The Big C
Joshua Zeitler
Joshua Zeitler is a queer, nonbinary writer based in rural Michigan. They received their MFA from Alma College, and their work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Account, Pithead Chapel, Had, Stanchion, and elsewhere.
Why this poem knocked Martheaus out:
Forms like this are a draw for me, but I love these forms for more than just their "uniqueness" or "hey, it’s shaped like a dolphin." The title and the C shape of the poem emphasize the Big Crunch theme and--more directly for the poem--emphasize a feeling of things collapsing in on themselves. The Big C (Crunch and cancer) is something you can't jump out of. The forwardness of the poem's shape--to me--allowed for cancer and collapsing to always be on my mind, even during the retelling of a story that is not (on the surface) about cancer.
I was raised by someone with cancer and it seems like the illness spread into her memories themselves. Quiet moments, silly moments, it doesn't quite matter; there's always this lingering season of a slow death. Joshua’s poem, at least for me, utilizes that stillness. Their poem works because it shows how difficult it is to sit in this answerless and quiet place.
Dear Brawl reader, the chirping you've been hearing recently has not been tinnitus--it's actually been me clapping from my home here in Virginia. The way this poem opens with that moon image and closes with the bats' breath. MMmmhhhhmmmm. Good stuff!
Interview:
I have my theory about the form, but I'd like to hear from you. Why this form for this poem, and when did the shaping come into the process?
The form of this poem arose somewhat organically--which is to say it changed a lot as the poem developed. Like most of my first drafts, this poem was born by hand in my notebook. I had some key places where I marked line breaks, but otherwise it was pretty loosey-goosey. As I typed it, I began to consider what kind of energy I wanted it to have on the page. I was thinking of Dana Levin's "Watching the Sea Go" (I'm definitely a fangirl for this poem) and decided I wanted to try a similar tactic--an enactment of the subject of the poem on the page. It shrank, expanded, shrank, and then expanded again, as the universe presumably might, given infinite time, but it felt unfocused. So I pruned, and gave it the singular arc of contracting and then expanding. It felt important to the poem not to end with the Big Crunch, so to speak, but with the expansion that could follow. And it took a lot of negotiating to place the bottleneck at the right moment, at an emotional turn. It wasn't until the third typed draft that I introduced the internal white space, the absence which I now feel is essential to the poem.
Could you talk more about the choice to use the mouse and the rat in this poem? This form of eco-poetry seems to be an attempt to bridge a connection, am I right there?
Yes! I don't know that I would have phrased it that way on my own, but I think you're right. With the mouse and the bat, there's an interplay between life and death--the ultimate nature that we all must face. The speaker's reaction contrasts with the speaker's friend's reaction to these so-called pests. The bridge, perhaps, is between terror and a holy kind of fear--a fear with space for reverence and awe. And tenderness. Death is the most tender experience of our lives, if we're lucky. Is it madness or is it natural to crave that meaning?
You get an all-expense paid trip to talk to anyone in the world (or time travel to anyone in history) to talk about poetry. Who are you speaking to?
Lynn Rather. There are so many (too many) living poets whose brains I'd love to pick, but Lynn was always my rock. She inspired this poem, and I'd give anything to have another Rumi Hour with her.
Hope these work for you, but feel free to edit as necessary. Also--so glad the reference was appreciated! And I'm so grateful the vibe you have is open to a little goof-balling. Y'all have struck the perfect balance between fun and rigor. So seriously--keep up the great work! I deeply appreciate both you and Taylor!