“We translate experiences into words, and maybe sometimes a reader will recognize their own experience and know they’re not alone, or maybe sometimes a reader will discover an entirely new perspective and feel their world expanded.”
Photo credit: Sandra K. Jones
Inland Sea (Kelsay Press, 2023)
Could you tell us a bit about your growing up and your path to becoming a writer?
I was born in Saginaw, Michigan back when it was still a big General Motors town, industrial and mid-western but still a place where most people could manage. Then when I was in junior high, my family moved a few miles west to a tiny village called Merrill. For most of my adulthood I lived outside of the Midwest (though I’m back now!), but my temperament is definitely midwestern. As for writing, though, my story is a familiar one. I had a teacher during high school who encouraged me, and once I experienced how gratifying it is to articulate experience in language, I never looked back.
A question from Anna Laura Reeve: Do you understand your role in society—as a poet—to be influential, critical, observant, or something else?
I’d call myself an observer and interpreter, of events and moments both great and small. On the one hand, I assume I’m not the only person who responds to the world as I do, but on the other hand, I really, really value the fact that we’re all unique individuals—so what I observe is uniquely important, just as what anyone else observes is uniquely important. What distinguishes poets, however, from everyone else is that we can articulate these observations so that they can also have meaning for others. We translate experiences into words, and maybe sometimes a reader will recognize their own experience and know they’re not alone, or maybe sometimes a reader will discover an entirely new perspective and feel their world expanded.
How do you contend with saturation? The day’s news, the disasters, the crazy things, the flagged articles, the flagged books, the poetry tweets, the data the data the data. What’s your strategy to navigate your way home?
It’s awful, isn’t it. All of this input, over and over, of content that’s designed to enrage and terrify, or on a good day merely distract. I can’t stand it. I only use one social media platform, and that’s too much (though I do appreciate the ease with which I can now stay in touch with people from so many periods of my life). I still read a lot, print books in a quiet space. I try to take advantage of silence when I can. I don’t listen to anything when I’m out walking the dog, for example, even though I sometimes think I’d enjoy a podcast. Even when I’m driving, even on long trips, I seldom listen to anything anymore because the rest of my life is just too noisy. I’ve never been a multi-tasker. I’d rather focus intently on one thing, dive deeply into it, experience it fully. I want to notice what’s actually in front of my eyes—crocus stems popping up out of the ground, the rabbit that hopes it’s crossing my backyard undetected, the specific color of Lake Superior today—rather than what a bunch of corporations think I should be looking at on a screen.
A question from Karisma Price: Do you have any self-care practices you include when writing about something heavy?
A few years ago I realized I needed more music in my life, so I began to proactively seek out concerts. Fortunately, I work at a university with a really strong music department, and I live in an artsy town. So now I attend several concerts every semester, and they always astonish me. I’d call this a practice of self-care, though my motive wasn’t specifically because I was writing something difficult—more because I was living in the midst of a lot of difficulty, as so many of us have been over the last several years.
A question from Toni Ann Johnson: Why are you writing about what you’re writing about?
For the past few years, since I moved to Michigan’s upper peninsula, I’ve been writing a lot about Lake Superior. On the one hand, that’s no surprise—I witness its vast expanse every day. So on the one hand, it’s a source of imagery. But it’s much more than that. Its vastness reminds me that I’m really small, and that’s actually reassuring. Regardless of what I’m worried about or confused about or grieving, the universe is so much larger. But small as I am, I’m part of all this. So what I’m writing about, regardless of what I’m writing about, is the significance and insignificance of the individual.
What obsessions led you to write your book?
There’s lots of water in Inland Sea. I wouldn’t have written many of these poems if I hadn’t moved to Michigan’s upper peninsula a few years ago. I live four blocks from Lake Superior. I see it from my office window at work. I swim in it all summer long—it’s a little chilly, yes, but definitely invigorating. I love the buoyancy of being fully immersed. I’d moved away from Michigan after college and didn’t move back for decades, and I so missed the water the whole time. People who haven’t experienced the Great Lakes just don’t get it. I feel like my whole life has been driving me to this place, and I’m never going to leave. I can’t imagine not having that lake. I have a few other obsessions, but as far as Inland Sea goes, it’s the water, the water, the water.
