Project and content management for Contemporary Authors volumes
WORK TITLE: Mosaic of the Dark
WORK NOTES:
PSEUDONYM(S):
BIRTHDATE:
WEBSITE: https://lisadordal.com/
CITY: Nashville
STATE: TN
COUNTRY: United States
NATIONALITY:
Phone: 615-322-2325
RESEARCHER NOTES:
LC control no.: no2012013400
LCCN Permalink: https://lccn.loc.gov/no2012013400
HEADING: Dordal, Lisa
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100 1_ |a Dordal, Lisa
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PERSONAL
Born in Chicago, IL.
EDUCATION:Vanderbilt University, M.Div, 2005, M.F.A., 2011.
ADDRESS
CAREER
Vanderbilt University, Nashville, TN, Department of English, lecturer.
AWARDS:Academy of American Poets Prize, Robert Watson Poetry Prize,
WRITINGS
Work represented in anthologies and journals, including Best New Poets, CALYX, The Greensboro Review, Vinyl Poetry, and Ninth Letter.
SIDELIGHTS
Lisa Dordal is a poet who writes about issues of spirituality, gender, sexuality, and identity. She started crafting poems as a teenager, but she did not consider poetry her life’s work until years later. “I grew up in a very academic family,” she explained in a “self-interview” published on the Nervous Breakdown website. “We lived a block away from the University of Chicago. There was a big emphasis in our family on knowing rather than feeling. Logic and empiricism were considered superior to feelings and personal experience.” In the same interview, she noted: “Growing up, I wasn’t encouraged to think much about a career or a ‘calling’ for myself. Writing was just something I did to help process my feelings. It wasn’t something I thought I could—or should—take seriously. I grew up in a very math- and science-oriented family. Those were serious pursuits. Writing poetry was not considered a serious pursuit.”
She eventually went to divinity school at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, and after finishing her divinity degree, she began attending writing workshops and then worked toward a master of fine arts degree. By then she was frequently writing poems, and she recognized that many of them were of high quality, but she still had difficulty thinking of herself as a poet. “Then one day, I walked into my study and I felt one of my arms reaching out towards my bookcase where I keep my poetry and non-fiction books,” she said in the Nervous Breakdown interview. “It felt like a poet’s version of an altar call experience. As if my body knew what I should be doing—even if my mind had doubts.” She has published poems in numerous journals, as well as a chapbook Commemoration, and her first full-length collection, Mosaic of the Dark.
Many of her poems are informed by her lesbian sexuality, which she did not accept about herself until she was thirty. “There had never been space for me to be a lesbian before then; it’s as if the ‘I’ who I really was didn’t exist because I didn’t have a linguistic context in which to understand my identity,” she told a Broad Street online interviewer. “Even when I had a slight inkling early on that I might be attracted to women, I didn’t have the words I needed to understand who I was. … My truth was denied to me for many years. I had heard the word lesbian as a kid but, back then, I only understood the stereotypical meanings of the word, not its gorgeous multiplicities.” One of her poems in Mosaic of the Dark explores the possibility that her mother, a frustrated writer, was a closeted lesbian. She frequently writes about her mother, she told the Broad Street interviewer: “She died in 2001 from issues partly related to her alcoholism, and just when I think I’ve written the last poem about her, another one comes along. Although many of my mother poems emerge from a place of pain and loss, I consider these hauntings to be a wonderful gift; a way for me to connect, through my writing, with one of my dearest ancestors.” Other subjects figuring in Dordal’s poems are prominent historical personages, women from the Bible, the treatment of women in the world, the quest for a type of spirituality that is not patriarchal, and the connection between spirituality and sexuality.
Dordal’s poetry has evolved over the years, she told an interviewer at the Creative Writing Now website. “One huge misconception I had about poetry early on was the idea that poems weren’t supposed to have many words and weren’t supposed to take up much space on the page. … Slowly, as my feminist consciousness emerged, I began to see that I was entitled to take up space in the world,” she said. “And, at the same time, I began to see that it was just as important for my written words to take up space. So, my poems now are much sturdier on the page; darker and more embodied.” Her advice to aspiring poets, she said in the interview, is to read extensively. “I can remember way back in high school and college actually being afraid to read too much poetry because I was worried I would lose sight of my own voice; that I would end up sounding too much like other people,” she explained. “But, really, the best way for someone to find their own voice is to read the work of other poets.”
