APR: Mel, you mention in some of your biographies online that, “Every poem I have written thus far has been an attempt to adhere to an old compulsion to write something minutely profound, to illustrate a spot in time.” Whilst many poets seek to write profoundly, I’m interested in what you meant by ‘minutely’ – which relates to the “spot in time.” Why is time so important in your writing and what does it represent to you?

Mel: Great question! Time is important to me for two main reasons. One, writing is my legacy. Writing is the only cement I have to mortar me to this world to this timeline to this existence. Thus, I don’t have any major accolades (no pyramid so to speak) and I’ve met more fish than people. In the grand scheme of humanity, Earth, and time itself, everything about my experience is minute. By minute I mean infinitesimal, absolutely unremarkable. Poetry is my pin on the timeline of existence. Of course, I’m not the first poet to write in order to stave off the sting of fragile mortality. When I write, I want to elevate a single moment to such height that I might extend that moment and in turn extend myself. In that way, time is important to many artists.

The second reason is that sublimity is all about the adherence to time as here and now, as ephemeral. The subliminal analyzes one moment and its impact on the development of a human psyche. I’d like to think that I write with sublimity in mind every time. Therein, time is important in every poem I write. Focusing on a single moment requires trimming away at the time around that moment.

APR: In your opinion; do you see the poetry marketplace specifically, shifting in keeping with the changing colors of America? With more people of color than ever before, and America on the verge of tipping into being predominantly a country of people of mixed-racial-background, it’s been argued this is why Far Right campaigners gained traction, as a last-reaction to this shift. What do you envision of the future, say in 20 years’ time? Do you see the poetic landscape experiencing a complete overhaul? Has it already begun? Is it necessary? What about on a larger scale? Will America and other countries that were historically built on racial oppression, ever unburden themselves of their history and become genuinely free of racism? Finally, does education play a large part in enabling transformation and if so, how?

Mel: There’s no way I can truly answer the question about America unburdening itself with racism without coloring that answer itself with hope. l am certain it will not happen in the next 20 years, or in the potential span of my life. I think it’s like most consumer or artistic endeavors in this country, when survival, longevity, and progress become a factor, innovators can’t be kept out. Therefore, people of color can’t be kept out. There’s a possibility that poetry and writing in general are currently endangered. It’s typically left up to innovators and the creators to solve the problem of endangerment. So, it’s likely the poetic landscape will shift or face extinction. 

APR: Whilst you admit your poetry has a confessional edge that’s cathartic, you talk of wanting your writing to be outside of you, in how it lands. Is this a reaction in a way to the old-confessional style that at times might seem wholly interior based and at times narcissistic?  Does poetry, in your eyes, have a responsibility to be more than that? I would argue that nearly all the poetry I’ve read of yours is less confessional than socially confessional, which I see as distinctly different.

Mel: I do believe that poetry has a responsibility to be more than a mirror of oneself. Although, I also believe that an individual can reflect environment and circumstances, which may reveal truths on a broader, more social level. Poetry can reveal, caricaturize, analyze etc., but there is no responsibility placed on the writer to ensure those changes happen. In my opinion, the only real responsibility of poetry is affect.

I agree that socially confessional poetry is distinctly different than personally confessional poetry, however and unfortunately, even confessions can be colonized. For example, if I write a confessional poem that analyzes my experiences with poverty and hardship, I’m making a personal confession, but also a social confession, as those are conditions that are inherently tied to systemic oppression. When I say I’ve experienced hunger, violence, inequity, those are also social confessions, and ancestral confessions. There in, are the lines blurred between socially confessional and personally confessional poetry. 

APR: In your chapbook VICE-GRIP you have a poem called Shell-Shock where you write:

Am I obligated to grieve

right there on the feed?

Can the strangled be expected

to give eulogies, to speak?

This brings up a fascinating series of thoughts on grieving and the publicity of grief. Today with social media ubiquitous, it’s rare to have the opportunity to grieve without it being on display in some way. This seems to have altered societal expectations relating to how we ‘should’ act. You talk of the strangled being expected, which really nailed an important point about the expectation levied on, essentially, the oppressed. It felt related to the idea of co-opting, for example; where a white person may speak for a Black person with good intentions but ends up coopting their voice (again) even if that wasn’t the intention. Is the title an intentional physical manifestation of how emotionally you, as a mixed-race Black woman have felt, when grieving for those in the public domain who have died because of their skin color? In the poem Chain you further this thought with the lines:

For once I want to choose the shackle,

the ligature.

Then in the poem ‘Reform’ you double-down:

then showing up at the school

to take your children too.

Talk about what these words mean, when put together.