How did you decide on the title of your book?
So many of our external explorations correspond with internal explorations. Lake Superior is often called an “inland sea.” It’s a fresh water lake, of course, but its effects are significant, especially meteorologically. So I chose the title most directly as a reference to Superior, but also as a reference to a person’s internal weather systems.
What’s the oldest poem in your book? Or can you name one piece that catalyzed or inspired the rest of the book? What do you remember about writing it?
I don’t remember which poem I wrote first—a few are several years old, but most were written within a year or two of the manuscript’s completion. One poem that confirmed its themes to me is “The Road to Happiness.” It’s the concluding poem in the book, and it’s set on a wintry day in Marquette. The last lines are: “…I know / I don’t want to live forever, / but I want to live / here forever.” That really sums up my feelings about living where I do.
Which poem in your book has the most meaningful back story to you? What’s the back story?
“First Breakfast in Weihai” is one of the poems whose setting is important for the context, but it’s not set in Michigan’s upper peninsula, or in Michigan at all. It’s set in Weihai, China, a city on the Yellow Sea, right across from Seoul, South Korea. A few years ago, I had the opportunity to work at Shandong University there for about a month. The people were exceptionally gracious and friendly, though very few people spoke English outside of the department I was working in. I only know three words in Chinese—for hello, thank-you, and I’m full. That final one became necessary because colleagues took me out to dinner so often—and those dinners were good! But I ate lunch almost every day at the same cafeteria-style restaurant because I could simply point to dishes I wanted. I was sitting there one afternoon when a Chinese man pulled up in a taxi, and took his luggage out of the trunk, along with some boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts. He seemed so happy to be bringing those donuts home. Although I didn’t connect directly with him, I did connect with so many kind people there that the trip remains formative for me.
Which poem is the “misfit” in your collection and why?
Probably “Of course I am afraid.” Its form is different, obviously—I tend to justify left almost all of the time, but this one has lines flitting across the page. And in terms of content, it’s more elliptical than much of what I write.
What was the final poem you wrote or significantly revised for the book, and how did that affect your sense that the book was complete?
One of the final poems I wrote was “White Deer.” I thought I’d already completed the manuscript, but in terms of both content and theme—that lifelong search for meaning which might or might not even exist, the human condition in other words—that poem seemed crucial to include.
A question from Leona Sevick: Do you ever find yourself hiding something in plain sight in your work? What is it? (Don’t tell if you’re still hiding it!)
I’m seldom intentionally or consciously hiding anything, but I’m sometimes surprised about what some readers have assumed is the autobiographical impulse behind a poem. Usually, for me, the direct content, perhaps we could say the plot, might not be autobiographical at all, though the emotional content is.
A question from Caroline M. Mar: What was the soundtrack of your book? Were there specific songs, musicians, or sounds that helped you access your writing?
I listen almost exclusively to classical music, and when I write, I listen most often to Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3, “Sorrowful Songs.” I’m sure I’ve listened to it thousands of times by now. It’s astonishing.
Is there a question you wish you would have been asked about your book? How would you answer it?
How is a collection these days different from a group of 50 or so poems?
The last several years have seen the publication of many “project books,” collections oriented clearly around a certain theme or event. Many have been really good—Paisley Rekdal’s West, Mary Szybist’s Incarnadine, Honorée Fanonne Jeffers’s The Age of Phillis. I think we’re beginning to return to the idea of a collection as also valuable when it’s not this kind of focused project, but I think we’ll continue to be influenced by those projects, with collections more tightly focused perhaps than they were 40 or 50 years ago. This is where I think Inland Sea falls.
