A Conversation with Zachariah Claypole White
In 2018, while editing an anthology, I recall reading Zach’s flash story, “Books from Keida,” and feeling swept away by its powerful imagery but it wasn’t until I listened to him perform the story that I felt the raw emotion in his narrative. It didn’t surprise me when I learned he was both poet and songwriter. This month, we caught up to talk about his recent projects and his life as a poet and are featuring four of his published poems including “The Coup” which had been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and won the 2021 Flying South’s Best in Category award. — AMA
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Let’s start with you sharing details of your writing process. Tell us what you do. For example, what time of day or night makes you most productive as a writer? Where do you write? Pen or Pencil or straight to the keyboard? How many drafts do you generally go through before you consider a piece to be complete?
I used to write almost exclusively at night. Now, given my work schedule, I tend to do it in the mornings or on my lunch breaks. I do still find myself writing in the evenings on occasion. Oftentimes if I start a longer piece during the day, I’ll return to it at night. (Otherwise I can feel it scratching away at the back of my brain, wanting to be written.) In terms of where I write, I’m honestly not that picky. I do love writing outside, but since moving to New York for my MFA, I’ve found myself writing on trains as well.
For poetry I always write the first draft by hand, and always with pen. For prose I go straight to the computer. In terms of drafts, most of my poems realize themselves in the revision process. In fact, I’d guess about 80-90% of my writing happens during revisions. So, as you can imagine, I have a lot of drafts. In the rare case of a poem arriving more or less fully formed (RA Villanueva once called these “Athena poems”), it will still go through at least three drafts. I never even consider the first handwritten version a true draft; I think of it more as a blueprint or schematic--an attempt to familiarize myself with the topography of the poem. I just checked the manuscript I’m working on and most of the poems in it have had anywhere from seven to ten drafts; a few come closer to fifteen.
You recently completed a Masters of Fine Arts at Sarah Lawrence College. How did that experience shape your development as a writer?
Before the MFA, I was starting to feel stuck as a writer. Not in terms of writer’s block but rather, I knew my poems wanted to grow and move in new directions; I just didn’t know how to follow them. The MFA taught me to trust my poems, to surrender control to language. Several writers I admire have spoken about letting your poems be smarter than you. The MFA let me do just that and helped me learn to trust my instincts as a writer (even if I don’t always know why they are pulling me in a certain direction). The program was also a profound and delightful reminder that you cannot write without a community.
Martin Luther King, Jr. once wrote that “The ultimate measure of a person is not where one stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where one stands in times of challenge and controversy.” I think it’s fair to say you’re tuned into issues of social justice. Does this sensitivity to the world’s challenges and controversies shape your poetry? If so, how?
Of course! Every writer brings their obsessions, worries, and hopes to the page. Even if you’re not “tuning in” to politics, the world will still bleed into your work. When I sit down to write a poem, I never do so with the intention of examining a specific social issue, but inevitably those issues assert themselves in my writing, because they’re a part of my life. I will say, I always try to write towards hope. Even in my darkest pieces. That’s become a part of my voice. I’d like to think that despite, and perhaps because of, the challenges of our world, I’ve leaned more into a poetics that finds delight in resilience and resistance.
Many of my poems also engage with, and draw inspiration from, my struggles with mental illness. I’ve dealt with anxiety and OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) for most of my life. Writing helps me come to terms with my illness; but just as importantly, my poems seek to provide a space where other people with invisible disabilities can do the same, especially when so much of the world demands that we approach such differences with shame and guilt.
In the recent years, you’ve been longlisted in several notable poetry contests. What is your best piece of advice on how to persist as a writer through these rejections?
“Be bloody, bold, and resolute!” (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)
Ah, MacBeth quote. That works.
Writing is a career of incredible highs and many (much more frequent) lows. You might have no sense of “progress” (I use that term with some hesitance) for months or even years. Find your writing community: those people who will force you to keep going when you want to quit, who will commiserate when the rejection letters arrive, and who will celebrate your success. People who will push you to do even better. Celebrate your writing successes! However large or small. Do not compare yourself to other writers. That is a great way to make sure you never pick up a pen again. Focus on your own journey. So, in the immortal words of Churchill, “KBO” (keep buggering on).
You’ve mentioned a writing community a few times now but how does someone interested in building a community who isn’t pursuing an advanced degree find their kindred spirits?
It can be tough, and that was certainly something I struggled with between undergrad and the MFA. There are a lot of incredible workshops and residencies (some online and some in person) which you can always explore. Independent bookstores are also great centers of community; they’ll host readings, open mics, book clubs, and even classes.