The use of the words ‘shackle’ and ‘ligature’ are not coincidental. They simultaneously evoke images of imprisonment, slavery and subjugation. You manage to blend physicality with history in a subtle way.

Mel: I love this question. The title is of course, a pun, as are all the titles in Vice Grip, including the collection title. In the poem “Shell-Shock” I wanted to toil with the concept of Shell Shock as a type of Post Traumatic Stress, in order to illuminate how the violence Black people have experienced is comparable to, and literally, war.

Not only is there the co-opting of cultural identity to consider, but also the expectation to carry on with labor. Grief is the most burdensome of emotional labors in my opinion, and so to be expected to do it publicly, as a display, or on social media is just another example of labor exploitation. The imagery in both “Shell-Shock” and “Chain” is absolutely intentional. The use of ‘shackle’ and ‘ligature’ is meant to provoke the reader to consider what constitutes labor and what it means to have one’s trauma collectivized and commodified. Under many, many circumstances, including these nuanced, emotional circumstances, slavery is not history, it’s reality. 

APR: You talk of sentimentality, which is an interesting word because some think of sentimentality as a form of mental illness as it can torture a person. The idea that we are pinned in some way, to sentiment and thus, its source, which is usually the past. We can affect readers with sentiment if it’s shared, but how much can we influence a reader when it’s not shared? And is sentiment pure enough? Or can we teleport readers through a universal understanding, which exceeds sentiment and becomes emotionally felt, without emotion controlling it?

Mel: There are some things we all share: birth, life, death, the constraints of mortality, the fragility of flesh. Those are also elements of the past, pieces of history. Humanity is both a condition and a history. The trick is to find a single strand of connection in that history. I feel that after this feat is accomplished, the reader is more tolerant of, and curious about unshared sentiment. In this way, sentimentality can transcend.

APR: Most poets write what they know, but your interests are wide, varied and very interesting. You are not mired simply in writing about city life or grief, you’re bold in your freedom to write on a wider stage. How does your background as a performer influence this and what does being a performer mean to you? Is a poet different in some way if they are a performer, versus not? I say this having just listened to about eight of your spoken poems, you are very comfortable in front of the camera.

Mel: My background in performance literature gives me a lot of freedom when it comes to expression and interpretation. One of the aspects of poetry I love most is the development of figurative language, rhyme, rhythm, and tone. Performance is an opportunity to amplify these aspects. The art of recitation has a lot of merit when it comes to building confidence with poetic devices. Because I am consumed by the task of moving or emotionally affecting a reader, an audience is appealing to me. It allows me to gauge that response in real time and adjust. I find it very rewarding to move an audience. I also enjoy the sector of performance that endeavors toward progress with the innovation of new recitation techniques, designed for inclusivity and technology.

APR: What I personally appreciate about your poetry, aside the candor and lack of pretention, is how you often weaponize your last lines to speak so viscerally, like in your poem Body Cam Footage:

The future should know how America treats

the very people who raised it by hand.

It is as much about what is not said, as what is. That’s for me, the most powerful thing about a poem, the insinuation without spelling it out. For writers of longer poetry like me, it feels impossible at times. Do you write like you think? Or do you have to go back and trim those thoughts into these bullet-point endings that leave the reader reeling with the immensity of those few lines?

Mel: I write every poem in an original form I call the Punchline. I created the form to uphold sharpness, brevity, volta, and tactful grammar, but also for that final punch of emotion.

I do write the way that I think in that I strive to be concise and visceral. However, there is absolutely an intentional craft process for every poem I write. I want those last lines to be a punch to the gut, to sting, linger, and alter. In terms of the process for achieving this, it’s more about restraint for me than it is about trimming. I typically only need to trim a few words or syllables and tend to write rough drafts with brevity and omission as established principles.

APR: As Austin Poetry Review is devoted to feminism, one reason you stand out to us, is your advocacy for a place for women. You were educated as single-gender universities with your Bachelors and Masters. With the increase in non-binary and Trans identities in mainstream, where do you feel women seeking women’s spaces will land? And how important is gender, in relation to having a space of one’s own in a gendered sense?

Mel: When I think of women’s spaces, I think of spaces that inherently include trans and non-binary people. These spaces are important because opportunity is important, and safe spaces provide an opportunity for people to thrive rather than survive.

My opinions about what a woman is and what a woman can be are far outside of the binary, so yes, I do believe that it is important to cultivate spaces in which women are allowed to be complex. Women are not allowed to be complex in male-centered spaces.

APR: In your recently published poem Birthday Cake, you refer to Iran and Gaza, but what stands out in your writing is the alluding to, rather than the detail. In alluding you provide more opportunity for an emotional connection than if you spelt it out:

I’ll just say, someone has been doing

a fine job ensuring no more birthdays

someone deserves a raze.

