Alina Pleskova and Kimberly Ann Southwick, edited by Hannah Felt Garner
ALINA PLESKOVA AND KIMBERLY ANN SOUTHWICK WANT YOU TO DIY IT THIS POETRY MONTH

Alina: Kimberly Ann Southwick and I have traveled in the same extended poetry circles for about a decade–she as founder and editor of the long-running journal Gigantic Sequins, me as co-founder/co-editor of bedfellows, which has published a few of her poems! Both of us are Philly-connected (me, a current resident; she, a former one). We’ve done various readings together over the years, too. One, as I recall, was in a dive bar basement, where performers read in a corner, sandwiched between an ATM and a trash bin. Ah, the lives of poets!

That’s what I wanted to talk with Kimberly about: the life of a poet. Specifically, a poet with a first book out. Kimberly’s first full-length collection, Orchid Alpha, was released by Trembling Pillow Press in April 2023. I expected to love it, and I did. What I observe and deeply appreciate in Kimberly’s work is a masterful balance of the lyrical and the demotic. You never forget that you’re reading a deftly-crafted poem, but it also feels like a real human speaking. The lens is both relational and inward-facing–closely observing the speaker’s quotidian motions and reality, but also other, intersecting lives. Her poems resist epiphanic or platitudinal conclusions, as if instead to gesture, in their attuned-to-the-subtle-accumulated-vibrations-of-daily-existence way, This is how life goes, who can say what it means. What Kimberly’s poems offer is more interesting and arresting than purported answers: acute perception, candor, surreality, wry humor and word play, warmth. From “Immaculate Reception”:

the light is thickening behind the trees & webMD is of course saying all your symptoms
together are a sign of pregnancy or death & you’re shouting “LET THEM EAT CAKE,”

who knows why, & batting shut the screen of your laptop, its apple glowing
like the one Eve shared with Adam…

Orchid Alpha brims with plants, insects, weather, astrology and celestial motions, pop culture, politics, desires, aches, anxieties over money and technology, sex and its attendant complications and pleasures. I sensed that talking with Kimberly about poetry and publishing would result in a dialogue as witty, open, and reflective as her poems. (And as you’ll see, so it was.) – Alina Pleskova

One of my favorite things students in my Creative Writing classes will say to me is that they were excited to learn that poetry can “be about everyday life.” And that’s one of the bravest things about Alina Pleskova’s Toska: How it stresses the importance of the everyday. When I had Alina sign my copy, ahead of her triumphant Philly release party for this magnificent feat of a collection, she wrote briefly, “with solidarity and admiration,” which I am sure is ten times better than whatever I could have written on the title page of hers. Alina and I are akin in many ways, though different in many others. She is the child of immigrants, a point that her book stresses in the way someone might absently fix their hair because it’s just something they do. This juxtaposition of things that are done because they are done, but also not lacking in importance, is what I think of when I allow myself back into what it was like to read Alina’s debut for the first time.

Kimberly: Alina and I love couplets, but her poems tend to keep going, to get somewhere, where mine might stop short. She writes in “Take Care,” the opening poem:

78% are at least somewhat concerned
about the growing level of inequality.

48% are very concerned, the survey says, indicating all odds
in favor of a rev, & yet.

Somehow we know the rest of that word “rev—” and she couldn’t possibly be bothered to spell it out because, you know, we know. A lesser poet would have kept that sentence going, spelled out the whole three-syllable word, and yet—Alina doesn’t have to. But then there’s sex, and not just good sex, either, but all desire in all of its fines, sures and yes pleases, and in my wildest, wildest dreams-es, too, hanging out right next to revolution where it belongs. This book is a sex-positive, Marxist, feminist fever dream minus the theory plus the “well, yeah, duh.”

When I read this book, if I had dog-eared a stellar line or sentence that made me go, “Yes, that!” or idea that made me say, “That’s a perfect way to put that,” I would have dog-eared every page. Alina’s ear for language, and eye for what’s worth recording and sharing, pinpoint what it’s like to be living through this hell that we’re living in—but try to remember to enjoy it while we’re here and while we can, because “we’re merely dopamine vampires / trying to skirt the mortal coil” (from “Saturn Return”).

Alina asked me if I wanted to do this interview, and I was like, A thousand times yes, my quick, affirmative reply screaming in heart-eye emojis—because Alina is someone who is my peer, but also someone who I look up to as a fellow poet, editor and community member, no matter how far we might be in distance. I am so happy to have shared this back and forth with her—and with you now. –

Alina: The Gregorian calendar year is over, which evokes a reflective vibe–even for those (poets) who are rather unmoored from linear time. Too much happened, is happening, but one thing that happened to us both was publishing our first full-length poetry collections. Congratulations on the amazing Orchid Alpha! I’m curious about, honestly, anything you want to say about the experience of putting this book together and having it exist in the world.