Mosaic of the Dark features poems on many of Dordal’s signature subjects. “On the Way to Emmaus” deals with religion, sexuality, and truth-telling; if makes reference to Christ’s resurrection but also tells Dordal’s story of coming out to her students while teaching a class on the New Testament. “Clues” likewise mingles the sexual and the spiritual, while “Holy Week” is the poem contemplating her mother’s sexuality. A Kirkus Reviews contributor called the book an “outstanding collection,” adding: “Humming with inspired metaphors and everyday relevance, these poems are gems.”
BIOCRIT
PERIODICALS
Kirkus Reviews, November 15, 2017, review of Mosaic of the Dark.
ONLINE
Black Lawrence Press Website, https://www.blacklawrence.com/ (June 26, 2016), interview with Lisa Dordal.
Broad Street, http://broadstreetonline.org/ (January 10, 2018), “Truth Teller Spotlight: Lisa Dordal, Poet.”
Creative Writing Now, https://www.creative-writing-now.com/ (March 21, 2018), “Lisa Dordal on Writing Poetry.”
Lisa Dordal Website, https://lisadordal.com (March 21, 2018).
Nervous Breakdown, http://thenervousbreakdown.com/ (February 10, 2018), “Lisa Dordal: The TNB Self-Interview.”
Poets and Writers Website, https://www.pw.org/ (March 21, 2018), brief biography.
Lisa Dordal holds a Master of Divinity and a Master of Fine Arts, both from Vanderbilt University, and teaches in the English Department at Vanderbilt. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize, the Robert Watson Poetry Prize, and the Betty Gabehart Poetry Prize. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of journals including Best New Poets, Vinyl Poetry, Feminist Wire, The Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion, Ninth Letter, Connotation Press, CALYX, and The Greensboro Review. Her work has also appeared in various anthologies including New Poetry from the Midwest (New American Press) and Rainbow in the Word (Wipf and Stock). Her first full-length collection of poetry—Mosaic of the Dark—is available from Black Lawrence Press.
LISA DORDAL
Lisa Dordal is a poet and teacher based in Nashville, Tennessee. She received a Master of Fine Arts (in poetry) from Vanderbilt University in 2011 and a Master of Divinity, also from Vanderbilt, in 2005. She teaches in the English Department at Vanderbilt.
A Pushcart Prize nominee and the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize and the Robert Watson Poetry Prize, her poetry has appeared in a variety of journals including Best New Poets 2015, Cave Wall, CALYX, Ninth Letter, Rove Poetry, The Greensboro Review, Vinyl Poetry, Nimrod, storySouth, Connotation Press, and The Feminist Wire.
Her first full-length collection of poetry, Mosaic of the Dark, is available from Black Lawrence Press.
Mosaic of the Dark is also available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Target.
“Humming with inspired metaphors and everyday relevance, these poems are gems.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
Description of Book: Mosaic of the Dark is a portrayal of one woman’s journey to wholeness and addresses the psychological harm that can arise from restrictive societal expectations for women. As the speaker in these poems examines her own early experiences as a closeted lesbian trying to fit her life into the prescribed script of heterosexuality, she grapples with her mother’s possibly non-heterosexual orientation and eventual death from alcoholism. In the end, the speaker successfully sheds familial and cultural expectations in favor of her true self and, in the process, experiences a spiritual re-visioning that allows her to move beyond the confines of a male-centered Christianity to a more expansive, mystical way of experiencing the divine.
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LISA DORDAL
Lisa Dordal is the author of Mosaic of the Dark (Black Lawrence Press, 2018) and teaches in the English Department at Vanderbilt University. A Pushcart Prize nominee and recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize, her poetry has appeared in Best New Poets, CALYX, The Greensboro Review, Vinyl Poetry, and Ninth Letter.