You also evidence a rage, without a call to arms. I interpret this as the poet, evidencing how we should respond, without having to say it. Do you believe poetry can galvanize people into a kind of action, like other artforms? Or is this more of a historical record of atrocities committed?

Mel: If a poem is evocative enough, I absolutely believe it can galvanize a person into action. The purpose of many types of poetry is activism. It’s the emotional, cultural, and social record of history and more.

In terms of saying it without saying it, there are eye-witness accounts, video evidence, and countless, and detailed news articles of the atrocities happening in Gaza and Iran. Since the problem does not seem to be awareness, poetry must do more than inform. Galvanize might be the right word.

APR: With the socio-politic quakes around Roe v. Wade, what are your current thoughts on authorities’ governance (or attempted governance) of women’s bodies? And how far does that attempted governance affect women’s potentiality in terms of their identity and how they get to live their lives? I know you worked in Texas previously and are now based in Las Vegas. Do you find a difference in the body politic between the two? Can we as women, stand by and do nothing as this snowball gains momentum? And how does toxic masculinity, expressed through some extreme Christian Right movements, seek to dismantle women’s rights and equalities? Is this a subject you find yourself drawn to write about? Or does it feel too political? Where action, rather than writing, is your reaction?

Mel: My thoughts are that the control and violence enacted against women’s bodies are devolutionary. It changes everything for women. It changes what they decide to do on a daily basis, who they partner with, career choice, it controls whether they express their authentic personalities.

Vegas is, of course, very different from Texas, politically and socially. However, this is a global and national issue as much as a states’ issue. The diversity in Las Vegas molds the political landscape in a way that impacts women’s rights and representation. It’s a great model for intersectionality. When voice is given to people of color it creates opportunity for other marginalized groups of people.

Nothing is too political for me to write about. I write about my existence; my existence is political.

APR: I’ve heard you talk of the kill your gays trope in modern literature and media. How important is it for you a mixed-race lesbian, to stand against, or try to dismantle prejudice? Is it our responsibility if we are mixed-race, for example (as I am too) to speak up? Toni Morrison, one of my heroines, famously said: “truth is trouble” for those who benefit from oppression.” I would agree, but is it human nature to lie for one’s own gain? And if we succeed in having a truly blended society, will it not be something besides skin color, gender, sexual orientation, that humanity turns upon? How important is it to have a solution? Or can awareness, often through writing, be a persuader?

Mel: I don’t think I have anything to gain from lying to stay out of trouble’. I have every reason to speak out and organize against my own oppression. Poetry can be used as an organizing tool for people and beliefs. Regarding a future with a blended society moving on to prejudices apart from skin color— I would have to be able to answer questions about human nature to answer that question. When it comes to human nature, I can only answer those questions in theory, in poetry.

APR: I was really moved by your poem Collision-after Breonna Taylor. I’d written about Breonna too, but I felt at the time, the media was ignoring her story for others, and I couldn’t work out why. It feels at times like the outrage is curated and can be neglectful of stories that are equally horrifying and undefended. You wrote such a close observation of what Breonna may have been thinking in the moments before her murder:

You are powerless
against the forces
which hurl and drag you,
unable to overcome the
maddening spiral.

I felt the same horror and outrage, but I’m curious as to why you were moved to inhabit almost the moment of her murder, what was the process here was?

Mel: I believe the majority of why Breonna’s story was ignored is because there were fewer ways to misconstrue what happened. She was sleeping, they came into her house and murdered her. No other way to paint that scenario. I felt moved to write about it firstly, because of the utter injustice of her having no choice in the matter. Secondly, because of the carelessness and the lawlessness of the circumstances. I chose that exact moment to honor that moment as a pivotal spot in time. In the Romantic sense, the poem is a pedestal for a moment. I also chose to write about it because it reveals the most about how inequity and lack of accountability play huge roles in the prevalence of racial violence and police brutality.

APR: In your poem Explicit, you write:

I can operate in subtlety.
I don’t have to go around
defining my desire
saying who and what I want or why.

I was really interested by this, coming from the vantage of people rarely identifying me as mixed-race, I thought you did such a masterfully simple, yet evocative job of accomplishing the experience of slipping between identities as well as talking about the value of subtlety in writing too. Has this influenced you as a lesbian woman and a Black woman, to consider identity quite viscerally in a way that people who are not able to shift or who are not ‘other’ never really get to consider on the same level?

