Institute for Latino Studies :: Momotombo Press :: Interview with Steven Cordova

	An Interview with Steven Cordova During the months of November and December 2004, María Meléndez, one of Momotombo Press’ two Associate Editors, conducted the following e-interview with Steven Cordova, author of Slow Dissolve (Momotombo Press, 2003). The interview with Cordova is the second in a series of interviews with Momotombo authors. Interview: MM: How would you describe the relationship between your ethnic identity and your poetic identity? What do you see as the advantages and/or limitations to reading literature through the lens of ethnicity (e.g. "Latino literature")? SC: I'm Latino and gay. And if I had to order the layers of my "identity," my gayness would come out on top. I don't say that because Latinos have failed me in any way or because I’m conflicted about my ethnicity. I say it because when I was in my early twenties I moved to New York City and gay men and women were coming together around AIDS. Even with all the death and dying, it was one of the best times of my life and it forged my “identity.” Then, too, being gay is more of a process. I never had to come out of the closet as Latino. My mother and grandmother told to be proud of being able to speak Spanish, etc. I did have to come out about being gay, and certainly my mother and grandmother never told me to be proud of it. But I imagine the advantages and limitations are pretty much the same, whether you're viewing literature through the lens of sexuality or ethnicity. The advantages of viewing literature through my gayness are that I have a rich history to draw from -- Whitman, Wilde, Cavafy, Auden, Crane, O’Hara, Ginsberg, Schuyler, Merrill and, more recently, Thom Gunn and Alfred Corn and J.D. McClatchy and Agha Shahid Ali and Mark Doty and Daniel Hall and Henri Cole and David Groff and Randall Mann and Rigoberto Gonzalez … the list goes on and on. The disadvantages are that the political agenda may overwhelm the poetry, and poetry, for me, is more concerned with universal experiences. MM: Tell me about the intersections between your history as an activist and your history as a poet. Has one enterprise inspired/informed the other? SC: My AIDS activism in ACT UP significantly decreased in 1989 when I became an employee of the Gay Men's Health Crisis (GMHC). The decrease wasn't due to my conflating ACT UP and GMHC; the former is an activist organization, the latter a service organization. I realize that. It was just that I could only take so much AIDS in the course of a day. It was at GMHC that I began writing in a poetry workshop volunteer-led by Rachel Hadas. Later I met others in that same workshop – Scott Hightower and Walter Holland and Christopher Murray -- who are still a part of my writing community. So my history as an activist and my history as a poet are directly linked. Memory and elegy creep into my poetry again and again, and they’re probably the results of the death and dying that led to that passionate period of AIDS activism. MM: I'm always interested in the relationships between poetry and place. New York City and Brooklyn seemed very endearing to me in surprising ways after I read your work. Could you comment on the interplay between your growth as a writer and the growth of your own sense of place/belonging in New York? SC: I don't make a living by teaching. I don't have students, course work and colleagues to get the creative juices flowing. What I do have is New York, where there’s so much art and so many artists that I constantly find stimulation and opportunity. Museums. Film. Writer-friends. Writer-acquaintances. Other queer writers in New York – gay men and lesbians -- have been very generous in guiding me. I'm very grateful for the support, for the writing skills they've imparted, and all at no cost but friendship. All that said, New York is a struggle. It's more and more a money town. Cheaper rent is the reason I recently moved about 45 minutes out of Manhattan into Brooklyn. And no matter how busy you are working and writing in New York, no matter how many friends you can count on in your corner, it’s a lonely town. Artistic stimulation plus a 9-to-5 job plus a certain amount of loneliness in the Big Apple—it equals poetry, for me, in any case. MM: As a poet in New York, how did the events of 9/11 affect you and your writing community? SC: Being a writer is a non-conformity to begin with. Since 9/11, I've felt increased pressure to conform, “If you criticize the war in Iraq, you don't support the troops,” “I’m the sitting president, you can’t criticize me and you must respect me unconditionally” and similar sentiments. That kind of pressure makes it less likely that I'll conform and, in fact only serves to make me prouder of the fact that I strive to make beautiful things, i.e., poems. I've written two 9/11 poems, neither of them very successful, though one may eventually make it. As far as other poets are concerned, I workshop with a group of about six other poets about every two weeks. I’ve noticed an increase of political matter in their poems since 9/11. But I think I'll pass on speculating how 9/11 has affected other poets. It's such a personal matter. They probably need to speak for themselves. MM: You’ve published a considerable number of reviews and essays, some of them documentary, some of them more personal, in various online venues. With your recent forays into movie reviewing, I wonder: do you see your poetry and prose efforts as being all of a piece, or do you see them as entirely separate activities? Do your poems ever begin as prose notebook entries, as Yeats’ did? SC: A poem is often an argument. Sonnets, for instance, are argumentative. They, in large-part, raise a question – “How do I love you?” -- then try to reason an answer – “yes, let me count the ways.” A review is very much like that. You raise the same old question – was this movie good? – then reason an answer. And that answer, like the answer in a poem, is based on observations and the feelings those observations stirred up in you. While I see writing reviews and writing poems as somehow linked, my poems tend not to begin as notes per se but as notes written down in lines. Getting that first line of a poem out of my head and onto paper is what usually gets the ball rolling. MM: What are you working on now? As a poet, do you think in "projects" or do you work poem-to-poem, with themes and continuities emerging as you go along? SC: I work poem to poem. Other poets -- whether it’s poets in my bi-monthly workshop or poets I feel I can show my manuscripts to -- they see the project, the connections. Maybe that will change as I become a more experienced writer. Maybe I’ll be able to conceive and see and follow through on a project more independently. For now, I’m happy with the interdependent process. Taking cues from others encourages humility. MM: In the writing communities you work in these days, what advice do you find yourself giving newer writers? SC: Some of the advice is very simple. Never go anywhere without paper and a pen, just as importantly, never go anywhere without something to read. Reading is the other half of writing. Sadly, I read more novels than volumes of poetry. But I always have something to read. A novel. A volume of poems. A magazine containing essays. A newspaper. Some of the advice isn’t very simple and I’m reticent about articulating it. But it would go something like this. Beware of the obsession with writing programs and jobs in higher learning and publishing and winning prizes and residences to enhance your resume. Of course, it’s easy for me to say that. My livelihood isn’t dependent on the system. And, of course, I’m published. And I like being published. Each time I am, I grow more confident and I write more poems and reviews and sweat less – sometimes, anyway – over those poems and reviews. I suppose it’s a matter of balance, especially for newer writers. I opened one of my personal essays about my cats with a quote from Auden: "In my daydream College for Bards ... every student would be required to look after a domestic animal and cultivate a garden plot."* I think what Auden realized is that caring for some other living thing reduces the chances that poets will start taking themselves too seriously. Unfortunately, I still haven’t gotten around to the “garden plot.” W.H. Auden, "The Poet & the City", The Dyer's Hand*