June 26, 2016
Welcome, Lisa Dordal!
This month we are featuring the poets and writers who have signed with us since last summer—all writers who submitted work during one of our two annual open reading periods.
Today we bring you Lisa Dordal, whose poetry collection Mosaic of the Dark will be available in the winter of 2017/2018.
The AuthorLISA_DORDAL_Author Photo
Lisa Dordal holds a Master of Divinity and a Master of Fine Arts (in poetry), both from Vanderbilt University, and she currently teaches in the English Department at Vanderbilt. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize and the Robert Watson Literary Prize. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of journals, including Best New Poets 2015, Cave Wall, CALYX, Vinyl Poetry, The Greensboro Review, Nimrod, Sojourners, and The Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion.
The Book
Study_DordalWhere did you write the book?
I wrote this book over the course of many years – the earliest poem in 2005, the most recent poem in 2016 – and I wrote the vast majority of the poems at home. Up until two years ago, my partner and I lived in a very small house (less than 800 square feet) and there was only room for one desk in our study. For a long time she and I would have to take turns using the computer. But two years ago we moved into a bigger house and now we each have our own desk and our own study. My study is small (it’s actually a converted walk-in closet) but it has a window with a gorgeous view of the woods and a door that I can close when I need to.
What is your favorite memory from working on this manuscript?
If I have to pick one favorite memory I would say it’s the experience I had working on the poem “What Eye Is This.” The inspiration for the first part of this poem came from a dream I kept having about a flock of birds. After the 3rd night, I decided I’d better look up the word flock because I was starting to think that maybe I was getting some sort of message from the universe! And I was surprised to learn not only how many different ways there are to refer to a flock of birds but also by the fact that so many of these words have rich theological resonance. I wrote what would become the first part of the poem that same day. Then, a couple days later, I started to have this nagging concern that I was making too much of an objective claim about the divine, about God with a capital G. I started thinking, wait a minute, how can I (or anyone else) say anything definitive about the divine? But I really liked the poem and I didn’t want to completely scrap it. So I wrote another version of the poem with a more subjective – small g – claim. At first I thought I would just use this second version but, in the end, I decided to incorporate both versions into one poem as a way of claiming both the desire for God (with a capital G) and the subjective reality of god with a small g.
How did you know that the book was done and ready to send out?
Several years ago, I went to an AWP panel about how to get a poetry book published and someone on the panel said that every single poem in the manuscript needs to be strong – you can’t just bury the weaker poems at the end of the manuscript. That bit of advice really stuck with me because, at the time, I had already begun to send out earlier incarnations of my manuscript and I had been doing just what the panelist had advised against – burying my weaker poems at the end of the manuscript! This didn’t stop me from continuing to send out my manuscript, though, and every so often I would find out I was a finalist or semi-finalist in a contest or I’d get a very positive note back during an open submission period. So, I knew I was basically on the right track and just needed to keep fine-tuning my manuscript. The final test for me was looking through the table of contents in my manuscript and asking myself if there were any poems that I wouldn’t be excited to present at a poetry reading – only when I could say Yes to every poem, did I know my manuscript was finally where I wanted it to be.
What’s on your reading list for this summer?
Lots of poetry – Ada Limón, Nin Andrews, Ocean Vuong, Denise Duhamel, Patrick Rosal, Danez Smith, to name a few. And BLP poet Cynthia Manick when her book arrives! Also some fun non-fiction books. One thing I love about being a poet is that it allows me to follow and immerse myself in all sorts of different research interests – from the cultural history of rain to the burial practices of Anglo-Saxon Kings. And the more I immerse myself in my own exploration of the world, the more connected I feel to something larger than myself; something that transcends my own life. So, in addition to reading lots of poetry I’m also reading Bog Bodies Uncovered, London Fog, The History of God, and 1599: A Year in the Life of William Shakespeare. And, last but not least, a work of fiction: Jazz by Toni Morrison.
Excerpt
Pretty Moon
Pretty moon, everyone said.
