...with Rosa Lane by Meghan Elizabeth Kelley

Rosa Lane is author of four poetry collections including Called Back (Tupelo Press, 2024) in queer conversation with Emily Dickinson and winner of the 2025 Maine Literary Book Award; Chouteau's Chalk, winner, Georgia Poetry Prize (University of Georgia Press, 2019); Tiller North, winner, 2017 National Indie Excellence Award (Sixteen Rivers Press, 2016); and Roots and Reckonings, a chapbook. Her most recent work won the 2023 Morton Marcus Memorial Poetry Prize, was named Best of Poetry for the 2024 Geminga Prize and selected finalist for the 2023 Gregory O'Donoghue International Poetry Competition (Cork, Ireland) among other awards. Lane’s poems have appeared in Cloudbank, Five Points, Nimrod, RHINO, River Heron Review, Third Coast, and elsewhere. Website: www.rosalane.com

I recently had the pleasure of chatting with Rosa Lane about her latest book Called Back. This is a bold book of lyrical narrative poems that give life to the queer, feminist, and gender-fluid aspects of Emily Dickinson’s work that have often been overlooked and erased. I highly recommend you check it out—you can purchase the book from Tupelo Press.

Meghan Elizabeth Kelley: Rosa, thanks for taking the time to discuss Called Back. I really enjoyed the deep inquiry and reckoning with Dickinson’s life, work, and legacy happening in the book. I’m curious about how you arrived at Dickinson as the subject of your poems. 

Rosa Lane: I, like most, first learned of Dickinson in high school English classes as an eccentric poet writing obscure poems of nature and death, who wore white and reclused in her bedroom due to the unrequited love of a mystery man. In spring of 2019 when I came across a collection of letters and letter-poems that Dickinson wrote to her sister-in-law, Susan, in a work entitled Open Me Carefully, Emily Dickinson’s Intimate Letters to Susan Huntington Dickinson (2019, 1998), edited by Ellen Louise Hart and Martha Nell Smith, every previous thought I had about Dickinson flew out the window. Much of what I had been taught faded into folklore.

Meghan: Was there something specific about Open Me Carefully that particularly intrigued you?

Rosa: In their “Introduction,” Hart and Smith described Emily’s love of Susan as one of romantic and erotic passion. They invited readers to find out for themselves. Following their cue, my eyes fell on a letter Dickinson wrote to Susan in late June 1852, about four years before Susan married Austin, Emily’s brother. Emily wrote to Susan, who was away teaching math in Baltimore, “…the expectation once more to see your face again, makes me feel so hot and feverish, and my heart beats so fast…” That is when my chin hit the floor. I couldn’t believe such blatant, homoerotic expressions included not just in this letter but in several letters, considered primary source documents, could be so overlooked by literary scholars. During the pandemic and being housebound, I began re-reading Dickinson with eyes wide open.

Meghan: It sounds like you were really excited by that initial discovery and research, and I’m curious how the book started to emerge from there. 

Rosa: The journal I kept with my research notes, which was never meant to see the light of day, morphed into poetry and persona poems, a poetic form I had rarely used; however, I was not the first to write in the persona of Emily Dickinson. Lucie Brock-Broido had done so before me in her 1995 poetry collection, The Master Letters. I conversed with Dickinson’s I-speaker and where that voice held LGBTQ significance, I found a queer voice unheard, if not muted, for over a century. Having grown up in a small New England town, I well knew of Calvinism, its religious judgment, and the town gossip it fueled. As a New England lesbian, who knew of my orientation at a very young age, I identified with Dickinson, not the iconic Dickinson, but the Emily growing up in the socio-religious context and the otherness she spoke to were all too familiar. Writing in the queer persona of an imagined Emily emerged naturally.

Meghan: Emily Dickinson is obviously an incredibly well-known poet. How did you think about adopting such a recognized persona in these poems?