An Interview with Steven Cordova

During the months of November and December 2004, María Meléndez, one of Momotombo Press’ two Associate Editors, conducted the following e-interview with Steven Cordova, author of Slow Dissolve (Momotombo Press, 2003). The interview with Cordova is the second in a series of interviews with Momotombo authors.

Interview:

MM: How would you describe the relationship between your ethnic identity and your poetic identity? What do you see as the advantages and/or limitations to reading literature through the lens of ethnicity (e.g. "Latino literature")?

SC: I'm Latino and gay. And if I had to order the layers of my "identity," my gayness would come out on top. I don't say that because Latinos have failed me in any way or because I’m conflicted about my ethnicity. I say it because when I was in my early twenties I moved to New York City and gay men and women were coming together around AIDS. Even with all the death and dying, it was one of the best times of my life and it forged my “identity.”

Then, too, being gay is more of a process. I never had to come out of the closet as Latino. My mother and grandmother told to be proud of being able to speak Spanish, etc. I did have to come out about being gay, and certainly my mother and grandmother never told me to be proud of it.

But I imagine the advantages and limitations are pretty much the same, whether you're viewing literature through the lens of sexuality or ethnicity. The advantages of viewing literature through my gayness are that I have a rich history to draw from -- Whitman, Wilde, Cavafy, Auden, Crane, O’Hara, Ginsberg, Schuyler, Merrill and, more recently, Thom Gunn and Alfred Corn and J.D. McClatchy and Agha Shahid Ali and Mark Doty and Daniel Hall and Henri Cole and David Groff and Randall Mann and Rigoberto Gonzalez … the list goes on and on. The disadvantages are that the political agenda may overwhelm the poetry, and poetry, for me, is more concerned with universal experiences.

MM: Tell me about the intersections between your history as an activist and your history as a poet. Has one enterprise inspired/informed the other?

SC: My AIDS activism in ACT UP significantly decreased in 1989 when I became an employee of the Gay Men's Health Crisis (GMHC). The decrease wasn't due to my conflating ACT UP and GMHC; the former is an activist organization, the latter a service organization. I realize that. It was just that I could only take so much AIDS in the course of a day. It was at GMHC that I began writing in a poetry workshop volunteer-led by Rachel Hadas. Later I met others in that same workshop – Scott Hightower and Walter Holland and Christopher Murray -- who are still a part of my writing community. So my history as an activist and my history as a poet are directly linked. Memory and elegy creep into my poetry again and again, and they’re probably the results of the death and dying that led to that passionate period of AIDS activism.