Before the noise, before
the fire. Two cars
and the cornfields idle
on either side. Like the eggs
of monkfish, emerging
a million at a time, knitted
into a gauzy shroud,
forty feet long, buoyant,
built for dispersal – the veil
between us and them,
thin. My cousin,
beautiful at sixteen,
dead at seventeen.
Pretty, pretty moon.
And me, at five, mouth open
not to a scream or even
to a word. Just taking in air,
quietly as a spider
entering a room.
– Published in Rove Poetry, 2015 and Best New Poets, 2015
Amanat
On the night of December 16th, 2012, a 23-year-old physiotherapy student boarded a bus in New Delhi to return home after watching the film Life of Pi.
The hyena kills the zebra,
then the orangutan.
The tiger kills the hyena.
And the boy survives.
Pi is an irrational number.
And a woman boards a bus.
If horses could draw,
they would draw one god
in the shape of a horse.
Oxen would draw many,
each with a body like their own.
And the bus is not really a bus.
The relationship
between the width of a circle
and its circumference
continues infinitely without
repeating. And Pi is a boy
who just wants to love
God. If dark matter could draw,
it would not draw itself.
The human intestine
is approximately five feet long.
Only five percent of hers
would remain. They would be called:
joyriders. The instrument used was
metal. The instrument used
was flesh. And the woman,
it was said, died peacefully.
– Published in CALYX, Volume 28, Issue 3, 2015
You Ask How
You ask how and I tell you about the fire,
that day every soft spot lit up
in the deep under-skin of my interior.
My look too long into the eyes I’d loved
since 7th grade. Lips, pinked
and glossed, legs urgently shaved –
the rapidly emerging sex
of our bodies, meant only for boys,
later men. You ask how
and I say: cup tipped on its side,
empty of itself; angel hovering
above her own numb flesh;
walking, until I couldn’t tell waking
from sleep. You ask how and I tell you
about the centipedes I had seen
in the night. Reality pressing through
my dream eyes. How I awoke
to find them alive – antennae to tail –
along the white crown molding
of my bedroom. You ask how
and I say: small word forming
in my mouth, in my body,
rising through limb and gut.
The man, the dream. How many times
had I seen this already? The man
to whom I am saying: no.
By morning, only the sticky remains
of a spider’s home, sufficiently
abandoned. You ask how and I say:
cavern and ceiling and mind that is
home now to shaman and mystic –
where air flows into aperture,
and out of the darkness emerges
your own wild face.
– Published in Nimrod International Journal: Mirrors and Prisms, Spring/Summer 2016
Tagged: Lisa Dordal, Mosaic of the Dark
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Lisa Dordal
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Nashville, TN 37221
Phone:
615-354-6491
E-mail:
lisa.a.dordal@gmail.com
Website:
lisadordal.com
AUTHOR'S BIO
Lisa Dordal holds a Master of Divinity and a Master of Fine Arts, both from Vanderbilt University, and currently teaches in the English Department at Vanderbilt. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize and the Robert Watson Poetry Prize. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of journals including Best New Poets, Cave Wall, CALYX, The Greensboro Review, Vinyl Poetry, and The Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion. Her chapbook, Commemoration, is available from Finishing Line Press. Her first full-length collection of poetry, Mosaic of the Dark, is forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press (2018).
PUBLICATIONS AND PRIZES
Books:
Mosaic of the Dark (Black Lawrence Press, 2018)
Chapbook:
Commemoration (Finishing Line Press, 2012)
Prizes Won:
Academy of American Poets Prize for "A Dream for the Earth"The Robert Watson Poetry Prize for "Serving Time"
Lisa Dordal Resume
MORE INFORMATION
Listed as:
Poet
Gives readings:
Yes
Travels for readings:
Yes
Identifies as:
Caucasian, Feminist, G/L/B/T
Prefers to work with:
Adults, Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual/Transgender, Prisoners
Fluent in:
English
Born in:
Chicago, IL
Raised in:
Chicago, IL
work_excerpt:
http://vinylpoetryandprose.com/2016/05/lisa-dordal/ http://www.connotationpress.com/poetry/2983-lisa-dordal-poetry http://www.publicpool.org/dope/lisa-dordal/
Quoted in Sidelights: “There had never been space for me to be a lesbian before then; it’s as if the ‘I’ who I really was didn’t exist because I didn’t have a linguistic context in which to understand my identity,” she told a Broad Street online interviewer. “Even when I had a slight inkling early on that I might be attracted to women, I didn’t have the words I needed to understand who I was. … My truth was denied to me for many years. I had heard the word lesbian as a kid but, back then, I only understood the stereotypical meanings of the word, not its gorgeous multiplicities.”
