Poet Abby E. Murray on poetry as a form of human connection
Kaylie Dawe, a third-year MA Literature student, had the opportunity to interview poet Abby E. Murray, whose most recent book Recovery Commands was published in June by Asterism Books. Murray is also the editor of the journal Collateral. In the conversation, we discuss the importance and influence of art during hard times, especially in consideration of wartimes. Abby teaches rhetoric in military strategy at the University of Washington in Seattle, and their dedication to pacifism was clearly displayed throughout our conversation.
The Pinch Journal Online published your work "Some Baleen Whales Have Learned to Sing at Frequencies too Low for Predators to Hear". How did you feel about the process of being published with Pinch, and what did it mean for you?
Pinch Journal Online is one of the journals I turn to when I hope to re/find creative sparks and human connection. I love when a good journal is able to share content online without a paywall! So, when Pinch Journal Online accepted my poem, I was thrilled. What I remember most about the publication process is how they curated the image to accompany and share the poem on social media. I found it thoughtful … and not all journals come across that way after accepting one’s work.
Your poem "Some Baleen Whales Have Learned to Sing at Frequencies too Low for Predators to Hear" is a poem that seems to be applicable both to present times as well as outside of time all together. What do you feel is the importance of discussing the current state of our world through poetry, and do you feel it is a medium that is effective towards change?
Poetry is a form of human connection, and it’s for, because of, and through human connection that we continue to heal ourselves, repair, build, imagine, feel, listen, and thrive in the face of ongoing and escalating violence and war. While I think it’s possible (and sometimes fashionable) for poets to try to write outside—or in negation of—the world we live in, I don’t think it ever really happens. The one thing we can’t surrender while we’re alive is our human perspective, which is deeply personal and political all at once. I write because I have to, and I only benefit from the connections made when I write.
What does it mean to be a writer in the current age of A.I.? How has it changed your perspective as a writer?
I don’t think A.I. has changed what it means for me to be a writer. It has changed the way I teach, for sure, and the way I work as an editor. But I am still a writer because I have to be, whether or not people think I ought to (or can) be replaced.
Poets and creatives have been responsive and innovative in the face of major shifts in technology for centuries. Most of us learn to adapt by understanding and, honestly, subverting and questioning. Some of us don’t, sure. (I mean, my god, I had an English professor who insisted that communicating via email was a silly fad; he bungled our schedules constantly by communicating via typewriter. All he proved was that typewriters are neat but as an advisor, he was more obstacle than aid.)
What’s concerning about the rapid expansion and dependence on A.I. is the humans at the controls and their reasons for designing and implementing it [A.I.] in the way they are. I want to live in a world where art and human experience are valued. It’s possible to do this in a world that can also tell me exactly how many photos of my cat are on my phone; it is threatened in a world that devalues the artistic process and inspiration by stealing it from the people who are committed to it.
I don’t mean to sound indifferent or unconcerned because I’m not, but I do believe this new shift is, in many ways, familiar to us as humans and artists. We are already adapting and resisting in ways that protect and nurture our craft.
Your recent work, Recovery Commands, considers what it means to be a military spouse. Throughout the collection, there is a juxtaposition of the peace desired with the reality of being constantly confronted and associated with violence. What was it like finding a balance of wording and language to express this experience? What do you hope the reader can discover?
This book does include my perspective as a military spouse, but my perspective as a pacifist is, I think, even more in the forefront. I am asking how people who disagree and struggle to understand each other cannot only accept one another but make themselves into a family. And yes, my particular circumstances may seem unique in a few ways, but really, this is what millions of people are struggling with today: how to love. How to disagree, how to get to know. How to differentiate between the human component of any relationship and the traditional systems of division and isolation that we sometimes obey without pausing to wonder about the harm they cause.
My poems are often inspired by the strangeness and oppression of military culture, but they’re relatable to anyone who’s ever felt wholly out of place, marginalized, joyful, furious, resistant, afraid, or dedicated to truth telling.
Reading through Recovery Commands, there is a mix of consistent form with some variety of structure throughout. How much focus do you put on form in your poetry? What would your advice be to new poets when it comes to that writing and editing process?
I don’t really think about form much while I’m writing individual poems, but I definitely take them into account when I’m pulling a manuscript together. I like to create books I’d want to read, and I prefer a little variety in poetry collections: it’s good to remember that there are many ways to create a poem, a thought, a book, a movement.
I learned this the hard way, probably, as a young MFA student who believed their only form could be long, narrow, clipped lines of free verse. I was, for some reason, hellbent on a signature style until a mentor simply asked me about it and I had to pause and reflect. I realized I was cutting off all kinds of other ways of using my voice for the sake of being someone with only one signature. So, I expanded, reluctantly at first, to see if I liked trying new things, and I found there was a lot I still wanted to try and learn. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have preferences, and I’m glad I enjoyed writing that way, but I’m also glad I took the time to read and learn and write more expansively. I am not just me; I am everyone I’ve been in the past, too.
I find myself constantly pulling inspiration from the shows and books I am presently consuming. What are you currently watching or reading that has sparked moments of creativity for you, and how have they been interpreted in your work?
I just finished reading Soraya Chemaly’s The Resilience Myth, which disassembles and analyzes traditional (and often harmful) methods and reasoning for the concept of resilience. I think it should be required reading everywhere, but especially for military families, who are over-prescribed the encouragement to be resilient at steep costs to themselves and their communities.
The last television series I watched and enjoyed was The Residence with Uzo Aduba. I love the idea of a White House full of complex, interesting people.
You have spent many years dedicating yourself to a literary journal that has uplifted adults, but Collateral has also worked with youth on corre y corre sin detenerte. What has been your experience being a part of a project focused on children, and what has been the significance in that experience?
Collateral’s mission is to provide a platform for those writing “the impact of violent conflict and military service beyond the combat zone.” That includes countless people and perspectives, including, especially, the immigrant and refugee, the advocate, the survivor of violence, and the memory. When I found out there was a facility holding youth detained for existing in the United States “illegally”, I was sick of feeling like my only options were helplessness or an out-of-reach power to stop all these seizures and deportations. It left me in a place of perceived helplessness, and I am not helpless, and I can act.
I can request and organize access to young poets detained, and I can bring them poems. I can bring them time and conversation and maybe a place to put their grief.
In the case of these poets in particular, they mostly wrote about missing their mothers. They compared their mothers to roses, to stars, to water. They need reunion and protection and safety. Poetry cannot provide these things, but it connects people who can.
Opinions on tigers? Good or bad? Where does Memphis rank on the list of the Tiger mascots in your opinion?
My first thought was this poem I wrote at the beginning of the pandemic, which ruffled some feathers in my husband’s battalion. Short answer? I like tigers.
How would you define Pinchy? On the Pinch website, you can see some of the definitions that MFA students have written if you need some help in the right direction.
A pinch, to me, is a seemingly quiet way to wake a person up, to direct their attention, to make a little space for their attention.
