Ask the Author, Jeanann Verlee

Jeanann Verlee shares three poems in the November issue and talks with us about imagery, letters to former selves, and the tattoo she wants most.

1. When it comes to poetry, I’m very into imagery and you have a fantastic command of it (“My body is a wafer, a thin, soft melt on a choir boy’s tongue”).   What visual artists influence your writing?

Thank you! I have several favorites and stumble into new ones all the time. I’m distinctly and almost obsessively drawn to Michael Hussar‘s work.   He is tremendous. A visceral wallop. He is one whose whole body of work is indescribably impactful, ushering me into new ways of telling. I keep a regular peek at what Angie Mason is doing, as well.   Her work speaks with a delightful whimsy, underscored by its own darkness; eerie yet precious. She has specific pieces that spark entire poems. The same is true of Tyson Schroeder.   He is a fantastic new discovery for me. I first saw some of his work in Danse Macabre and immediately searched him out. My friend David Ayllon, designer of the cover for my last chapbook and forthcoming website, is a constant source of awe.   I’m also quite moved by the work of Shay Casey and Heiko Muller, both vastly different but I find their more haunting images provide a mental landscape for writing that I return to again and again. Finally, I can’t fail to mention the all-stars, Tim Burton, H.R. Geiger, and Dr. Seuss!

2. When people hear/read your work, how often do you hear how much they, the listener, express the need to hug you?

Ha! Where I often think I would get such a reaction, I actually rarely do. I’m most frequently told that my work is perceived as encouraging or that my “strength is envied.” I don’t know where in that the truth really lies, but my work isn’t a bemoaning. It is primarily a processing of past events. Some of the events were traumatic, sure, but I’m not whimpering. I’m proud of how far I’ve come and what I do with the lessons learned. So, while some people may have an urge to hug, I find they tend to approach me with timidity, if at all. I get more emails than personal introductions and the emails typically include such statements as, “I saw you read at [   ] but was too intimidated to talk to you.” This baffles me somewhat as I really am a very kind, silly lady. Curiously, high school girls often come to me open-armed, explaining that I seem to somehow understand. These are the girls I take with me. Who remind me that despite any ribbing I receive about my work being too personal or melancholy, it’s reaching someone, helping understand a hurt or mend a hate. (The only other attempts come from the occasional gentleman who feels that my mention of, say, “masturbation” somehow translates to, “please touch me.” Those encounters don’t tend to end well.)

3. What tattoo do you want the most and where would you put it?

There are actually two that I want “most” and I can’t decide a hierarchy. 1) I’m really excited to finish the half-sleeve on my right arm — a layering of favorite lines of poetry from an array of writers in varied fonts. This is taking a while; each time I come across another writer’s brilliant line, the plan changes. 2) I collect elephants, too. I want to have the elephants from Salvador Dali’s, “Les Elephants,” tattooed, one on each calf.

4. What is your preferred brand of vodka?

I don’t drink vodka anymore. I never really enjoyed it that much and it always made me a little more mean than my friends could tolerate. Compound that with a former boyfriend’s battle with alcohol, (a strict vodka drinker), and its tie to his repeated attempts and final suicide — I just can’t say that vodka and I will ever again be on good terms. Not to say it was the fault of the alcohol, but there is a distinct mental and emotional association with that particular potion and those messy years of my life. (I can tell you that back then, it was Smirnoff. Straight from the bottle. No chaser. Classy.)

5. Is “Unsolicited Advice…” a letter to your past self from your present self or a letter from your present self to your future?

The former. In high school, I was a wild-tempered girl in combat boots with a hot pink Mohawk and, yes, crooked teeth. This poem began as a happy experiment. I was into day 9 of a National Poetry Month 30 Poems in 30 Days Challenge when I received an email from a mentor addressing my day 8 poem. The header read, “unsolicited advice.” I was appreciative of her feedback, but was moreover drawn to the subject line of her email. (During such a challenge, one feverishly seeks prompts.) I kept returning to that phrase, pondering, to whom might I offer advice? What on earth would I advise? I wrote what would become the full title and the rest came a like an avalanche. The piece has undergone construction since then, of course, but the title remains. I’ve long since prettied up the smile but I still wear combat boots and sometimes long for a jar of “Flamingo Pink” Manic Panic hair dye.

6. How many people have you headbutted?

Honestly, I haven’t kept solid count. As a youngster, I was frequently in mosh pits and later, bar fights. Things happen. Ha. So, while I can tell you of three for certain, I leave the rest to my somewhat obliterated (cached?) memory and your imagination.

The three people of which I have perfect recollection:

1) On a dare, (or perhaps a well-masked lesson), my friend and I bashed foreheads in his bedroom a few times over a scratchy vinyl recording of The Exploited’s “Troops of Tomorrow.” Testing will? Prowess? Tolerance? We were 13. I was unwittingly honing what would become a useful tool in the coming years.

2) In a punk rock dance club as a girl of 15, I was cornered by a group of skinhead girls who wanted to steal my boots. (This was commonplace in the alternative youth “scene” at the time, packs of budding neo-Nazis would beat kids unconscious and steal their boots. Some kids, so terrified, would just hand over their boots, welled in shame.) I, being a foolish, manic roar of a girl, (and let’s be honest, brimming with Jack Daniels), fought with everything I had. After some messy clawing and swinging, I decided on what I felt was a solid tactic: go just a bit nuttier than they. So, I head-butted the mouthiest of the girls. The fight waned, boots untouched.

3) At 17 and naive, I had a boyfriend who was not much more than muscle and rage. We were arguing. It escalated. He pinned my wrists to the wall. Sometimes, your neck is the only thing you’ve got left to swing.

End story, no, I did not head-butt that girl in the stairwell in middle school. Hence, its appearance in “unsolicited advice to adolescent girls with crooked teeth and pink hair.” I stammered. I choked. I turned red. Now a grown woman, I long for a “do-over.”