Kimberly: I’m curious about the same! Especially since Toska’s release felt organized and smooth and you really leaned into the community good for the book’s celebrations and tour. For me, having Orchid Alpha exist has been mostly wonderful and also a little weird? I loved reading from it at the events I scrounged up and returning to poems I’d written a while ago–Orchid Alpha was accepted for publication in 2020 and then so much went off the rails. I didn’t feel disconnected from the poems like you sometimes do when you’re reading stuff aloud you wrote a while ago.

Alina: Thank you. Logistics make me skittish, so these are high compliments! I’m sheepish to admit it, but I felt uneasy around publishing a “debut” collection in my mid-thirties. Which is goofy. Cults of youth are bizarre everywhere but especially in poetry, which is an ideal practice to “age” in. Still I convinced myself that I was, like, running behind.

But when Toska came out, all the years of being a poet floating around fed into the celebrating and touring. With small press publishing, there of course isn’t a big publicity apparatus or a booking agent behind you. Because of attending/hosting readings, co-editing a literary magazine, and being chronically online (oops) for many years, I had an extended mini-universe of support. The press I worked with, Deep Vellum, is truly wonderful, but I had to maneuver around a full-time job, limited finances, and the fact that I’m not a poet who is embedded in institutions so I can’t rely on those sorts of gigs consistently. The latter of which I say without resentment or even aspiration, in that I love and prefer to exist in all sorts of spaces. But then the money question looms harder.

It was an effortful, DIY endeavor. People were SO generous and helpful, from recommending me to venues and series to flier-designing to scooping me and driving to other cities (shout out to my tourmates Raena Shirali and Stephanie Cawley) to blurbing to name-checking Toska in outlets that don’t know I exist (looking at Alyssa Songsiridej and Ruth Madievsky particularly). On tour, poets found us places to crash and fed us and just treated us so well. Thinking especially of Amie Zimmerman and Matthew Klane who run a lovely series in Troy, NY and did all of the above without even knowing us beforehand! Everything I got to do was possible because of this sort of goodwill. It’s an extension of strains in the book, actually. Life in our immensely precarious reality is bolstered by mutual care.

I feel like a bit of an evangelist because I’m all, “There are ways to do this besides an ultra-professionalized, institutionally-sanctioned route.” That’s a route, but I’m an Aquarius who’s into alternate paths. It’s been reifying to release certain notions about what being a poet should entail–in terms of how I talk about my work, what events are like, gravitas, parroting certain language, etc.–and instead go with what feels right and resonant; to know I can find readers and community this way, and to admit that I’m not sure who came up with that other stuff in the first place or what it has to do with how I move.

How does the whole cycle of writing, publishing, editing—and in your case, also teaching—look for you?

Kimberly: Oh my, so much of this is so similar to my experience! While I certainly did have some minor woes at being an “older” poet publishing their debut collection, in the end I was just so proud to have done the thing that it didn’t quite sting. Having a kid maybe helped a bit with that–so many of my prior anxieties were replaced once Esmé arrived (in March 2020 no less), which feeds into your point about the stress of self-promotion. Basically, my book got picked up in March 2020, but then my whole life radically changed–I had a kid, got a tenure-track job after graduating, moved to a whole new state. Then the release date of the book kept shifting forward, and I wasn’t sure when it would come out. Oh, and my marriage fell apart! I am complaining about none of this except to say that planning a book tour/organizing anything around the book’s release was not only intimidating but also just generally difficult because, whoa, life! Megan from TPP has been super generous and making sure I got books on time when I ran out before my tour dates, though, so what she was able to do for me as a small press editor has been appreciated.

I love this image/idea of you as a Debut Poetry Book Evangelist for others DIYing it! Do non-poetry/non-CW people ask you about “book tour”? Because so many random folks are like, “How is your book tour!!?” And I don’t know quite what to say except “Good!” And I mean–it has been in so many ways. People are supportive when I needed to bring Esmé to a reading or to leave early to go get her from whoever had agreed to watch her, and that meant so much to me. Friends and people I only sort of know were awesome in getting me connected with reading series or throwing me on a line-up like you did for your release. The poetry community really came through! I am jazzed you found the same level of support!