Mel: I certainly believe so. I certainly believe I’m influenced by my own identity in that way, and I believe that adaptability has always been one of the trademarks of ambiguity. To a certain extent, ambiguity does allow one to move between spaces. So yes, while I believe it’s a choice to try to use the ambiguity of one’s own racial identity as a craft advantage, or to incorporate it into craft theory. For me it’s much more identifiable as a coping mechanism than a craft choice. If my otherness is a fresh perspective, then I can be grateful for being marginal.

APR: In your poem Homecoming: Hometown, you write: “I grew up in an r.v. out in a no-stop-light county.” In your poem Pitch, you say: “another picks up his punch slip and car keys. / Lunch boxes snap closed,” For the outsider, this conjures our ideas of a South we may never have experienced. How much of your identity owes to being from the South? Can a writer ever divorce themselves from their heritage, both ethnically and socially? How does your background come into your experience of being a writer?

Mel: I do believe that a writer can divorce themselves from their heritage or an inherited place, by ignoring the narrative and poetic techniques and colloquialisms of that place if they choose. For me, I choose to uphold my Southern heritage because it’s a complicated and rich place for culture and craft analysis. It shaped my identity in that it shaped my experiences and most importantly, it shaped how I experienced poverty, womanhood, and queerness.

APR: I’m going to ask an obvious question. When and why did you start writing poetry? And how long afterward, did you decide to make a career of it and go to school for it? Did you ever regret that decision? And if you had done something else, what do you think you’d have liked to do instead? (I’m thinking fish might play a part in that answer!).

Mel: I started writing poetry when I was a child. My mother still has a few of my childhood poems saved, and I cannot remember a time before that. So, it was many years down the road that I considered making a career of it. Although, even as a young person, in high school, I wanted to study poetry, and I was deeply enamored with the act of writing poetry. It was a natural decision that I would go as far as I possibly could with poetry. I have actually been asked the question about regrets many times before and the answer is no. I could not have survived, never knowing what could have been if I had dared to believe in my writing. I do, however, believe that sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do when it comes to economic survival, so I’m lucky, very lucky, that I have had chances to try.

If I had done something else, perhaps mental health services.

APR: You were published in the coveted and highly respected lesbian publication Lavender Review, which any poetic sapphic longs to be featured in. In your featured poem Surpassing (which you also read aloud, see link HERE https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rEHwp2guMaU&feature=youtu.be ) you say:

Well, thinking about my parents’ brief marriage.

How hard it must have been to validate their love

black and white 

back in the day

in the South.

But, here I am

ten years into a relationship 

controversial in its own right, though

longer than my parent’s marriage lasted. 

I could personally relate to this really well, but I also found it very, very, searingly honest. I wouldn’t even say it was confessional as much as a necessary addition to the canon of mixed-race experience(s). How do you think the experience of parenting/marriage in the South as a mixed-race-couple differed from say, other parts of America?

Mel: Interracial marriage was not legalized in the U.S. until 1967, that was after my mother was born. For me, this adds to the realization that not only were interracial relationships expected to fail with families left to disintegrate, but the circumstances of the time also worked to ensure that outcome. The stigma and prejudice of those circumstances prevail.

APR: I had the honor of co-editing an anthology with you some years ago and remember how seriously you took your role and how thorough and committed you were to ensure you did your absolute best. You regularly interview writers for poetry blogs as well as serving as associate editor for South85 literary journal. Somehow you manage to juggle a lot whilst moving several times across America and being bold in presenting and cultivating an audience. Does Mel Sherrer have an introverted side to her? If so, where is that found? Or do you tend to gravitate towards the hot lights? What’s next by way of writing and publishing for you personally?

Mel: Yes, I have an introverted side and would consider myself an introvert in general. The poem, the stage, they let me step into the more extroverted facets of my personality. When I’m out on the water, hooping, or just experiencing the world through creation, I don’t need an audience, but I surely don’t mind having one either. The hot lights do pull me, but I like my peace. Next, I want to find a home for a full-length manuscript I’ve written and few new essays. Personally, I have been truly enjoying my life after a few long, hard years of change. I’ve been spending time discovering new parks in Las Vegas with my partner, hiking, camping, playing pick-up basketball, catching new personal bests, and watching where I step.

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Mel Sherrer is a writer, educator, and life coach from Las Vegas, Nevada. She received her B.F.A. from Hollins University in Roanoke, Virginia, and her M.F.A. in Poetry from Converse University in Spartanburg, South Carolina. Mel’s debut chapbook Vice Grip was published by Alien Buddha press. She has poetry in Poet Lore, Zone 3 Press, Lavender Review, Identity Theory, Blood Tree Literature, and others. Mel serves as an Associate Editor for Sage Cigarettes Magazine and South 85 Journal. Find her work and more information at www.MelSherrer.com.