Amarys Dejai in Conversation with American Poet Jeremy Michael Clark

Jeremy Michael Clark is the author of The Trouble with Light, selected by Patricia Smith as a finalist for the 2024 Miller Williams Poetry Prize and forthcoming from the University of Arkansas Press in Spring 2024. His poems have appeared in Poetry, The Common, Poem-A-Day, The Southern Review, West Branch, and elsewhere. His work has also been anthologized in Soul Sister Revue: A Poetry Compilation and Once A City Said: A Louisville Poets Anthology. He has received support from the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop, Cave Canem, the Community of Writers, and the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center. A former editorial assistant at Callaloo, he received his MFA from Rutgers University-Newark and his MSW from the University of Pennsylvania. Born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky, he lives in Brooklyn.

In a conversation with Sontag Mag Staff Interviewer Amarys Dejai, poet Jeremy Michael Clark opens up about his journey from songwriting to poetry, the long process behind his recent book, and how his personal experiences influence his writing. He talks about what it really means to be a writer today, the importance of dedication, and how inspiration can come from the most unexpected places. Jeremy's honest and relatable insights offer great advice for anyone looking to dive into writing or reconnect with their craft.

AD: First off, thank you for taking the time to speak with me today. After coming across your poetry recently, I knew I wanted to speak with you at some point, and I’m so happy to have the chance to do that now. I read one of your poems, What I See When I Stare Long Enough Into Nothing, and I remember immediately falling in love with it. I especially resonated with the line, “I haven’t been / a child in years yet here I go, / discussing the past again.” Which line did you borrow from Ada Limón?

It was actually the title of the poem. I wrote that poem while I was still at Rutgers for my MFA, and I was there from 2015 to 2017. At one point, that line was the title of my thesis; at another point, it was within a poem, and then I took it out. It moved around a lot, but it eventually ended up as the title of the poem.

AD: According to your website, your earliest publication is your 2017 chapbook. Is that around the time you started writing poetry?

No, I went to Rutgers in 2015, and before that, I did the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop in 2014 and Cave Canem in 2015. But I would say I started writing back in 2007. The story behind that is that I was in a band and writing songs, but I didn’t really enjoy singing much. One day, I was talking to my friend’s mom, and she suggested that I write poems instead. She told me about a summer workshop called Governor’s School for the Arts, which was a two- or three-week program where I first wrote poems, read poems, and was given prompts. It was the first time I had ever really done that. I was seventeen at the time, and I consider that when I first started writing poetry. I wrote mostly on my own during undergrad, and later on, I got more involved in the community.

AD: That’s interesting. Seventeen seems to be the age when many people start writing seriously. I’ve loved writing since I was a child, but it was around seventeen when I discovered a deeper passion for it. It was the moment when I realized, “Oh, this is something I can actually pursue.”

Exactly. I always loved writing as a kid—short stories and all of that—just like you. I knew people who were poets, but I didn’t really understand it. I thought poetry was kind of “old-fashioned” or something like that. But when I turned seventeen and started seeing contemporary poems, I realized, “Oh, you can write like this, or you can write about these things,” and I thought, “Oh, I guess I could do that.”

AD: Yeah, I remember being seventeen and discovering things like Button Poetry. It felt like a whole new world opened up. I saw you published your second book last year—congratulations on that! What was the writing process for that project like?

Yeah, so the book from last year... A lot of the poems in there are ones I wrote over a long period. The oldest poem in the book is from 2013, and I wrote a handful of poems around that time. The bulk of the poems were written while I was in my MFA program, and then after I graduated in 2017, I wrote another batch between 2017 and 2019.

So, it was kind of a six-year process of writing poems. The final book that came out was very different at many points along the way. There were lots of different ways I had to organize the manuscript and different ideas about what the book was about. At one point, I had to put together a thesis to graduate, so I had this clear idea of what the project was. Many of the poems from that time survived, but the reorganization and reordering really changed once I had some time away from it and came back to it.

