The Poetry Closet: A. Molotkov
The moment when a stranger reaches out
It’s been a full year since stay-at-home orders came through.
A year of isolation, anxiety, fear, loss and turmoil sprinkled with occasional moments of beauty. Finding motivation and enthusiasm in this emotional landscape has been a heavy thing. That is to say, I don’t have a whole lot to report from the Poetry Closet this month. Poems were written. Poems were read. Most in English and a few in Russian (which does not happen often).
Which brings me to the poet whose work and thoughts I’m sharing with you today. I’ve met Anatoly Molotkov through the Wordlights poetry events I used to host (this month marks exactly one year since the last show). Like myself, Anatoly comes from the former Soviet Union. He performed a spell-binding set on our tiny outside stage at the now defunct Rocking Frog Cafe (another casualty of the pandemic) and since then I’ve wanted to ask him about writing in a second language, to compare our experiences of how immigration affects our writing, and of course to enjoy his performance of his poems again. Some wishes do come true.
Enjoy!
A. Molotkov
A Study in Luminosity*
So long, so without
end, and wouldn't
want one. Your palm
open to seven winds, you ask, What
if I stay here until a hill
grows over me, with a river
by its side, a selfish
view, and no memory
of me? I say, if you were
the river, I’d be the sky, or
something more solid, to pin
my memory to yours. You rest
your palm on my head, pushing
off as I anchor you. You notice
every living crevice, look into
faces. Tell me the brightest
thing. What can I
say? You
are the
brightest thing.
*Previously published by Prairie Schooner
NAILED: Why do you write poetry?
A. Molotkov: As a teenager, I decided to dedicate my life to being an artist because nothing else impacted me as much. Poetry is just one of the registers in this encounter, but a massively rewarding one, with its rhythm, its affinity to metaphor and its ability to take on a grand scope laconically.
N: How many hours a day are you a poet? What are you the rest of the time?
AM: In my 30s, as an immigrant in a somewhat dysfunctional marriage, I was forced to work 70 hours a week; finally I realized that art would forever leave me behind if I didn't practice it for at least an hour every day. In the late 1990s and early 2000’s, I participated in many music and experimental film projects, but in my 40s, I decided to focus on literature, as doing well in so many arts at once became increasingly impossible. At this stage in my life, I try to dedicate at least 3-4 hours a day to literature. 99% of this time is spent on prose and 1% on poetry, which translates into an average of an hour or two per week.
N: Does the experience of immigration and having lived in different countries inform your writing and, if so, how?
AM: Immigration exposes one to levels of vulnerability and helplessness that inevitably enhance one’s breadth of perspective on the human experience. One learns from scratch to communicate, after having done so successfully in another language. Encountering multiple cultures in depth helps better tease out the experiences that are universal, germane to many cultures and to the shared human reality, which is essential to the kind of poetry I’m drawn to.
Prayer to a Future Self*
A garden of arrows grows from my
skin. You love like sand,
remember like water, drift
through me unexplored, like
indifference. You may be a
phantom, but I believe in you: your
memory is accurate and helpful.
Brief, we shape the world before
we crash, unfit for replay. How to
tell love from unlove: the moon,
the blood, the silence. I read the
steam of your breath, am your
silhouette, travel in your thoughts.
When you are free, translate me
into your language. Learn me
by heart, as a song learns its singer.
Erase me.
*Previously published by Arts & Letters
N: How does it feel to write in a second language?
AM: Liberating. You’re using a tool of choice vs. a tool that was forced upon you. In my personal case, the Russian language carries a lot of ideological baggage. The years of communism have infested it with countless malaprops and nonsensicalities, while interrupting the cultural flow between generations. English, by contrast, feels unspoiled by such overt wrangling. In addition, English has, by far, the most words, among all languages. It has more tools for steering the work toward a particular tone/sound (the simplest example is the choice of shorter, more direct Germanic words vs. the longer, sometimes more melodious Latin imports). On the other hand, writing in a language that’s not one’s own brings humility; you are never certain that you’ve mastered your second language as well as its best practitioners. Lastly, a bilingual individual can't help but play, at least in their own mind, with the differences between languages and the impact these difference have on human cognition and on our perception of one another. The more angles and points of view, the more material to work with as a poet.
N: What’s a lesson poetry has taught you about life?
AM: Art taught me who I was, and I set out to become more so. The rest of life came to fit this plan and to be viewed through its lens.
N: When did you come out to family/friends as a poet? What was their reaction?
AM: At age 15. My parents wanted me to be a mathematician; I had a fair amount of talent in that direction and see how my choice not to pursue science was, to them, a disappointment. For my friends, my first literary creations became an endless source of hilarity, giving me an early taste of rejection. Some friends never accepted me as a writer.
The Sum of Your Life*
Down the street, at the edge of things you know, lie
possibilities you won't explore, loves unused, friendships
unstarted, invitations failed. In the golden light,
years pass, with ghosts of would-be lives
superimposed on would-be paths,
like colored filters. What you are and what
you aspire to, what you’ve done or tried, all the love
you longed to share with someone who
didn't notice. That day that could have blossomed,
but you were late. What didn’t happen is
a part of you.
*Previously published by Sisyphus
N: What are the best, the worst and the weirdest moments of your poetry life?
AM: The moment when a stranger reaches out to share that a poem or a line was meaningful must be among the best moments in any creative pursuit. Recently, a friend described an experience of discussing my poem with a student who said that the poem gave her a new way to think about the lives and deaths of those in her family who had died of covid. I’m sad about these losses, but feel privileged to be able to help make meaning. As to the worst and the weirdest moments, I don't pay attention. Rejections, misunderstandings and missed connections are an all-too-frequent and yet useful aspect of life, but one doesn't want to focus on it excessively.
N: Who sees your first drafts?
AM: My weekly prose group, The Guttery, and my monthly poetry group, The Moonlit Poetry Caravan. Also, the various magazine editors, who more often reject early drafts than late ones, even if in both cases the rejection rate exceeds 99%.
N: What’s the most embarrassing poem you’ve ever written?
AM: I’ve saved the embarrassing stuff for my memoir, “A Broken Russia Inside Me”, due out from Propertius in 2022.
N: How can people support you?
AM: As a writer, one ultimately wants readers to buy books, to read them and to discuss them. Perhaps they might spread the word? Only if the work moves them. I realize that the world owes me nothing.
N: Would you give a single word prompt to write a poem?
AM: If.
The Poetry Closet is a semi-regular column of poetry and discussion, curated by Igor Brezhnev. You can reach Igor with inquiries, comments, and other messages pertaining to the closet at nailedpoetrycloset@gmail.com
Delve into the previous Poetry Closet, here.
A. Molotkov’s poetry collections are “The Catalog of Broken Things”, “Application of Shadows”, “Synonyms for Silence” and “Future Symptoms” (forthcoming from The World Works). His memoir “A Broken Russia Inside Me” about growing up in the USSR and making a new life in America is due out in 2022 from Propertius. Molotkov’s collection of ten short stories, “Interventions in Blood”, is part of Hawaiʻi Review Issue 91. His prose is represented by Laura Strachan at Strachan Lit; he co-edits The Inflectionist Review. Please visit him at AMolotkov.com
Find A. Molotkov’s books here:
