AWP – the Association of Writers and Writing Programs – is coming to Seattle February 26 through March 1. Thousands of books, hundreds of poets and writings, billions of adoring fans of literature! All this can be expected for the well-known and beautiful conference. To aid in the excitement of the events, we reached out to Poetry Northwest’s Matt Kelsey, Crab Creek Review’s Kelli Russell Agodon and APRIL’s Willie Fitzgerald to talk about their involvement with AWP, what inspires them about poetry and much, much more!

Jake Uitti: Matt, you’re the Managing Editor for Poetry Northwest – what’s exciting for you about this year’s AWP being in Seattle? What do you hope to see, both formally and little surprises?

Matt Kelsey: Where do I even begin?! I’ll start with this: home field advantage. It works for the Seahawks, and it works for me. I loved traveling to Boston last year–I lived there for 5 years, so the conference made for a good reunion with writer friends and family–but I was also jet lagged the entire time, and we were encumbered by a blizzard, to boot. In Seattle, I’ll feel more fresh, which is important, being that Poetry Northwest is co-hosting the event, and we’ll be busy facilitating dialogue and festivity, alike. I look forward to having a part in tables and panels and readings, formally, but there’s also the enormous, dumb thrill of knowing a number of friends and strangers are boarding planes and weaving mad contrails through the skies just to infiltrate our hotels and apartments and park benches for a hot week. Seattle’s more than Starbucks and rain and Microsoft–folks will get to see that. And surprises? Poetry’s chock full of ’em. I’ll be expecting the unexpected all week.

JU: Kelli, as editor for Crab Creek Review, what irons do you have in the fire for AWP? What do you feel you have to see and do? Will you be visiting any of the park benches Matt mentioned?!

Kelli Russell Agodon: For Crab Creek Review, we’re sharing a booth with Two Sylvias Press, a small press Annette Spaulding-Convy and I started a couple years ago. Crab Creek Review’s big event will be a 30th Anniversary Reading on Friday, February 28th at 3 pm on the Scott James Bookfair Stage (details here).

On the last day of AWP, I’ll be passing the editor’s job over to Ronda Broatch and Jenifer Lawrence. We also have a new poetry editor, Martha Silano. AWP is my last official event as editor of Crab Creek Review (though I’ve been asked to be on the Crab Creek Review Literary Board, a job which I’ve accepted, so I’m not truly untied from the journal), but I’m looking forward to having more time to put into Two Sylvias Press.

As for park benches, you can probably find me in my hotel room napping if I become overwhelmed by things. There, or hiding under a table in the bookfair eating trail mix. Though I do have a book release happening at the Seattle Art Museum’s restaurant with Susan Rich and White Pine Press on Friday night, as well as a couple panels I’m on, so I can’t hide too much. Also, I love discovering new poets and books, so I’m sure I’ll spend much of my time wandering the bookfair and since I’m local, I can buy as many books as I can fit in my car. At the DC-AWP, I was so close to having my suitcase go over the weight limit because of books I purchased, I was stashing them in others’ carry-ons.

JU: Willie, as the creative director for APRIL (which recently was a Stranger Genius Award finalist), what do you have in the works for AWP? What sounds exciting about the event, where do you hope to visit? What will you eat underneath a table when you become overwhelmed?

Willie Fitzgerald: So! APRIL’s a series of events, so we don’t have a whole lot of tangible stuff to sell. In fact, we don’t even have a table.

That doesn’t mean we don’t have any plans, though. Tara, our managing director, will be sitting on a panel about bringing readings outside the campus. Frances, our media coordinator, organized a panel about how to expand the audience for small press with Molly Gaudry (of the LitPub), Richard Nash (of Red Lemonade) and Jacob Perkins (of Mellow Pages).

On the event side of things, we’ve got a great reading on Thursday night at 8 at Raygun Lounge, with Gigantic, Magic Helicopter, Octopus Books, and Poor Claudia. We’re also involved with something on Friday night, but that’s still getting hammered out and I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I do know that I probably won’t be sleeping much.

But beyond the events and the carousing, I’m excited to meet and re-meet so many writers and publishers from around the country. I’ve never been to AWP, so I’m really looking forward to the discovery part that Kelli mentioned. I’m going to be overwhelmed, and I can’t wait.

As for sub-table victuals, you probably can’t beat trail mix for its excellent ratio of protein to volume. Never enough of those little yogurt-covered raisins, though, in my experience. Or far too many. You can’t win. I imagine I’ll try and smuggle some Tacos Chukis into the bookfair. So look for me: I’ll be emerging from beneath the Publishing Genius table, wild-eyed and asking you for napkins.