“She died in 2001 from issues partly related to her alcoholism, and just when I think I’ve written the last poem about her, another one comes along. Although many of my mother poems emerge from a place of pain and loss, I consider these hauntings to be a wonderful gift; a way for me to connect, through my writing, with one of my dearest ancestors.”
Truth Teller Spotlight: Lisa Dordal, poet.
by BROADSTREETMAG on Jan 10, 2018 • 6:25 am No Comments
“I see my poetry as a place that allows me to be who I am, a place where my truth matters …”
Lisa Dordal’s poem “Pretty Moon” is a well-loved entry in Broad Street’s online “Share This Poem” feature, and as of January 31, 2018, it’s an integral part of her new book, Mosaic of the Dark. We just love it when our contributors hit the big time, so this seemed like the right moment to check in and find out not just what truth and honesty mean to Lisa, but also how poetry is a place, and how an expanding vocabulary let her figure out who she is in a male-centric environment.
The author of a previous chapbook, Commemoration, Lisa holds master’s degrees in both divinity and creative writing, and her work has appeared in a wide spectrum of journals and anthologies, including Best New Poets, Vinyl Poetry, Feminist Wire, The Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion, Ninth Letter, Connotation Press, CALYX, The Greensboro Review, New Poetry from the Midwest, and Rainbow in the Word.
Read on to find out how Lisa sees inspiration as a haunting and poetry as a space — a foreign land in which you just might find your truest self.
— — — — —
Broad Street: Let’s start with perhaps the toughest question — how do you define “truth”?
Lisa: That’s a great question, because there are so many different kinds of truth. There’s literal truth — what really happened. But even that kind of truth is slippery because “what really happened” can look different depending on the situation of the viewer. And there’s mythical truth — stories that are not literally true on the “outside” but are considered true “on the inside” because they offer profound insights into what it means to be human.
Mosaic of the Dark is for sale as of January 31, 2018.
The kind of truth I’m mostly interested in is emotional truth. In other words, something happened, but the specific details aren’t as important as how someone felt about what happened. Sometimes I will change the details of a story (for any number of reasons), but as long as the emotional truth of the story is true to my emotional experience, then the poem itself is true.
Writers often say you have to write what you know. I agree with this advice, but I would add that we can know something — emotionally, for example — that is beyond our own individual life experience.
I remember someone telling me a story once about something they had experienced, and the story affected me so profoundly that I was inspired to write a poem based (loosely) on what this other person had experienced. Because I had felt such a powerful emotional connection to her story I was able to write a poem in which the “I” in the poem is a very personal “I.” The details of the poem are a combination of things I personally experienced and things my friend experienced. And yet the poem feels very true and authentic to me because I had so completely internalized the emotional truth of the original story.
I agree — there are so many ways you can know about something, including research into historical eras or how people unlike yourself live now. The trick is to be true to the facts and also true to the heart. So, then,what role does a sense of truth or honesty play in your writing–your poetry, certainly, but also any other genre in which you work?
Truth matters very much in my work. I was raised in a culture — a family culture and a larger societal culture — in which I couldn’t be true to the person I really was deep down and within. I didn’t accept and celebrate myself as a lesbian until I was thirty years old.
“I had heard the word ‘lesbian’ as a kid but, back then, I only understood the stereotypical meanings of the word, not its gorgeous multiplicities.”
There had never been space for me to be a lesbian before then; it’s as if the “I” who I really was didn’t exist because I didn’t have a linguistic context in which to understand my identity. Even when I had a slight inkling early on that I might be attracted to women, I didn’t have the words I needed to understand who I was. I was raised in a very male-centered atmosphere in which my voice as a woman didn’t matter as much as the male voices I was surrounded by. I was constantly doubting myself, doubting my voice, and doubting my identity.
