Poet Kelsey D. Mahaffey on the Divine, Art in the Time of AI, and Not Settling for Good Enough
Heather Eudy, a first-year MFA student in fiction and editorial assistant for Pinch, had the opportunity to interview Kelsey D. Mahaffey. The interview took place in October 2025 across email. Mahaffey’s chapbook No Fault of Water will be published in January by Finishing Line Press and is available for preorder.
Tell us about “The Last Monsoon” which we published in our Fall 2025 issue.
This poem is a pivotal piece in my chapbook, No Fault of Water. It came to me in the hush of early morning, in that liminal space between waking and dreaming. I had been working on another poem exploring a similar theme, but it wasn’t capturing everything I needed it to. “The Last Monsoon” poured out in one unbroken flow before I even realized the pen was in my hand. When I read it back, I knew it was exactly what I had been waiting for. For me, this poem is the final gasp before surrender—the sudden, “oh, shit” moment when you realize you’re in over your head and there is no turning back. No life raft. No safety.
Is “The Last Monsoon” depicting more of location (New Orleans) or is it more of a reflection of past ghosts?
“The Last Monsoon” is rooted in a real experience I had in New Orleans with my partner, who was struggling with alcoholism at the time. If you’ve been to New Orleans, you know it’s a city surrounded by water, which makes it a city thick with ghosts—memory and spirits everywhere you turn. The poem marks a turning point—the moment the speaker realizes she must let everything go. The water is rising; there’s nothing left to hold on to. New Orleans was the perfect backdrop for that kind of reckoning.
How would you define Pinchy?
I like to think of the term “pinchy” in terms of food—a delicious dish with a twist. It’s the bite that lingers in your mind, the one you can’t stop thinking about. There’s a hint of mystery, that “pinch” of something extra you can’t quite name. It leaves you savoring the unknown. You don’t know exactly what the flavor is, but you want more.
What does it mean to be a writer in the time of AI?
I’m still trying to wrap my head around all things AI. What I find myself pondering most, in relation to writing and art, is the source of inspiration. As a writer, I find inspiration outside of myself—through experiences and relationships with the natural and spiritual worlds. I believe humans can communicate with the divine, and that art is the conversation that emerges from that connection.
In the world of AI, great thoughts from great thinkers are being regurgitated and presented in endlessly beautiful ways—but is that art? Is it original thought? Divine inspiration? Can a machine create art without any true experience of the divine? I have no answers, these are just some of the questions I wrestle with.
Tell us about being a Listener Poet.
I’m certified as a Listener Poet with The Good Listening Project, a nonprofit devoted to humanizing healthcare through the healing power of poetry and compassionate presence. Listener Poets hold space for deep listening and poetic reflection in one-on-one sessions, either virtual or in person. After each session, the poet crafts a custom poem inspired by what was shared. So much of my own work as a poet is rooted in listening, so when I discovered this organization and the beautiful work they were doing, it felt like a natural calling.
What do you think of Tigers? How about the Memphis Tigers?
Well, I am a cat person. Once at the Nashville Zoo, I sat on the ground, gazing into the silent eyes of a majestic Sumatran tiger, he and I separated only by a thick sheet of glass. I could have stayed there all day, small hand pressed against giant paw. It was magnificent.
Is there a writer or poet who has influenced your work or your journey as a writer?
There are so many! But I’d have to say that Marie Howe’s The Good Thief set a course for me. Here was a poet unafraid to look God in the eye, one who used darkness as a kind of transcendence. I don’t think I blinked or took a breath until the end. She taught me that there is power in vulnerability, in claiming your own story—especially as a woman. I feel a deep, instinctive recognition with women poets, an unspoken strength to draw from. What beauty and wisdom a woman can offer when she dares to use her voice.
Tell us about your Memphis associations.
One of my dearest friends lives in Memphis, but for me, the city will always be tied to traveling home for the holidays. Memphis sits halfway between my home in Nashville, Tennessee, and Jackson, Mississippi, where my parents lived for more than twenty years.
It marked the turning point on the drive—once we hit I-55, we were finally heading south, the road that would carry us home. Even the air seemed to shift, waking the kids and teasing my taste buds, aching for fried catfish and pickle sandwiches. My dad has since passed, and my mom now lives in Nashville, so I really miss that anticipatory feeling of going “home.”
What is the most significant advice you might give to an aspiring writer about your publishing journey?
Don’t settle for good enough. Wait. Give your words time to marinate on the page. Hit “submit” when every line rings true for you.
What's in store for your future works that you are willing to share with us?
On my desk sits a draft of a full-length manuscript, quietly begging for my attention. I plan to spend some meaningful time with it this winter.