Rosa: Appropriating the voice of a dead poet, especially the queer voice of one of America’s most famous poets, required deep inquiry and responsibility. This appropriation had to be earned by in-depth research including study of Amherst, Massachusetts in the 19th century; geography; sounds of the town; when the first train arrived; family structure; 19th-century female life and societal norms and expectations; Calvinism; one hundred plus years of literary scholarship on Dickinson; dangers of perverse presentism; and of course daily reading and re-reading Dickinson’s poems and letters, which were their own testament as Hart and Smith presented in their introduction to Open Me Carefully.

Meghan: As you referenced earlier, the queerness and gender fluidity of Dickinson’s work are often not highlighted, particularly in traditional educational settings. What was it like to write into this space of erasure?

Rosa: The more I read, the more disturbed I grew at the erasure. First, I had the challenge of decoding many of Dickinson’s poems. Judith Farr, a Dickinson scholar, in her work The Passion of Emily Dickinson (1992) identified code names Dickinson used for Sue, such as Eden, heaven, pearl, among others. Yet, in another poem, #J1737, Dickinson is explicit. For example, in the first of five quatrains, her female I-speaker exclaims two blatant demands: “Amputate my freckled Bosom! / Make me bearded like a man!” The I-speaker’s demand for gender transfiguration is explosive and to which my poem “Paire de corps” responds.

Another challenge had to do with a self-imposed erasure and my struggle with the question as to whether to go public with poetic writings from my private journey and the lesbianism and gender fluidity I found in Dickinson’s work. I questioned who was I to speak in the queer voice of an imagined Emily, one of America’s greatest poets? Why me? After consulting my poet friend Stephen Haven on this question and upon receiving his encouragement, I sent out one poem, “Dear Sir, (No. 7),” as a litmus test. Weeks later when this poem not only was accepted for publication, but also placed for the Pablo Neruda Poetry Prize, I had my nod. About six months later, my manuscript entitled Called Back was selected for publication by Tupelo Press from 1,300+ manuscripts during its 2022 Summer Open Reading Period.

Meghan: One of the things that stayed with me after reading Called Back was the musicality of these poems. In the poem “Poiesis,” for example, you write: “Ruby throats unzip / the page / recto holds / a steed clamped / between legs.” How did you balance this musicality while staying true to Dickinson’s work?

Rosa: Reading Dickinson’s 1789 poems out-loud revealed a cadence that carried over into my own poem making. Sometimes I read as many as 100 Dickinson poems in a day, while other days I could read only one Dickinson poem. Some days I felt like her high school chum and other days like a deathbed attendant. Editing was an out-loud process—likened perhaps to the genre of spoken word poetry. This process occurred daily right up to the last day and hour of Tupelo Press’s absolute deadline for my submittal of the final manuscript. It was strange how some words rang wrong. What might have flown by one day would clunk the next. This iterative process and word search continued throughout the entire process. I was thankful that Tupelo allowed me more than 1-1/2 years of editing.

Meghan: As a reader, I was really captivated by the amount of care and attention I could tell was spent crafting these poems. Thanks so much for sharing the journey and process with us!

To follow or connect with Lane:
Goodreads: goodreads.com/author/show/15086129.Rosa_Lane
Facebook: facebook.com/rosa.lane.3954
Instagram: instagram.com/rosalanepoet
TikTok: tiktok.com/@rosalane_poet
Bluesky: @rosalane145.bsky.social

Meghan Elizabeth Kelley is a writer and poet from the Philadelphia area. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Epiphany Magazine, Bellingham ReviewHAD, and Toyon: Multilingual Literary Magazine, among other places. She has an MFA from Randolph College.

 

 

...with Joan Kwon Glass by Joanell Serra

Joan Kwon Glass is a Korean diasporic poet, winner of the 2024 Perugia Press Poetry Prize for her book DAUGHTER OF THREE GONE KINGDOMS and NIGHT SWIM, winner of the Diode Book Prize. Joan’s poems have been featured or are forthcoming in POETRY, The Slowdown, Passages North, Poetry Daily, Terrain, Ninth Letter, Rattle, AAWW (The Margins), Poetry Northwest, Tahoma Literary Review, Prairie Schooner, Salamander and elsewhere. She lives and teaches near New Haven, CT.