It was interesting because I had been sending the manuscript out in various versions to publishers and was getting some mildly encouraging feedback. People would say things like, "We really liked it, but it's not quite there yet," or "It made it to the semifinals at a couple of places." So, I was aware that it was almost there. While I was doing that, I kept revising it, showing it to friends or colleagues who would offer feedback as well.

It's funny to think about it now because if the book had been published at any point along the way, it would have looked radically different from what it ended up being. But all that feedback really helped me get it to the place where it finally felt complete.

AD: So, you mentioned that some of these poems date back as early as 2013, with others being more recent. I’m curious—it's been almost a year since the book came out, right? As a writer myself, I know that sometimes our perception of what we’ve written can change over time. There’s one author I know of who wrote a poetry book when she was twenty-one, and she made a comment saying that she wishes she had never written it at all because she just doesn't identify with it anymore. So, I’m wondering—though it hasn’t been too long—have your feelings changed at all toward your book as a whole, or maybe toward any specific poem?

I mean, even though the book is almost a year old, all the poems in it are at least five years old at this point. So, it's funny because, to a lot of people, this is new, but for me, I’ve been reading and knowing these poems for years. But what’s interesting is that, right before the book got published, I hadn’t really been writing or thinking about writing for maybe a year or two.

Then, the University of Arkansas reached out and said, "We want to publish this book." So I had to revisit this manuscript for the first time in about two years, and I thought, “Oh yeah, I guess I did send this out.”

It’s also interesting because I’m thirty-four now, and I wrote all of these poems in my twenties. So, reading them now, I see myself from a younger perspective—someone in a different place in life. I was still drinking back then, I hadn't gone to therapy yet, and I was still sorting through my feelings about my relationship with my family and my hometown. Not that I don't still think about those things, but it’s interesting to read and see how I was working through them at that time.

It's not that I don’t identify with the poems anymore, but I do have a different vantage point now. When I read them, sometimes I physically feel myself saying the words and think, "I probably wouldn’t say it that way now, or I don’t exactly feel that way anymore." But I think there’s something powerful about honoring the fact that I felt that way at one point in time, and it might still resonate with someone who feels that way now.

It’s kind of funny because, in a way, I feel like I’m still living through some of those experiences, so I’m revisiting those feelings in a way, even though they’ve changed over time.

AD: As a twenty-four-year-old writer myself, I’m living through everything you’ve been mentioning. It’s interesting to see this retrospective reflection you have towards it all. I want to touch on purpose real quick. So, this is kind of a broader question, and you can take it however you want, but in a general sense, what does writing mean to you? Personally, what does the act of writing do for you or mean to you?

Yeah, it's interesting because it's a question I've been asking myself lately, especially considering how much I haven’t been writing. Over the past five or six years, I went back to school for social work, became a therapist, and that’s now my full-time job. So, I haven’t really been writing as much.

When I was writing this book, and especially when I was a teenager and in my early twenties, writing was incredibly important to me. I really identified as a writer. I felt like if you didn’t know I was a writer, you didn’t really know me at that time. I loved getting up on stage and sharing my work. Writing felt like a way to connect with others, but it also served as an outlet. I’ve always been an emotional person, and as a man, expressing those emotions verbally didn’t always feel safe. But if I put those emotions in a poem and performed it, there was something about that that felt acceptable.

Writing also became something people told me I was good at. I saw other people who were good at it, and I saw how it was making a tangible impact on their lives—connecting them with others and opening up opportunities. It felt like if I left my hometown, writing could be a way to get to a new space or to justify moving somewhere else. That was a big part of it.

When I look back at this book, I can see how much I was trying to have conversations that I wanted to have with my family—conversations that I wish had been happening up until that point. I thought maybe putting those conversations into the book might spark something because those discussions didn’t seem to be happening in real life. So, it’s interesting to think of writing as a tool for that, too.

Now, though, I don’t write as much. I don’t feel the strong urge to work through my stuff in public forums anymore. But if you take away the elements of publishing and performing, writing for me now feels like a reflective space. It’s a place where you can play, experiment, and deepen your relationship with yourself. You can surprise yourself with what you might learn there.

