To find that quality and add it to my poems.

What quality is that? You know, when something surprising, well, turns you on. I'll forego an example and leave it to your imagination. I believe one consciously plans the erotic in their writing because it is so rare an occurence (in writing). Almost consciously avoided, I'm sure you would agree. I consciously "include" because it will most resemble truth and the authentic. I wonder if I might give a few examples of good erotic writing - or of writing that at least satisfies my mysterious criteria here. I think of a small book of W.S. Merwin's "Finding The Islands". e.e.cummings can be sexy. Mostly I don't find entire works that are beautifully erotic - more often it is a line or two, or image, here and there. But it exists, no doubt. "Last Tango In Paris" works. If you get past the contrivance. The real subject of that movie is existentialism, which is explored and deconstructed through eroticism.

Do I find pleasure in the ubiquitous sex in the popular arts? I think I might if it were done well. But like most things in the popular arts it is done poorly. One can't expect the true erotic in television based on false dialogue and suspect philosophy.

Further, it is extreme and violent for the reason that it is not careful in its portrayal. It is a lie.The erotic is spiritual - any other message is a lie. One can only imagine that this "art" is advanced by writers, directors, actors who know little of themselves - or the world - including the world of the erotic. But, as I say, I am more interested in the authentic examples. Besides, I can't eradicate the darkness. It's more practical for me to write the poems I do - covering the political and erotic beat at the level I do - which is largely subtle, I think. Abundant sex and strident politics (in writing) is as dangerous as none or dishonest samples. Almost entirely, the photography I have done so far - you might find interesting - is the female nude set in raw, stark spaces (cellars, for instance). Yet the subject is always beauty - and light.

VF: Yes, and picking up on how you describe your work, I'd add to or emphasize that your impulse to "most resemble truth and the authentic" by being inclusive is integral to your whole aesthetic.

You mention light, again. The contrasts you play with in your poetry and photography might be about light because of how light changes the meaning and color so gradually yet sometimes greatly. In the poems you use space and even typography that way. Do you usually do this with a scheme in mind? Or is it intuitive?

LG: You say, the "true", the "authentic" (at least the search for it) is the key to my aesthetic. Certainly that is the case. Let me put it this way: When a movie doesn't work, it is because the story falls apart. We have been raised on stories and myths since ancient times. So we know a good story when we hear one. Once the audience mistrusts the plot (even I would say a minor point, like a character saying something out of keeping), then the audience starts thinking about cameras and stunt-people and actors' salaries, and the whole deal unravels. This is the "true" I am after, if not the sensibility I hold up as the model.

"Meaning changes gradually"? Yes it does. And this is key, too. This is a fact that the gradually changing-of-light and actual typographical space hopes to accommodate. Do I have a plan? I must have once, but now it is all intuitive - a learning to trust my instincts sort of thing. It is simply how I see things. Painterly, and maybe just a little strange. Never forgetting, everything begins with a line, preferably, a good line. The more I think about poetry and erotic matter, I realize it's a seduction. I want to be seduced by poetry, my own and others.