IG: joan_kwon_glass
Twitter: joanpglass
FB: Joan Kwon Glass

Books with links:
Daughter of Three Gone Kingdoms
Night Swim
If Rust Can Grow on the Moon
How to Make Pancakes for a Dead Boy

Hello Joan, Thank you so much for sharing your work with us and for answering my questions about this truly beautiful and moving book, Three Daughters of Three Gone Kingdoms. I'm delighted by the unusual language, dark humor, and visceral truths that come through, page after page. I urge our readers to get the book! You are the second Perugia Press winning writer we have interviewed and clearly, they choose very talented poets. Let’s get into it:

Joanell Serra:
You have many ample images of bodies of water in your poetry, such as:

I wander the beaches beyond which pearl divers hold their breath
submerge in the Pacific, then sell or eat what they find
to keep their families alive.

I am interested in whether it feels tied into your family's history in a way that makes it inevitable? Or do you have other thoughts on how persistent this theme is in the work?

Joan Kwon Glass: Rivers, lakes, and oceans have consistently represented transition and lineage in my life. In Michigan, the lakes offered a backdrop for many of my childhood memories–”up north” (in Michigan’s upper peninsula) as well as the small lakes that served as a backdrop for the neighborhoods where I played, lived, and grieved. In Korea, the Yellow Sea represents the metaphorical and political distance between North and South Korea, as North Koreans will sometimes attempt to defect by swimming across the Yellow Sea. Coastal towns also have significance to Korea. Before and during the Korean War, for example, my own family traveled as far south as possible to escape. They ended up in Pusan, a fishing town, now a major port. Jeju Island is an island with a history of colonial resistance. Near Jeju Island is an island called Ieodo which is still contested by China as belonging to them. There are folk songs written about Ieodo which convey the longing that Koreans have for “home.” For colonized and divided countries, developing a sense of home can be…complicated. It can require mourning, imagination, and world-building. Now, I live in a coastal Connecticut town. There is a beach and state park nearby where egrets feed and breed. Egrets always remind me of the rivers and rice paddies I would pass while on a train from Seoul to my family’s hometown of Daegu. There are so many patterns like this related to water in my life.

Joanell Serra: The book takes the reader on a long autobiographical journey. We meet you as a child, raised by your mother alone after your father left the family. Later, we meet the narrator as an adult, as a mother, as a grieving sister and aunt, and as someone who is on her own healing journey. I imagine much happened in your twenties and maybe thirties that is not included, yet informs so much of the work. How did you decide what portions of your life to focus on for this work?

Joan Kwon Glass: I feel like my current life truly began in recovery from active addiction. I got clean and sober when I was 38 years old. My childhood was one life. I cover that pretty extensively in my book. My 20s and 20s were another. In most of my 20s and 30s, I had what most people would call a relatively normal, successful life. I earned my Master’s when I was 21 and my first teaching job a month later. I married at 26 and had two children. I became a school administrator at age 27. My house literally had a white picket fence around it. When I had a dental procedure and was prescribed an opiate at age 30, the darkest part of my life began. I was immediately addicted and spent the next eight years in active addiction.  lost everything that I had except my life. I wrote a chapbook entirely about this entitled IF RUST CAN GROW ON THE MOON (Milk & Cake Press, 2022). Then in 2017, I lost my sister and nephew to suicide. Soon after, I wrote NIGHT SWIM (Diode Editions, 2022) which is entirely about that experience. DAUGHTER OF THREE GONE KINGDOMS feels like an all-encompassing collection about how hunger, longing, grief, memory and diaspora are connected and how they have affected every aspect of my life. I do not believe in avoiding darkness in my work. At the same time, I do not set out specifically to reveal darkness. I write what I am compelled to write.