Writing isn’t exactly meditative or therapeutic, but it has elements of both. It can also be really playful and fun, too. So, yeah, that’s a really long answer!

AD: No, I appreciate it. I love hearing it. It’s just funny that you mentioned how you haven’t been writing as much recently because I honestly feel the same way. Even just a few years ago, I was constantly writing poetry, but now it’s more like here and there. Even now, I’m doing more essay work, interview stuff, and transcription—less poetry. It’s been a weird shift.

When I was twenty-one, which wasn’t that long ago, it felt exactly like you said—if you didn’t know I was a writer, then you didn’t really know me. But now, I almost feel like… how do I put this? I know I’m still a writer, but it’s almost like I’m questioning whether I’m worthy of the title. I don’t know if I’m phrasing this well, but I guess I’ll leave it at that.

So, my question is: Do you ever feel like, because you haven’t been writing consistently for a while, you can’t call yourself a writer anymore? Or that your relationship with that title has shifted in some way?

I used to really care. I remember at the height of my writing—when I was writing and reading every day—if I went two weeks, a month, or even two months without writing, I’d get anxious. I’d feel like I wasn’t keeping up with my work or my craft.

But then, it’s funny—two things happened. I stopped writing a lot. At the beginning of the pandemic, my mom passed away, and between the pandemic, being back in grad school, and dealing with that loss, I just didn’t feel motivated or inspired to write. And I made peace with it. I was like, "It’s okay if I never write again."

So, on one hand, I stopped caring about whether or not I was a writer. But then, soon after that, this book happened, and people started saying, "Oh, you're a writer. You have a book." And I was like, "Yeah, I guess I am." I’ve put in the work. I’ve written a lot of poems. I have a degree, whatever that’s worth. I have a book, whatever that’s worth.

I don’t think those things make me a writer, but others see those accomplishments and say, "Well, you’re clearly a writer." So there’s an element of knowing that I’ve done the work in the past. It’s something I could always go back to. I don’t question whether I’m a writer anymore, mostly because I don’t feel the need to prove it anymore. When I was younger, I think there was a need to defend it or assert it, but now, as I’ve gotten older, I’m kind of like, "I don’t really care what anyone says."

AD: Oh gosh, I can't wait to not be twenty-four anymore and have the ability to adopt a mindset similar to yours.

I mean, it makes you wonder, what does it matter what I call myself? What’s really important is what you do, right? It’s about what’s meaningful to you. And it’s funny because sometimes I joke that I use my MFA as much as I use my therapist skills—both in my writing and in my therapy practice. The practice and skills of being a writer, a good reader, and being empathetic are the same things I need to be a good therapist. It’s not writing per se, but I feel like I’m flexing the same muscles. I’m using the same senses.

AD: You haven’t been writing consistently recently, but I was going to ask, when you are in the mindset to write, what’s that process like for you? Are you the type of person who says, “Okay, I’m going to sit down for 30 minutes and write whatever”? Or do you wait for the motivation to come to you?

I’m generally the type of person who struggles to maintain consistent routines. I’ll get into a routine for maybe two months or two and a half months, and then I’ll switch things up. So, for me, writing is much more fluid. I’ll wake up in the morning with a line in my head, and I’ll just let that linger. I don’t rush to write it down right away. Then, I might watch a movie, play a video game, or do something else that triggers a reaction in me. And then, I’ll start to feel like something’s coming together, something is coalescing.

At that point, I might think to myself, “What would happen if I sat down and made space to explore that thought?” So sometimes, I’ll do that. But there are also times when I’ll tell myself, "Alright, whether I feel it or not, whether I’m inspired or not, I’m going to sit down and write for 30 minutes, just to build the habit."

I think there’s value in wanting consistency, but sometimes you get stuck thinking, "I just don’t feel like it" or "I don’t have anything to say," and that can lead to losing the discipline, for lack of a better word. But I also think it’s important to allow yourself to just be in the world, to experience it, and see what you encounter. Often, those encounters can surprise you and inspire you to write.