Remember if you can’t find an existing community, you can always create one. Start a reading series or open mic and invite some writers you admire to perform. Perhaps your community is a group of high school friends you zoom with twice a month to exchange drafts. Maybe your community isn’t made up of other writers at all, but visual artists, or musicians, or just friends whose judgment you trust. There’s no right or wrong way of “doing” community, as long as it works for everyone involved.
The other advice I’d give is, once you find your people, don’t let them go. Stay in touch!
These are excellent suggestions, especially staying in touch with your writing community. It’s essential. I’d like to change topics or maybe shift focus is a better way to describe it since your songwriting is tightly coupled with writing poetry. Up until 2018, you’d played guitar in two bands, The Arcadian Project and Eden Falling. Why did you pause your musical career at that time? I’m guessing music is still very integral to your creative process, what music do you listen to when you’re writing (song, band, genre?)
I absolutely love the spontaneity of performing, especially my own songs. It was my therapy for a while. I could jump around a stage with a guitar or microphone all day, but I was not particularly fond of the business side of music. I also fell into the trap of trying to make every show absolutely perfect (which is never truly possible). The more I pursued it, the less therapeutic it became. Once I realized that music was causing me more stress than happiness, I decided to step back from it (at least in the career-sense). I realized I didn’t love the craft of songwriting as much as I love the craft of writing poetry. I can spend hours pondering over the smallest details of a poem, and delight in that, but the same isn’t true for a song. I still love playing and performing. I practice my instruments every day, but music has gone back to just being a personal escape. I would like to play in a band again someday.
In terms of my writing process, I always listen to music. I prefer recordings of concerts over studio albums when I write. I’m honestly not sure why. I think it has something to do with the joys and imperfections of live music. I switch up my writing music quite a bit, but I tend towards metal, punk, and folk. Recently I’ve been listening to Sleep Token, Coheed and Cambria, the Airborne Toxic Event, Slipknot, Queens of the Stone Age and some Rihanna. For specific songs, I’ve been stuck on “Alkaline” and “Take Me Back to Eden” by Sleep Token.
Who would play you in the film about your life?
Oh, that’s a great question. I would love Viggo Mortensen to do it. Not necessarily because I think there’s a huge overlap between us but because I love Lord of the Rings, and Return of the King is my favorite movie.
Another choice would be Tom Holland. I think he could play a good Zachariah.
Are there people in your life who have influenced your writing? Teachers? Family? Friends? Public figures?
Of course! As I said, despite the stereotypes, writing is not a solitary craft. You need a community. My parents have been hugely influential. In fact, most of the advice I gave on persisting as a writer was stolen from my mom.
That would be novelist, Barbara Claypole White?
Yes. She and my dad have always been incredibly supportive of my poetry. All of my professors in the MFA have guided me, but I’m especially indebted to my thesis advisor, Sally Wen Mao, and my first workshop professor, Marie Howe. The incredible writers in my MFA cohort have also influenced my writing and my approach to craft. Finally, I was lucky enough to be accepted into one of the “Kenyon Review’s” residential workshops last summer to study with Victoria Chang. She really helped shape how I think about my writing process.
What question didn’t I ask but you’d hoped I would?
Nothing specific comes to mind! As I said, OCD and mental illness are key focal points for my writing. It’s worth mentioning that as a Southern (and half-Jewish) writer, coming to terms with what that means and what responsibilities (to home, to history) that entails, has greatly helped to define my poetics.
You’ve worked as a bookseller in recent years. First at Flyleaf Books in North Carolina and now at Womrath Bookshop in New York. Both are independent bookstores. Some say brick and mortar stores are a thing of the past. From your experience, talk a bit about the future of bookshops in this country especially with the recent movement to ban certain books.
As long as there are books to sell, independent bookstores will exist. We lost a lot of them to Covid, but before that I believe the number of independent stores in the US was actually increasing. I’m not sure what it’s doing at the moment, but I do think people are very aware of indies and eager to support them. So many incredible books don’t get the attention they deserve, and the indies are a key part of making sure those books find the people they need to. In fact, one of my favorite parts of being a bookseller is introducing readers to the small press titles they might have otherwise missed.
In terms of book bans: independent bookstores cannot replace libraries and they can’t fully mitigate the damage of removing books from library shelves. That said, they can (and should) make sure those books are celebrated. They can also shine a spot light on marginalized authors and make sure that kids find the books that speak to them. Even without book bans, so many voices are excluded from “literary” discussions. You want to find incredible horror books by queer, POC, or femme authors? Go to an indie and ask for recommendations. Need more trans poets in your life? (Duh, of course you do.) Go to an indie!