A standout moment was reading in NOLA, another home away from home for me like Philly–though I never lived there–for Splice, shortly after I met some folks at the New Orleans Poetry Fest. First of all, the reading series itself is baller. They pay. People show up and listen. It’s at a rad venue. The hosts are generous with their time and attention, amongst other things. Their past readers are an intimidating line-up to have shared the stage with. I put so much work into getting the other readings that it was so nice to be asked to come down there and then to be treated so well that it really stands out.

On the flip side, what did you have the most trouble with? For me–it was/is getting people to review the book. It just felt/feels like a big ask! But it’s important for me because: Academiaⓒ. So I have tried a bit, and people have been responsive! I just wish it were easier/happened more organically.

Alina: People in my life who aren’t writers ​maybe had a ​grander conception ​of what tour entailed. I mostly broke even, which felt magical. ​I had to ​check myself on how much of a money/time suck I could afford it to be​, and to what end. Experiencing life transitions while doing self-promo, as you mentioned, is hard.​ I switched jobs, my beloved cat died after a protracted and costly health ​crisis, and t​he new job made me miserable so I applied and interviewed more and changed jobs again. ​By then, I was so tired that​ travel felt like the last thing I wanted to do. ​But it was worth it, for the same reasons you cited. Experiencing literary scenes in different places, hear​ing amazing work from other poets,​ and being constantly affirmed in what I was doing, was ​so special​.

There was a dopamine crash afterward for sure. It was like confetti rained on my head, followed by a sudden drop back to daily drudgery. My work isn’t out to be earth-shattering or urgent or necessary–that’s not what I’m here for–but I kind of imagined more would happen, abstractly. And organically, as you said! I have limited capacity for networking and pitching myself—and in the absence of a personal publicist (seems wild to have that in poetry, though I now know some poets hire one out-of-pocket!), I delusionally want people to stumble onto my book. Yet a lizard region of my brain still wants rewards. Make it make sense!

But then I thought about how I find people’s work and share it, how I hope mine is found and shared. Many of my favorite books don’t appear on best-of or most-anticipated listicles or win fancy prizes. I find out about a lot through friend recommendations, workshops, and readings. It feels more about being embedded in a literary ecosystem than in the Publishing Machine. Also, my big want is for poetry (mine, yours, everyone’s–except Instapoets, they’re doing fine) to have a broader readership. When I consider that, inside baseball feels less important or interesting. I love when non-poets come to readings; it feels like a smaller percentage than non-musicians going to shows and non-artists going to galleries. I don’t want things to be myopic or insular! People sharing Toska, teaching it, or bringing someone to a reading feels as meaningful and book-boosting as the other stuff.

Because I’m not in academia​, I lack external motivation (​often internal motivation too, let me be real) to publish frequently or in certain places, ​yet–again–want the extrinsic rewards of funding, fellowships, well-paying gigs, etc. so I can afford to do more​ in my free-floaty way. It’s tricky! All this gets away from the mystical and ineffable aspects of poetry, but tour had me thinking about the middle path between fun/liberatory aspects of DIY and the practical reality of what money makes possible. I want to be a punk with expendable income, ha.

Kimberly: Firstly, I’m sorry about your cat–pets are family. I said once, about Orchid Alpha, that there was a dog in every poem, even when there wasn’t a dog. I am sure cat poets feel similarly.

Alina: Aww, I love that. I similarly think my poems tap into the spirit of my black cat, who was, as it goes, my witchy familiar.

Kimberly: Before I answer your question, I want to comment on the idea that non-poets less often show to poetry readings than non-musicians and non-artists check out music and art for example. Even though that’s true for events, I do strangely feel like more “non-poets” have bought my book than poets? Gabrielle Bates advised me to send a bulk email to literally everyone I know about how they might support Orchid Alpha–brilliant advice!–and so many people from random walks of my life bought my book (or at least now know it exists) because of that email. And so many of them non-poets! People I knew in elementary school, colleagues across different departments, former coworkers, people I know from the Philadelphia Folk Festival, family members…That’s been the toughest non-poet audience for me, though, that last one. I am like, you can buy it but please don’t read it until I sharpie-marker  half of the pages! Did you have any hesitations in letting family read your work? I mean, you run a lit journal whose about page informs readers that the journal is “focused on discussions of desire & intimacy,” so maybe your experience with bedfellows better prepared you for the book’s splash?

It’s funny, at AWP in Philly, I read probably the most vulgar poem in Orchid Alpha  and it got a great reaction–people often comment on that one as being memorable–“the one with the dick piano”–and it got me thinking how much bedfellows, as a journal about intimacy and desire, really allowed me to tap into those themes within my writing, unapologetically, so big thanks to you and [co-executive editor of the magazine] Jack Sadicario for for spurning that.