Joanell Serra: How do you see the interplay of grief and joy in your work? Do you find yourself editing poems that feel too light? Too dark?  Are there poets that you read often for evidence of either?

Joan Kwon Glass: I have learned that joy can, and often does, accompany grief. It is one of the absurdities of life and death. I think some of my poems address this implicitly through dark humor and by revealing the contradictions. I have found love, life, and grief to always throw curveballs, so I am a fan of unexpected turns and endings. I’m not sure that I’ve ever thought that one of my poems was “too light!” In fact, at the end of readings, I often joke that I will be ending on a “light poem,” but then say “oh, wait. I don’t have any light poems.” I think I have only ever written one poem that a friend described as “too dark.” It was at a time in my life when I was struggling with one of my own children struggling with me. I felt a lot of despair at that time. I love to read Diane Seuss who doesn’t shy away from the absurdity of life and death and what it means to allow oneself to be fully human, in its ugliness, abstractions, and contradictions. Other poets who convey both grief and joy in a way that resonates with me include Patrick Rosal, Andrea Gibson, and Chen Chen. Specifically for grief (various kinds) I read Eugenia Leigh, Rachel McKibbens, Seamus Fey, Tiana Clark, and K. Iver. For joy, Kai Coggin.

Joanell Serra: The book offers the readers many moments either in Korea or touching on Korean culture. You made the choice not to translate certain words, and to leave the words in Korean instead. Can you speak to this choice and whether that has been challenging? You also included, in speaking of your paternal grandfather, a slang word used towards Koreans. Was this a difficult choice?

Joan Kwon Glass: I have been asked this question before and I wish I had a more poetic answer! The truth is that some of the time, I followed what my instincts told me in terms of the importance of using Hangul. At other times, it was a practical decision–I remembered how to spell that particular word! All of the hungry ghost poems incorporate Hanja (a sort of Mandarin-Korean hybrid alphabet used in official documents and newspapers), because the names of these Buddhist hungry ghosts were first written about when Hanja was used more predominantly.

In terms of my grandfather and using anti-Asian slang, I figured that if I was expected to hear that as a child, I was going to include it. I believe that poetry does not have to be comfortable for the reader or the writer. In fact, I have written some of what I consider to be my most distinctive poems by refusing to turn away from the things that compelled me to start writing. I wrote as a child as the only act of resistance that was accessible to me in an incredibly dysfunctional and traumatic situation. Why would I abandon this now?

Joanell Serra: There is a such a strong theme of faith: from a childhood in an evangelical church, to praying in the depths of drug use to a conversation with your daughter about prayer when she asks:

How do I even know if he is listening?

Do you find your faith, or your struggles with faith, inform your work? Or would you say the work opens up this area because of your own ambivalence or doubts?

Joan Kwon Glass:I think it’s important to point out distinctions between religion, faith & fanaticism. I grew up in a southern Baptist church. The kind of church that actively campaigns against other religions, preaches intolerance as essential to being a “real” Christian, shows video simulations to children of what will happen to them (think gallows, firing squads, etc.) if they are “left behind” during the tribulation, etc. Where I now live, in Connecticut, I very rarely meet religious fanatics. In fact, when I talk about my experiences as a child, the vast majority of people look at me strangely, or as though they think I must be exaggerating. Most folks in New England are either religious, agnostic, or atheist. Then there’s faith–I could write a book about what this means to me, what it has meant to me, and what I hope it can and will mean to me. I am a recovering addict and participate in a 12-step program where we are encouraged to develop our own concept of a “higher power.” My HP shifts and morphs. My faith is always a work in progress. As am I. I WOULD say that my mother’s faith & her fanaticism have deeply affected my outlook on the world and my resistance to any singular way of understanding “God” and that there is any singular “right” way to live my life. So, in this way, her faith and fanaticism have provided me a way into my own spirituality and self-understanding.