Lisa’s first collection, Commemoration, was a chapbook.
Thus, my truth was denied to me for many years. I had heard the word lesbian as a kid but, back then, I only understood the stereotypical meanings of the word, not its gorgeous multiplicities.
Poetry is a kind of country for me — a big, beautiful country filled with many different voices and identities. And in this country, my voice and my identity take up the space they have always deserved. I see my poetry as a place that allows me to be who I am; a place where my truth matters.
Could you discuss inspiration and what makes you feel you simply must write about a topic, a scene, an event? Perhaps you could do so by giving us the background of “Pretty Moon.”
Oftentimes inspiration feels like a haunting. Like something I just can’t let go of — or something that won’t let go of me. It can feel like a wrestling of sorts. My cousin’s death is one example of this. It somehow lodged itself into me and I had to write about it in “Pretty Moon.”
I also write a lot about my mother. She died in 2001 from issues partly related to her alcoholism, and just when I think I’ve written the last poem about her, another one comes along. Although many of my mother poems emerge from a place of pain and loss, I consider these hauntings to be a wonderful gift; a way for me to connect, through my writing, with one of my dearest ancestors.
Pliny the Elder gives Lisa that haunting look.
Sometimes I am haunted by historical figures — people from the past who I suddenly want to learn more about. In my poem “Even Houseflies,” for example, I reference Pliny the Elder, who was a first-century Roman historian, and Ötzi the Iceman, whose 5,000-year-old body was found in the Alps over two decades ago.
Working with so few words and making such a huge impact with your poems, how do you select the details that will connect with readers?
I’m not sure that I worry so much about whether the details of a particular poem will connect with readers as much as whether or not they connect with me. Writing helps me deal with painful experiences and often provides a pathway to healing. I write first and foremost for myself — or for whomever is haunting me (i.e., my mother, my cousin, etc.).
A pretty moon over water.
In terms of the spareness of my language, yes, that is definitely a characteristic of much of my work. “Pretty Moon” is a particularly spare poem that I think works perfectly with the topic. I didn’t set out to write such a short, spare poem about my cousin, who died too early — but, in the end, the spareness of the language works perfectly with the subject matter of the poem.
It certainly does … When you were a struggling/dreaming new writer, what gave you inspiration and kept you going? Did you face a lot of rejection, and if so, how did you process it and move forward?
The thing that kept me going — and continues to keep me going — is a love for the process of writing. I remember early on, before writing became my profession, I used to set aside one day a week to read and write. I worked four days a week at an office job and spent Fridays reading and writing poetry.
Poetry was more of a hobby back then and, maybe because of this, I didn’t struggle much with rejection. I don’t think I even knew what rejection was back then, because I wasn’t trying to do anything with my work except write it. I wasn’t trying to be A Writer. I just knew I loved to read poetry, and when I read poetry I almost always became inspired to write. That was kind of a Garden of Eden phase in terms of my writing.
Gradually I started to take my writing more seriously. I started connecting with other writers and sending out my work. Then I applied for and was accepted into an MFA program, and later I started teaching poetry.
“Poetry is a kind of country for me — a big, beautiful country filled with many different voices and identities. And in this country, my voice and my identity take up the space they have always deserved.”
Now the stakes are higher. It’s my job to write and to get my work out into the world. It’s no longer just nice to get a poem published. It’s something that is expected of me. But, at the same time, what a joy the writing life is! I get to read what I want, write what I want, even teach what I want. But it’s a joy I have to work to maintain. There are plenty of times when my concerns about getting published — what I call external concerns — become internalized to such an extent that they drown out my internal concerns. Internal concerns are way more important than external concerns because they come from a much deeper, more meaningful place. External concerns are about my career as a poet. Internal concerns are about writing the kinds of poems I want and need to write.
One take on the Iceman who haunted Lisa.