I’d like to end our interview with two related questions stolen from the late James Lipton: What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? What profession would you not like to do?
This might sound a bit ridiculous, but I’d love to do voice acting, especially for cartoons. I think I’d be a great Squidward. My other option would be an actor at a haunted house. I’d get paid to dress up in a Halloween costume and jump out at people. What else could I ask for?
For professions I would like to avoid: anything involving finance. My brain is just not wired to find any joy in it. I would also hate working in an airport. As soon as I step into one, my anxiety skyrockets (no pun intended).
Aside from reading your poems from the May Issue of Does It Have Pockets, how else can readers find and support your work?
Right now, the best way is to follow me on Instagram, or check my Linktree. I keep both updated. I’m also on Twitter but don’t use it as regularly. I do hope to have a personal website set up soon.
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/zachariahcw/
Linktree: https://linktr.ee/zachariahclaypolewhite
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Zachariah_CW
Poet Zachariah Claypole White. Photo courtesy of the author.
The Coup (Language is a Violence to Rise with the Sea)
November 10th, 1898
Alex Manly’s press will burn
in flame-kissed photos
white supremacists pose
an orchestra awaiting its curtain fall
men stand beneath the dangling sky
grind heels into half-printed headlines
hold nooses like cello strings
state militia are dispatched
only black citizens are arrested
local newspapers
led by the Raleigh-based
News and Observer
help instigate the overthrow
swallow the ash of darker words
each day the News and Observer
arrives under my window
I skim pages
tear them into cardinal wings
taste another’s blood in the ink
reach for violence
the smoke under my fingertips
my brother says
muzzled words
are feral things
clawing at our lips
i say yes
we understand
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November 1898
Wilmington executes
sixty or more black citizens
hands like mine
do not record
the exact number
sometimes i leave the word history in my coat pocket
hand it to a gas station attendant
neither of us sure
how many gallons
it is worth
protests continue
i try to speak with the ghost
sharing my seat
but our tongues have fallen
between the pews
officials note
the neighborhood
declined
decline
which might be a synonym
for overthrow
for no whites arrested
for lynch
i believe a nation
is a bird with no feet
This poem quotes from: “Wilmington, North Carolina’s Taylor Estates Redevelopment Project.” n.d. Web. 23 Apr. 2017.
First published in Flying South, Number 8, 2021
Odes to Insanity
its voice is my voice
nothing like my father’s lullabies
honey-dark smiling
roadkill teeth
fluent in love poems
and declarations of war
my voice is its voice
too much like the emptying
of my grandmother’s ash trays
more akin to a bird
than a fish or prayer
stalking rabid
across my chest
its voice is our voice
too much like God
to be holy
well versed in archaeology
oncology and grief
an architect of failures
hauling Babel
from ruined fingers
our voice is its voice
nothing like a brother or hurricane
copywritten
hereditary
often mistaken
for a sunflower
lover or priest
its voice is my voice
too much like my father’s lullabies
how easily
he called sleep down
from the mountain
gathered its silence
in the warmth of rooms
unbuilt
First published in The Hong Kong Review, Volume 3, Number 1.
A Catalogue of Moments as Told to My Bedroom Window
I.
Today, my father is a hummingbird against the screen,
and we are candles crossing the distance.
He is twenty-one: a prophecy of laughter
counting pigeon feathers, and I—the sand,
waiting his touch.
Today, the surgery. Fingers swell ripe as harvest moons.
His wedding ring will not fit past the knuckle.
II.
I am trying to describe the failures of gravity
and my grandmother is dead,
buried in a church with no roof.
But today she is a child, pulling away blackout curtains,
watching the dogfights: strange blossoms
in the garden of our violence.
My mother is born in this house,
once a soldier’s hospital.
My father flees a different war.And I am a riot horse,
still kissing his blood.
III.
Today, the same cemetery
where—twenty years ago—we are remembered
as prayers pebble-smooth.
And I am sitting in this room—five hours now—
hoping to touch a dead boy through the window;
again and again, my mother writes one sentence.
There is no metaphor in this.
IV.
All these todays ago
I pull ferns from my wrist.
With hands ration-strong,
my grandmother holds the river’s slope,
drinks the tree-dented light
till hawks flower from her grave.
Today, the funeral;
today the stones are named
Teacher and Priest.
Today, my father laughs like wind
fresh-born from the mountains.
There is a city in his throat;
it too is dancing.
First published in Pedestal Magazine, Issue 90