JU: Matt, who are you hoping to see read? Anyone from the Boston AWP you’re hoping to catch again? Give me a sense of your own plan for AWP…

MK: I’ll be so (pleasurably) busy this time around that I’m not even sure how many readings I’ll have time to catch. I know Robert Hass will be making an appearance on behalf of Red Hen Press–he reads on Friday night in Ballroom E of the Convention Center. It appears a lot of my friends from the Boston Poetry Union and Pen & Anvil Press aren’t able to make it out for the event, but it David Ferry finds his way out here, I’ll sniff him out, for sure. I missed Anne Carson in Boston, but she’ll be reading for Seattle Arts and Lectures this spring, so if she’s not reading at AWP, I’ll catch her soon enough.

As for my responsibilities? The Poetry Northwest crew and I will be hosting the AWP kick-off party at the Pinebox on Wednesday, February 26th (8pm and on). Readers include Hannah Sanghee Park, Cody Walker, and Heather McHugh, with music by Mouce Manouche. On Thursday, I’ll be presenting on a panel (“How Can You Grade a Poem?”) with some fine folks, including moderator Stephanie Lenox, whom I met at last year’s AWP. Our panel goes live at 4:30 in room 611 of the Convention Center. Another panel I’ll be supporting through PoNW is called “The Kizer Legacy: A Reading,” which features a unique exposition of our founding editor’s oeuvre. I’m not sure of the room number yet, but the panel members are Nicky Beer, Olena Kalytiak Davis, Amy Glynn and Sierra Nelson, all of whom speak on Friday at noon. Of course, I’ll be spending plenty of hours anchoring the PoNW table this year, and smiling until I can’t feel my cheeks anymore.

Oh! And get this: we’re launching a new podcast series called “The Subvocal Zoo.” We’ll be driving writers around town, and interviewing them in the car, on the ferris wheel, on a ferry, etc. The interviews will then go live at regular, sensible intervals. Folks can check our Indiegogo page out here.

Last, but certainly not least, I’ll be hosting my brother, Justin Boening, who’s a Philip Roth resident at Bucknell and fellow PoNW editor. He’s also the author of Self-Portrait as Missing Person, which was selected by Dara Wier for the Poetry Society of America’s National Chapbook Fellowship. He and I will travel the city with bold flight and find ample joy in the craft we share.

JU: Kelli – broad question. What do you think the importance of AWP is? What about it inspires you? Are you not a-feared of crowds like maybe some poets can be?

KRA: I think AWP can be valuable in helping each of us expand ourselves as writers. The conference covers all things literary from women memoirists with daddy issues to being a parent-writer to teaching youth in a hospital setting to marketing one’s book. . . (I was reading over the list of accepted AWP events and it is definitely long and varied and there’s something for everyone).

It can also be a good time to step out of your comfort zone of what you know (or think you know) and explore new areas, maybe a new genre, new topic, or a tribute about a writer you haven’t read. Personally, what inspires me about AWP is the chance to meet or hear the writers I love. (Note: this does not mean talking to them or having any delicious conversations, as I tend to turn into Neanderthal girl when in close contact with writers I admire.) But there is so much value in connecting with others who are caught in this weird writing world—they get it. It’s as if everyone knows each other’s backstory—whether we do or not—as writers, we can sit down and ask, “What are you working on?” and have a two-hour conversation with a stranger. There’s a connection. I’ve always believed “AWP” stood for “Awkward Word People,” and well, we are, and when you put us all in one place, we can learn from each other and have these meaningful conversations that don’t begin with the weather.

And yes, AWP has grown tremendously over the years. I don’t mind the crowds, but I do get worn down from too much socializing. I’ve been called an introvert with extrovert tendencies and many people think I’m extroverted because I’m friendly and not shy, but I spend a lot of time in my head (too much sometimes) and I need about two hours of solitude for every one-hour of socializing. But AWP happens once a year and many of us don’t attend every one, so I plan on just being present for the experience by taking a lot of notes, talking with fellow writers, and browsing books. Basically, I’m trying to disregard my own hang-ups and enjoy whatever happens.

Honestly, AWP is filled with everything I obsess about—words, books, writers, the writing life, publishing, poetry—so while it can be overwhelming and large, I find if I just focus on the smaller things such as having a meaningful conversation with a poet I only know through Facebook or letting an editor know how much I value their indie press; it’s those moments that stay with me. The best advice I can give to someone attending is to always remember “You’re always where you should be,” so don’t feel bad when someone tells you, “You missed the best panel…” (and someone will say this), just be generous and open and see what happens. Oh, and try to stay out of your own head.

JU: Willie, what’s your one goal for AWP this year?

WF: Oof, that’s a tough one. I guess, in a broad sense, it will be meeting and connecting with more small presses, and more small press authors, from around the country. More specifically, I’d like to get out of the bookfair without totally breaking my bank account, but that’s unlikely to happen.

JU: Question for all of you now: in a time when poetry seems less and less “cool” – what about it inspires you?

KRA: Poetry isn’t cool? Wait, what…

MK: Look–poetry doesn’t need to be cool. Poetry exists beyond our delegations and definitions, at a higher frequency–think ultrasonic dog whistle.