I remember — several years ago — having a particularly bad day in which my external concerns were completely drowning out my internal joys. At one point, I walked into my study and I suddenly felt one of my arms reaching out towards my bookcase (where I keep a lot of my poetry books and research books). It felt a little like a poet’s version of an altar call — as if my body was leading me toward that which would heal me. Suddenly I was reminded of what is most important. Of what it is that I am called to surrender to and to dedicate my life to.
I think it’s crucial for all writers to have some sort of touchstone — whether it’s a mental image or something physical — that they can return to when they are feeling lost or off-center.
What other advice do you have for aspiring writers–in any form?
Read, read, read. Writing is a two-way conversation and, as with any good conversation, that means there are times when you need to speak and times when you need to listen. If all you’re doing is writing, that means you’re not listening and this will not be good for your poetry. It doesn’t mean you have to read poetry exclusively. I read a lot of poetry but I also read a lot of fiction and nonfiction.
“Publishing shouldn’t be your primary goal. I recommend focusing on writing success, not publishing success.”
Also, try to keep joy at the center of your process. Publishing shouldn’t be your primary goal, because whether or not you get published is completely out of your control (unless you are self-publishing). Your primary goal should be something you have reasonable control over — otherwise your happiness will be completely dependent on what others think of you rather than on what you think of yourself.
Lisa’s work is featured in anthologies as well as literary magazines.
I recommend focusing on writing success, not publishing success. This is not to say that publishing isn’t important. It’s just that if it becomes more important than the actual writing, then there’s a pretty good chance your writing will suffer.
Once you do start sending things out for publication, set reasonable goals. Some journals have a one or two percent acceptance rate. Others have a higher acceptance rate. Submit to a mix of journals at first to figure out how to target your work.
I also recommend finding or creating a writer’s group. Show your work to other people. Get feedback. Be open to getting feedback.
And, finally, don’t compare yourself to other writers. The only person you should ever compare yourself to is earlier iterations of yourself. When I look back at where I was eight years ago versus when I am now, I am immensely proud of myself. When I compare myself to other writers — certain ones in particular — I feel like a failure. And who wants to feel like a failure? No one does.
And guess what? No one has to.
Quoted in Sidelights: “I grew up in a very academic family.“We lived a block away from the University of Chicago. There was a big emphasis in our family on knowing rather than feeling. Logic and empiricism were considered superior to feelings and personal experience.”
“Then one day, I walked into my study and I felt one of my arms reaching out towards my bookcase where I keep my poetry and non-fiction books,” she said in the Nervous Breakdown interview. “It felt like a poet’s version of an altar call experience. As if my body knew what I should be doing—even if my mind had doubts.”
“Growing up, I wasn’t encouraged to think much about a career or a ‘calling’ for myself. Writing was just something I did to help process my feelings. It wasn’t something I thought I could—or should—take seriously. I grew up in a very math- and science-oriented family. Those were serious pursuits. Writing poetry was not considered a serious pursuit.”
Lisa Dordal: The TNB Self-Interview
By Lisa Dordal
February 10, 2018
Poetry Self-Interviews
When did you start writing poetry?
I started writing poetry in high school as a way to deal with my depression. I realized much later (at the age of 30) that I was a lesbian, but back in high school all I knew was that I felt different and was unhappy. Most of what I wrote wasn’t very good—it was just a way for me to process my feelings. I continued to write poetry in college and I still have notebooks full of poems I wrote over thirty years ago. Interestingly, some of my poems from this period of my life are about same-sex attraction. In my own hand writing! And yet my mind was not ready to accept (and celebrate) who I was.
Did you think of yourself as a poet during these years?
Not really. Growing up, I wasn’t encouraged to think much about a career or a “calling” for myself. Writing was just something I did to help process my feelings. It wasn’t something I thought I could—or should—take seriously. I grew up in a very math- and science-oriented family. Those were serious pursuits. Writing poetry was not considered a serious pursuit. I did experience a bit of a “high” with respect to my writing when I won a Gwendolyn Brooks contest during my senior year of high school. I’ll never forget the night she called. My oldest brother answered the phone and then handed it over to me. I thought it was going to be my friend Lorene asking about a homework assignment. Instead it was Gwendolyn Brooks. She had the most beautiful voice. So deep and rich and kind. I spent the next couple of weeks walking around thinking of myself as a poet. I think I even wore a black turtleneck to school the day after she called! But that experience of feeling like a poet was short-lived—I suppose because it came from something outside of myself rather than from inside.
