Yet another heatwave in NYC, and of course, when I made these reservations weeks ago, it was for outdoor seating. Old John’s Luncheonette on the Upper West Side had its usual eclectic dinner crowd of elderly gay couples, a large group of seemingly college friends in the back, and then only us outside at a large robin’s egg blue table set between two lush green plants that I couldn't possibly identify. I situated myself to face outward from the restaurant toward the small cluster of smokers on the sidewalk, the short line of taxis, and to be able to see when the poet I would be interviewing, Ashley D. Escobar, would come up the block from the 1 train.
When Ashley arrived in her long, print dress and large-rimmed glasses, we almost instantly started talking about poetry; that is why we are here after all, to discuss her book GLIB that won the famed book prize by Changes Press with judge Eileen Myles. And really, on a 97-degree night with neon lights glowing behind us, who wouldn’t want to talk verse over some vermouth?
Our attention immediately came to genres or perhaps form, especially since I found the fluctuation of form within GLIB so fascinating. Shuffling my little notebook across the table, we discuss experimental and avant-garde work, which is often teased in the book with lines like, “is Weezer avant-garde?” When asked about mainstream vis-à-vis the lit mag world, Escobar says, “Yeah, I feel like a lot of magazines, they claim to be more experimental, but then their work is still pretty, formally structured.” Which I couldn’t agree with more and gives poets like us more to discuss, if not create. Are trendy forms taking on seriousness and relevance that perhaps were dismissed just a few years ago, such as collage poetry?
Our orders were picked up by the most studious of waiters before the next question regarding forms: list poems. Escobar has a trove of list poems in her collection that are steeped in a singular, particular moment. A list that gives us a snapshot of, for example, a night in a Big Boys parking lot. To my surprise, for some of these pieces, she drew inspiration from sonnets. “I actually wrote that when I was at a class in Bennington [College] called Genre and Forms. So, we were kind of thinking about different forms [at the time],” as she goes on to say about how some poems just spill out of her, like much of her other list poems.
The conversation bounced between stream-of-consciousness writing and readers’ interpretations, but what stood out most was her use of entendre and enjambment. Excitedly, she says, “Yeah, I feel like one place, the biggest, inspirations in terms of writing is song lyrics [...] because song lyrics can be, like, pretty big. And, there's a lot of room to interpret based on, like, the melody or just [...] their inflection and stuff.” She pulled out her phone and showed me a playlist of songs she listened to while writing this book. I immediately asked her to send it to me. “...working on a piece of writing, like, I'll listen to [a song] on repeat. Just so I can get into kind of, like, the vibe of the song.” Who can’t relate to that? Every breakup song, partying until the early morning, dropping into grief—all of these tunes push us to unearth the emotions we have allowed, or wanted to, lie dormant.We talked about how repetition can do more than just create emphasis—it can also work like a hook or chorus in a song, which is something GLIB uses often.
A large plate of short rib risotto landed on our table between our craft beverages. Mine was a gin Negroni, and hers was John’s signature drink. The beautiful plating and shaped drinks, we naturally had to share tastes. Of course, this delicious moment distracted us from our next major discussion point: writing about relationships, more specifically, naming the people directly in our lives. What are the ethics of that anyways?
After a quick sip, she says, “I feel like, especially in poems, I am totally fine with […]writing with their names, real names.I don’t think there is anything inherently unethical about that.” Though she goes on to add that there are many people left unnamed in her book, and that’s to add more to the connectedness of the pieces with the reader.
Which brought me to the title of the book itself, GLIB. “...at Bennington [College], I feel like my advisor said that I sometimes said stuff very in, like, a glib way. […] That was kind of just, like, a word that stuck to me for a while. And then when I was, like, putting these poems together, at first, I was actually going to name this manuscript “I Dream in Bisquick” or something else. But then, I don't know, GLIB just kind of stuck with me like it's a pretty short, four-letter word, that, like, I think it's kind of like sarcastic, but also, like reclaiming the word.” I couldn’t agree more. I also found it interesting that it was a nod to an advisor, and when asked if it was meant to be a compliment to her, she said, “I mean, some stuff happened, and it was just like, how I can just, like, sometimes say stuff. Like, that's very flippant, I guess. Like, in a joking way, but some people might just take it very seriously because it was kind of sent in, I guess, but like, yeah. It was like joking, like, but like a compliment.” After her undergrad in Fiction, Escobar attended Columbia University for her MFA, which brought her to NYC.
This unexpectedly brought me to my next question on being an artist in the city. As a transplant myself and someone who has many transplant artist friends, the transition to New York City can be a tough one compared to creating in other cities, sometimes even countries. However, Escobar feels she had a smooth transition, and both her upbringing in a major California city and Bennington College’s proximity to the city assisted in this. She felt already tapped into the writing scene here, even referencing this in one of my favorite lines, “I threw up/on the KGB stairs and performed after.” So, while many struggle to adapt to the largeness and complexity of NYC, Escobar thrived and used it to inform her work. Though she makes a point to say that the music scene in Chicago is better, and I can’t disagree with her there. As far as music goes, it's difficult to find the local music scene. Which led us to more on transitions.
There are distinct and rather intentional sections in GLIB. I needed to know if she wanted the reader to take away from this seemingly narrative-like structure. With another gentle drink, she conveys, “Yeah, it's funny because originally, my original manuscript didn't have sections, but my editor and I, we kind of came together to make sections. And the first section starts out very chatty, and then by the end, it gets very reflective. Then the second part is totally different, like, the end, there's a lot more [to] the relationship in the book, like, [it] kind of grows, if that makes sense. It gets more stable and like, reflective.” I ask about the overall editing process, since this is her first book, and impresive contest winner noless, and ask what it was like writing in her own internal world vs in a more official capacity of publication: “...I feel like most of the editing that we did was just kind of like, it was very, very play around with the form.” While many of the poems had more traditional elements (though not all), like being left-aligned, as a team, Escobar and her editor, Kyle Dacuyan, worked to have the form of the poems reflect the content more cohesively. And, it worked.
This brought up the overall contest process, “Yeah, I mean, honestly, when I first saw the contest, like, I almost didn't submit [be]cause it was, like, I don't…it just felt like a lot of people might submit to it because it was free to submit, because a lot of contests you have to pay. So, I was like, oh, wait, it's like a free contest judged by Eileen Myles. I feel like a lot of people want to submit, but then I just kind of did it. I put all my poems together and just sent it out. And then one day, I was just in my room, and I woke up, and I saw I had a voicemail from Bennet [Bergman], the founder of Changes, and I was, like, oh, wait, I have to call him back. [...] I mean, it was just such, like, a shocking moment.” And then, she expressed the anticipation of the release and how she could feel in her own internal tension building. But, as we agreed in the moment, this is a typical writer’s feeling. It’s always good to keep up the writing work for this.
Escobar has many projects-in-progress right now with upcoming readings (see flyer): the third issue of her publication with Co-Editor-In-Chief Penelope Bernal Wind-Up Mice Journal, which is both print and online, and a zine project. Though once we started discussing this the topic of working on work, the conversation quickly turned to our Big Three Signs, and we concluded that while we both have Leo Suns, the poems come from our moon signs. Which was the perfect way to finish up our time together.
Our shared train back uptown flew as we chatted about trips outside of the city, a necessity when living here. She got off at her stop to meet up with her partner for a proper dinner. Leaving at my respective station to head back to my five-story walk-up, I reflected on my enchantment with this incredible work and thought, What’s next?