A question from Lucien Darjeun Meadows: I’m always fascinated by ancestral lines, inheritances, and legacies. So, I would love to ask: What three (or so) authors, creatives, or works most influenced your collection? And/or, if readers are moved by your collection, who would you recommend we next seek out?
I’ve been very influenced by Elizabeth Bishop—her attention to the image and what often seems like (but only seems like) a detached objective view. Much of the work of Pattiann Rogers, especially her earlier collections, also taught me a lot about observation. Both of them include use of the first person but in a more restrained way than many poets do. There are so many poets I’d recommend, poets I’ve learned a lot from often because they’re working very differently than I do, like Layli Long Soldier, Karen Solie, Melissa Kwasny, and many, many others.
A question from Summer J. Hart: Do you work in any other artistic media? If so, how do the varied disciplines intersect, overlap, if they do at all?
I’m not very skilled at other arts, though I visit a lot of museums and attend a lot of concerts. However, I have recently begun quilting (I say that the only aspect of it I’ve mastered is buying fabric!), and that has taught me to pay attention in different ways, especially to color and shape. My sense of color has become much more refined, and I hope that is seeping into my writing. It’s like the scene in Tracy Chevalier’s novel Girl with a Pearl Earring, when Vermeer teaches Griet about all the different varieties of white.
A question from Noreen Ocampo: What is something that fuels you as a writer, your writing practice, or just you as a human being?
I never have enough solitude, or quiet. But I’m not talking about just being in a room alone, when I tend to just fret and obsess. I also need something to distract my mind from those loops. So I really enjoy kayaking—I’m out on the quiet water—a small lake, not Superior—but there’s so much going on around me, a sandhill crane lifting its leg, a group of turtles sunning on a log, the plunk of something I’ve not quite seen jumping into the water. And kayaking can be physically vigorous or relatively slow-paced. Either way, it’s serene and relaxing.
A question from Talia Lakshmi Kolluri: What tools do you use to remain uninhibited in your writing?
I wish I had some! I’m open to suggestions for this.
A question from Amy Barnes: What is your favorite fairy tale and how would you modernize it?
I’ve been thinking a lot about Hansel and Gretel lately. I’m comforted by the care the children show for each other in the midst of the adult abandonment and cruelty. So many modern situations seem to illustrate that story—school shootings, war, our looming climate disaster, situations in which adults have abdicated their responsibility (thoughts and prayers, anyone?) and children continue to be victims.
A question from Monica Macansantos: Do you ever find yourself inspired or guided by your childhood in your work?
Frequently. Children show up in my work a lot, though often in 3rd person. From poems that appeared in my first collection, Corporal Works, through poems I’ve written just in the last few months. Often, though, the autobiographical detail has gone underground a little bit, and few readers would be able to recognize it—at least in terms of historical fact. The emotional quality, on the other hand, is more often decidedly autobiographical.
A question from Monic Ductan: Who are your literary heroes? Why?
Two who come to mind right now are Toni Morrison and Louise Erdrich. Their writing is fabulous, of course, but they also tackle difficult material unflinchingly, and their books have helped us acknowledge some shameful aspects of our national past, elements of our national identity that so many Americans still long to repress. They both tell the truth artfully, and they invite readers toward compassion.
What are you working on now?
I’m working on another collection of poetry, also inspired by the Upper Peninsula, but these poems are focusing more on mining, iron ore and copper, which has been a source of some individual and corporate wealth up here. So the imagery will be different from that in Inland Sea, and the controlling metaphor is, at least right now, extraction. But I’m still exploring relationships between inner and outer worlds.
What question would you like to ask the next author featured at Speaking of Marvels?
What element of craft continues to elude you? What have you tried and failed to master?
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Lynn Domina is the author of several books, including three collections of poetry: Inland Sea, Framed in Silence, and Corporal Works. Her poems have been published in Ninth Letter, About Place, The New England Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, and many other periodicals and anthologies. She teaches English at Northern Michigan University and lives in Marquette, Michigan, along the beautiful shores of Lake Superior.
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