Alina: I never let family members read my poems (to the extent I can control it, but fortunately my older relatives aren’t tapped into my online presence, especially since English is their second language.) And when I worked in corporate-type spaces, the thought of anyone I knew in that context seeing anything unnerved me to the extent that, early on, I began publishing under my mom’s maiden name, Pleskova (it’s the name I came to America with, so at some point it was my legal name.) I don’t want a boss knowing how corrosive I think American work “‘culture”’ is, or my leftist politics, or my family reading about kink or drug use. Whereas I fully don’t care if a stranger does! So maybe I’m contradicting myself and maybe not in that I’m totally with you on leaping into the explicit unapologetically. I have no personal shame about it, but not wanting family or coworkers to perceive all that feels like a different boundary.

What I think of as explicit is really going there. Jack and I started bedfellows as an unapologetic space for work that doesn’t neatly adhere to conventional notions of writing about sex/desire – like murky states that aren’t, I have sex! It’s so sexy! or This traumatic thing happened. The idea that it can be filthy, disappointing, strange, silly, boring, etc.–and oscillate between all or any of those, or seemingly-contradictory things.

Which brings me to your “dick piano” poem as exemplary in that way. I’ve got to mention the title (your titles are a delight throughout!): “Venus Isn’t Even Retrograde Yet.” I won’t quote the dick piano part so as to entice curious readers to pick up Orchid Alpha, but I must share the last stanza:

you lick my pussy until I yell
& then I don’t want to fuck you. your heart tastes of salt. I’m under-
water. it’s dark here like anti-matter. when I call you on the phone
from this ocean hell, please jack off into the receiver & say, what’s that?

This poem made me think about how we’re taught to be about sex and getting each other off, and all the times I had less-than-enjoyable encounters, knew it, continued to want a person (or want to want) in order to feel something different, even if different also wasn’t enjoyable. Or the expanse between fantasizing vs. how it actually is. I so appreciate your unrestrained way of writing about bodies and sex, in their multivalent and complex expressions.

Kimberly: What’s up next? What are you writing? Are you shopping around a second full-length already or do you have poems that are just existing as poems? How has everything wonderful about Toska helped you make your next steps as a poet in the world?

Alina: Once I was done adding poems to Toska, it felt like the end of a cycle. Hopefully I’m on my way to whatever’s next. My astrological makeup is a lot of air–I prefer to float and observe, to have a non-process process. So much of life requires constant acting-on and completionism. I resent that. I want to leave poetry as an expansive, grind-free space. For now, I’m existing. Also, taking in and being surrounded by other people’s art is the best way to feed my brain in a generative way. What about you? Are there new poems on the horizon or new issues of Gigantic Sequins to look forward to?

Kimberly: Air is the least present element in my Zodiac! I am mostly Earth and Fire, with a little Water, and therefore Air has always been most elusive. “Taking in and being surrounded by other people’s art” is for sure the thing for me, too. I am so inspired by other people–like you!–making things happen, doing things. And also continuing to do them, to just not stop, even if the “not stopping” means floating through some other people’s works for a bit. Thanks for floating through mine.

I feel like our books had so much in common, from their frank sexual encounters to their quality of: “We are alive in the age of the internet, let’s not ignore that as a fact of our existence and the way we contend with language as a part of that existence.” But if I were to compare the two, the first major difference would be the lengths of the poems–mine are shorter and yours are longer, which I admire. Your ability to directly call for an end to capitalism also felt bold and important. But, in your version, we must do so wearing something unapologetically glamorous. “Re: Eros” struck me as a poem I wish I had written: “I want useless splendor, to be as carried off with rapture as the woman who kissed a Twombly […] I want the class wars to start, but everyone’s so tired […] Our totalitarian state glitched out my libido […] Desire doesn’t aspire to anything other than itself.” These are some freaking amazing lines in a poem that really stings but also provides a salve for that sting, as much of your work does.

As I mentioned, I gave birth in 2020, amongst other big life changes, so my second full-length grapples with all of that in a little more narrative/direct way than my debut did. It’s not really right yet, but it’s all there in pieces. I do what I always refer to as a “World Famous NaPoWriMo” every April, so I write at least 30 poems per year, and I’ve been struggling on which in the past three years (since 2020) should go into the new book or not. Please join me this April! You can float through April with me, waving from the edge of an active volcano.

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