Poetry acknowledges order but subverts expectations. We take risks in poetry. Poetry considers–do I dare say this?–more of the world’s possibilities and permutations than other genres. It’s play for mortal stakes–isn’t that what Frost said?

I think a lot of writers today have conflated technological dependencies or habits with an abandonment of culture. We are paranoid that something we love is not loved by enough. But let’s not be evangelical here–poetry doesn’t need us to be thumpers atop soapboxes. We need not peddle. We must only love what we love and let that speak for itself.

(And asking thousands of folks to participate in the largest literature party ever and invest themselves in what we love–doesn’t that speak volumes? Isn’t that “cool”?)

KRA: As someone who collected rocks, stamps, coins and miniature dachshund figures as a child, it may surprise you that much of my life and interests have never fallen into what was “cool” (despite a possible belief that dachshund collections could be the next best thing), but I realize all passions are made of what inspires.

I like what Matt said about being “paranoid that something we love is not loved by enough.” For me, that is exactly the magic of poetry, like building these distinct but hidden, amazing boxes that only a few people will see and appreciate. Maybe I started too many secret clubs as a child, but I like that the people who find poetry aren’t part of the “everybody,” but part of the few who take the time to still read these paper snapshots we create and to write their own. Writers are like that. People will say, “Everyone’s a writer!” But it’s not true, more people are doing something else, but not writing, not filling their shelves with new books, not even reading.

So I guess when it comes to poetry, I’m inspired by the less than aspect of it, by the it-took-me-eleven-months-to-write-this-poem-of-twelve-lines, by the hours a poet spends crafting his or her poem and then sending it out to have it rejected over and over again. It’s a beautiful form of insanity I participate in myself, and I’m inspired by all of it.

For some bizarre reason, poetry gives my life meaning and makes me feel connected to something bigger. I can’t explain why or how or who, but writing is one of the few constants I have in my life. And honestly, even if no one ever read what I wrote, I would still write. I still am fascinated by stamps and post offices too.

WF: I think Matt and Kelli have pretty well covered the first part of this question — it doesn’t matter whether poetry is ‘cool’ or not. I reject the whole premise of the question. Poetry’s not like a style of crop top or a puka shell necklace — it’s art. Did you mean ‘cool’ as in ‘popular’? Prevalent? Widely-read? Financially solvent?

As for what about poetry inspires me… So, I don’t write poetry. I write fiction. But I read a lot of poetry. It seems to jumpstart my brain. Whether I’m having writer’s block or if I’m just sitting down to read for reading’s sake, I’ll read an Ed Skoog poem or a Joe Wenderoth poem or a Dottie Lasky poem and I’ll feel energized and revitalized. Poetry continually recalibrates my sense of what’s possible with language.

JU: Thank you all for indulging my inflammatory question – those were beautiful responses. Final question for you all now: what bit of verse, line, or even full poem or paragraph brought you to love words?

MK: I read Theodore Roethke’s “My Papa’s Waltz” when I was 17. Once I realized that the poem’s meter mimicked its content–that the waltz was performed, 3 beats per line and 4 lines per stanza–I was hooked. That a poem could dance was profoundly sensational to me. It made me appreciate poetry as a craft, and not just some slippery, immeasurable and enigmatic force that one could only harness through dumb luck. Of course, poetry does still contain the enigmatic, and its power is immeasurable. But for the first time, I caught of glimpse of the tools used to forge and wield such magic. Roethke made me want to participate beyond reading. I wanted to write–I wanted to dance.

KRA: I don’t remember the first time I heard “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” but T.S. Eliot hooked me early on. Especially these lines:

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

I knew I loved poetry, but I was an English major at the UW focused mostly on writing fiction. During my senior year, I took a poetry-writing class with Linda Bierds, and ultimately that class changed my focus completely. I wrote poems from then on and while I still occasionally wrote fiction in my 20’s, poetry had pulled me under. And in all the best ways, it was and is my favorite way to drown.

WF: Can I tweak the question? I don’t think I’m gonna beat “Prufrock” and “Waltz” for conversion moments. So, if I may, I’ll reorient to something more recent. In 2009 I walked into (the late) Pilot Books, and I basically rediscovered writing. At least, that’s what it feels like now. I specifically remember being blown away by Zachary Schomburg’s The Man Suit — just about every line of it — and Ed Skoog’s Mr Skylight, especially the first poem, “During the War.”

Here’s a sample from the second stanza:

“The train I rode around America
was empty; the country was half-empty,
like the zoo on a Monday…”

When it comes to describing transcontinental despair, it’s hard to top that.

I think reading those books, and then seeing both of them read in Seattle, did more to electrify my brain than reading some of the stone-cold classics ever did. I realize now that I had, unconsciously, thought of a lot of poetry as interesting but academic, like the body of an endangered animal embalmed in some sort of multicolored fluid. Skoog and Schomburg (and a host of other really great writers) kicked me in the face a little bit, brushed me off, and said “this is alive.” I’m eternally grateful for that.