Laura Cronk is the author of two books of poems, Ghost Hour and Having Been an Accomplice, both from Persea Books. She is the chair of undergraduate writing at The New School in New York City where she teaches courses on pedagogy and creative practice and coordinates programs for writers such as the Summer Writers Colony and The Riggio Honors Writing & Democracy program. Originally from Indiana, she currently lives with her family in New Jersey.
I corresponded with Ms. Cronk via email about poetry as “a spiritual practice like meditation or prayer,” poems as an instrument of investigation, and American citizens’ “complicity with… everything that was being done in our names.” We also discussed the profound value of literary community, people with whom one can enjoy “long, late night conversations about poems and writing… meandering, deep” talks that open new pathways forward.
What is poetry’s greatest role in your inner life? Why do you write poems?
Lately I’ve been thinking of writing poems as a spiritual practice like meditation or prayer. This is my latest attempt at getting out of my own way, sidestepping my own pessimism.
Your most recent book of poems, Ghost Hour, was published by Persea Books in December. Poet and literary critic Craig Morgan Teicher describes the collection as “a fierce coming of age, a coming into—with heart, humor, and humility—one’s own,” and poet Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta calls the work “brilliant.” Your publisher categorizes the collection as emanating “from adolescence and other liminal spaces” and evoking “profound consideration of contemporary violence.” What would you like to share about the origins, creation process, and ambitions of this newest collection?
Ghost Hour is divided into three sections. The first group of poems circles around origins and lineage and is set in a rural Midwestern landscape. The long middle poem is an elegy for a queer first love set against the same backdrop. The third section of poems are more varied formally, more experimental, tend to be located in urban settings, and grapple with the complexities of contemporary adulthood. As in my first book, I was interested in investigating complicity in my new book. The investigation in Ghost Hour is more personal, considering the things that have most haunted me over the years I was writing these poems.
For several years, you curated the Monday Night Poetry Series at the famed KGB Bar in the East Village. Why, in your view, is the public performance of poetry important? And what is something unexpected you learned from your long tenure in that exciting position? What’s the greatest gift the experience offered you?
To mark the 20th anniversary of the Monday Night Poetry Series, those of us who have hosted reminisced about the experience here. Looking back at it, I’m so glad we captured some of those memories. Star Black and David Lehman started something really special that’s still going strong — most recently with Zoom readings and a reading on the iconic 4th Street stoop. Hosting the Monday Night Poetry series was an amazing experience and an incredible education. As an audience member or host I’ve heard almost all of my idols read at KGB. I learned how important it is for poets to have a place to perform for each other, relax and cut up with each other, and appreciate a well-poured drink.
Your first collection, Having Been an Accomplice, won the 2011 Lexi Rudnitsky First Book Prize in Poetry. Poet Anne Waldman praises the book for its exploration of “the vicissitudes and pleasures of the relational and often domestic beloved,” observing that the work “then proceeds to invent a fascinating persona in the figure of the child-like Citizen Queen, a disarmed goddess sitting in her apartment, questioning her power and efficacy.” Poet Brenda Shaughnessy describes the collection as “Dreamy yet certain, lovelorn and love-buoyed,” adding that “the sadness in the poems has joy-rounded edges, the delight scooped out of melancholy and offered, shining.” To me, the book seemed unified and composed by the desire for a powerful voice of clarity in a time of dangerous opacity and unthinkable destruction. In your mind, what inquiry or exploration unifies the work? What do you hope the book’s readers will be left with, after the final page?
I began this book as the U.S. was launching its invasion of Iraq and I felt enraged and hopeless, full of the need to do something. The thing I ended up doing was writing poems about my complicity as an American citizen with the war, with the president, with everything that was being done in our names. I was also interested in the joy and the sacrifices involved in falling in love, embarking on an adult life. At a point those two very different interests blurred and merged. I don’t know what I hope people are left with. I’m always hoping to really capture the full depth of feeling I’m writing about and to have it land like a punch in the gut. So I want people to feel punched, I guess?
You serve as chair of undergraduate writing at The New School, where you coordinate the Riggio Honors Program: Writing and Democracy. What has been the greatest pleasure of this educational post, for you? And the greatest challenge? What are your hopes for the program, through this time of remote learning academic redefinition?
John Reed’s wonderful book about The New School, A Drama in Time characterized the Riggio Honors Program as “the first academic program to treat writing, equality, and justice as a single subject, and to implement its philosophy in its internal structure.” I’m so passionate about this program. Besides the connections the program draws between writing and justice, the commitment to fostering a true community for students is the program’s most important goal. I think, for recent alumni, knowing that there’s this serious, generous group of writers who are really in your corner can make all of the difference. We’ve weirdly come through the pandemic stronger than ever. There’s been a clarifying aspect of this experience. No one wants to waste any time. Even over Zoom some really deep connections have been made. There are ways that being online made aspects of the program more accessible for some, like those who have caretaking responsibilities, and that has been something we want to continue to support. And shy people do love a good Zoom chat. It’s especially good for jokes, asides, some of the things that confident people manage to say in person. Of course it’s been really, really hard to not be in each other’s physical presence. I’m looking forward to the fall and the beautiful sensory overload of being in a room together talking about writing.
What 17th and 18th century poets do you read? And what has their work awakened in you?
There is so much incredible contemporary poetry being published now that I’ve really been focusing my reading there. I did just wander into a local used bookstore, though, and buy The Portable William Blake which I’m planning to dig into this summer, even though it has a musty smell. Do any BAP readers have any tricks for refreshing bad-smelling used books?
Are there any reliable critics? If so, who, and why is his or her perspective useful? If no, why not? What happens when poetry is critiqued? What is gained? What is lost in translation?
Most contemporary critical writing about poetry seems to be coming from a place of love and deep engagement. Or that’s what I happen to read. I’m thinking of Craig Morgan Teicher’s book We Begin in Gladness: How Poets Progress. It’s such a joyful book, one that makes me feel really connected to poetry and poets. I love Sean Singer’s newsletter The Sharpener. Megin Jimenez, who also hosted the Monday Night Poetry Series, is a poet who has been writing reviews of international fiction and nonfiction. The experience of reading good critical writing is like being immersed in a conversation with a really smart friend. So satisfying.
What themes and inquiries most fascinate and inspire you?
Justice, candor, memory, conversation, romantic love.
Do the best books win the poetry prizes? Why do great works so often fall through the cracks of our literary foundation, into obscurity?
I really think we can’t worry about this as artists. We just have to do our work and support other poets in the ways that we can. There are so many things we can do to contribute to the poetry ecosystem. There’s writing but there’s also editing, hosting readings, writing reviews, interviewing other writers as you’re doing now, teaching, starting writing or reading groups, the list goes on...
Do you have any wisdom or guidance you’d like to share with young poets?
Now is the time to have long, late night conversations about poems and writing. Find your people to have meandering, deep conversations with.
What are you working on now? What creative pursuits most excite you?
I really love essay-like poems and poetic essays. I have a few in the works…