AD: Okay. So, when you are actively seeking inspiration, what do you look for?

Honestly, what do I look for? Well, more often than not, I’ll go to the movies. I live in Brooklyn, and there are so many theaters here, so many different options. Or, sometimes I’ll go to a photography exhibition or visit a bookstore where I can thumb through art books. Another thing I often do is meet up with a friend for coffee to see what they’ve been reading, what they’re interested in.

I paused when you asked what I look for because I don’t think I actively seek out just one thing. For example, there’s a theater here called BAM. I know they always have a few interesting movies playing, even if I’ve never heard of the director or the film. There’s usually something about it that catches my attention, and I just feel like I’m going to find something intriguing there. So, I kind of have these "touchpoints," places or activities that I know are likely to spark something.

AD: I’m curious—are you reading anything right now?

Well, my reading isn’t very poetic at the moment, but I just finished a book called Filter World. It’s a nonfiction book that discusses how algorithms, especially digital ones, have changed our relationship with culture—our music, writing, and how we shape our tastes. The idea is that we don’t really have defined tastes anymore because we’re constantly bombarded with content from all directions.

I’ve also been reading books about different therapeutic modalities to help my clients. So, yeah, it's funny—I haven’t been reading much poetry lately. I’m trying to think of the last book I read... and this is the part where I’m like, "Oh, yeah, I’m not a writer anymore."

AD: Oh, I can’t think of the last poetry book I read either. I’ve been reading a lot of nonfiction—just essays and stuff—so I’m like, I don’t think I can answer that question either. I’m really trying to think.

Yeah, it’s tough. I had a friend from Rutgers, Ael Yell, and her first book came out last year, so I read that. It was really great. But yeah, I kind of bounce around. I have so many interests. Back when I was writing more, I would just read poetry—only poetry. But now, I want to go to the movies, play video games, spend time with friends. The time I devote to actually sitting down and reading has gotten a lot smaller. It’s a bit sad, but also kind of awesome—there’s so much out there that’s exciting.

AD: Yeah, I definitely feel that. Like I said, I'm a high school English teacher, so I feel like I have such little time to sit and read anymore.

I actually taught freshman English when I was at Rutgers, and then a little bit after that. Yeah, you get home, and you’ve got to grade a bunch of papers, plan lessons, and it just feels like, "I can’t possibly read another thing right now."

AD: Yeah, I totally get that. I’ll close with this question—it’s a good general one to wrap up with. So, I’ve asked this myself, as well as some of my students, and I know a lot of them are curious about my own writing. Very few of them write in their free time, not because writing is a lost art, but because, you know, with technology, they’re just less inclined to write on their own. So, if someone were to ask you, “How do I become a writer or a poet?” what would you tell them?

I think it feels really oversimplified, but it's true. If you want to write, that's huge. Because, like you pointed out, a lot of people just simply don’t want to. And that’s fine—there are plenty of things I don’t want to do either, you know? But for the people who do want to write, it’s about taking that seriously. You have to believe, "Yeah, I can do this." You don’t need a degree or to be published to call yourself a writer.

Taking it seriously also means making time for it. It means finding other people who share that interest and seeing what they’re reading. I think reading is a huge part of it. I didn’t really understand what was possible in writing until I saw what others were doing. I thought, “Oh, they can do that—great!”

So, if you want to become a writer, look at what other writers are doing and find the ones who move you. Then, take their lead. It’s tough because we have this idea that writers have to be part of an academic institution or be associated with some fancy program or fellowship. But most of the people I know who write just wake up and do it. They don’t question whether it’s important or not because, for them, it is important, whether it’s important to anyone else or not.

And the great thing is, once you take it seriously and figure out what’s important to you, the people who need it will find you. I always think back to the best poems I’ve read—those are the ones that still move me. If I’m not moved by my own work, no one else will be. It’s the same with being a writer. If you care about what you’re doing, you’ll find other people who care about it too, and that will help you move forward.