MM: I'm always interested in the relationships between poetry and place. New York City and Brooklyn seemed very endearing to me in surprising ways after I read your work. Could you comment on the interplay between your growth as a writer and the growth of your own sense of place/belonging in New York?

SC: I don't make a living by teaching. I don't have students, course work and colleagues to get the creative juices flowing. What I do have is New York, where there’s so much art and so many artists that I constantly find stimulation and opportunity. Museums. Film. Writer-friends. Writer-acquaintances. Other queer writers in New York – gay men and lesbians -- have been very generous in guiding me. I'm very grateful for the support, for the writing skills they've imparted, and all at no cost but friendship.

All that said, New York is a struggle. It's more and more a money town. Cheaper rent is the reason I recently moved about 45 minutes out of Manhattan into Brooklyn. And no matter how busy you are working and writing in New York, no matter how many friends you can count on in your corner, it’s a lonely town. Artistic stimulation plus a 9-to-5 job plus a certain amount of loneliness in the Big Apple—it equals poetry, for me, in any case.

MM: As a poet in New York, how did the events of 9/11 affect you and your writing community?

SC: Being a writer is a non-conformity to begin with. Since 9/11, I've felt increased pressure to conform, “If you criticize the war in Iraq, you don't support the troops,” “I’m the sitting president, you can’t criticize me and you must respect me unconditionally” and similar sentiments. That kind of pressure makes it less likely that I'll conform and, in fact only serves to make me prouder of the fact that I strive to make beautiful things, i.e., poems.

I've written two 9/11 poems, neither of them very successful, though one may eventually make it. As far as other poets are concerned, I workshop with a group of about six other poets about every two weeks. I’ve noticed an increase of political matter in their poems since 9/11. But I think I'll pass on speculating how 9/11 has affected other poets. It's such a personal matter. They probably need to speak for themselves.

MM: You’ve published a considerable number of reviews and essays, some of them documentary, some of them more personal, in various online venues. With your recent forays into movie reviewing, I wonder: do you see your poetry and prose efforts as being all of a piece, or do you see them as entirely separate activities? Do your poems ever begin as prose notebook entries, as Yeats’ did?

SC: A poem is often an argument. Sonnets, for instance, are argumentative. They, in large-part, raise a question – “How do I love you?” -- then try to reason an answer – “yes, let me count the ways.” A review is very much like that. You raise the same old question – was this movie good? – then reason an answer. And that answer, like the answer in a poem, is based on observations and the feelings those observations stirred up in you. While I see writing reviews and writing poems as somehow linked, my poems tend not to begin as notes per se but as notes written down in lines. Getting that first line of a poem out of my head and onto paper is what usually gets the ball rolling.

MM: What are you working on now? As a poet, do you think in "projects" or do you work poem-to-poem, with themes and continuities emerging as you go along?

SC: I work poem to poem. Other poets -- whether it’s poets in my bi-monthly workshop or poets I feel I can show my manuscripts to -- they see the project, the connections. Maybe that will change as I become a more experienced writer. Maybe I’ll be able to conceive and see and follow through on a project more independently. For now, I’m happy with the interdependent process. Taking cues from others encourages humility.

MM: In the writing communities you work in these days, what advice do you find yourself giving newer writers?

SC: Some of the advice is very simple. Never go anywhere without paper and a pen, just as importantly, never go anywhere without something to read. Reading is the other half of writing. Sadly, I read more novels than volumes of poetry. But I always have something to read. A novel. A volume of poems. A magazine containing essays. A newspaper.

Some of the advice isn’t very simple and I’m reticent about articulating it. But it would go something like this. Beware of the obsession with writing programs and jobs in higher learning and publishing and winning prizes and residences to enhance your resume. Of course, it’s easy for me to say that. My livelihood isn’t dependent on the system. And, of course, I’m published. And I like being published. Each time I am, I grow more confident and I write more poems and reviews and sweat less – sometimes, anyway – over those poems and reviews. I suppose it’s a matter of balance, especially for newer writers.

I opened one of my personal essays about my cats with a quote from Auden: "In my daydream College for Bards ... every student would be required to look after a domestic animal and cultivate a garden plot."* I think what Auden realized is that caring for some other living thing reduces the chances that poets will start taking themselves too seriously. Unfortunately, I still haven’t gotten around to the “garden plot.”

*W.H. Auden, "The Poet & the City", The Dyer's Hand