What was the prize?
The prize was $50. I cashed the check and spent it on food at the 57th Street Art Fair (in Hyde Park, Chicago). Egg rolls, mostly. Not all for me though. I shared with friends. And I still have a photocopy of the check from Gwendolyn Brooks.
So, when did you start to feel like a poet?
I didn’t write much poetry in my 20s and 30s. Then, in my late 30s, I went to divinity school (at Vanderbilt University) to get a Master of Divinity degree. Towards the end of that program I started to feel something waking up inside me. It was during this time that I started (again) to write poetry. I had learned a lot about textual silences while in school and I began to write poetry as a way to re-imagine and give voice to various female characters from the biblical narratives.
That was the beginning of my journey to becoming a poet. After I finished divinity school, I started auditing semester-long writing workshops at Vanderbilt (in their MFA program) and then entered the MFA program there in 2009 at the age of 45. Even after I finished the program, though, I still wasn’t comfortable calling myself a poet. I knew I had written some good poems and I knew I could write good poems. But those experiences of writing felt separate somehow from my larger identity. I have told this story in other interviews but it’s worth mentioning here too. Several years ago, I was particularly stressed out about my life as a poet. I was filled with self-doubt and was beginning to think I should scrap my poetry goals altogether and focus entirely on my teaching (I’ve been a lecturer at Vanderbilt since 2011). Then one day, I walked into my study and I felt one of my arms reaching out towards my bookcase where I keep my poetry and non-fiction books. It felt like a poet’s version of an altar call experience. As if my body knew what I should be doing—even if my mind had doubts. This was a turning point for me. Since then, I’ve grown a lot in terms of my understanding of what it means to be a poet. To be a poet, for me, means following a certain path. A path of reading, a path of doing research, a path of writing. A path that I occasionally need to remind myself to stay on but that I no longer doubt the existence of. It’s always there.
Your talk about following a path (in your life as a poet) the same way someone might talk about following a spiritual path. Do you see a connection between poetry and spirituality?
Yes, I see a connection between poetry and spirituality. The theologian Simone Weil said that absolute attention is prayer. To read and write poetry is, for me, a way of paying absolute attention and, therefore, a form of prayer. When I read and write poetry I feel connected to something much bigger than myself and I know that I am not alone—that my life is bound up in the lives of those who have come before me and who will come after me.
You mentioned research earlier. What is the role of research in your creative process?
Being a poet means that I get to follow my curiosities wherever they take me. I have books on my shelf about birds, witches, black holes, octopuses, trees. I go back and forth between non-fiction and fiction/poetry. This is one of the practices that most makes me feel like a poet. The research and reading part. Following my curiosities is one of my jobs as a poet—and it is also the one thing with respect to the creative process that I can control. I can’t control how my poetry will be received by the world but I can control how I receive the world—by which I mean I can set an intention to follow my curiosities. Writing poetry is my way of expressing what I know and feel about the world; my way of expressing what it means to be alive. And the first step to being a poet, for me, is loving and experiencing the world. This doesn’t necessarily mean being outside interacting with other people (though it can mean that). Rather, it means learning as much as possible about anything I’m curious about. This is the most rewarding part of being a poet.
How does reading a book about octopuses or black holes or anything else figure into your poetry?
There’s not a direct connection between my research and my poetry. It’s subtler than that. My goal in reading a book about octopuses is not to write a poem about octopuses. I read books on particular topics because I’m genuinely interested in the topics. It’s my way of loving and learning about the world. I read and take copious notes and then at some point I may see a connection between something I’m writing and an image or idea from my research. One of the things I learned from reading about octopuses is that they can squeeze through tiny spaces. You can see a reference to this in the following lines from my poem “Welcome”:
We had learned to slip out of ourselves.
To squeeze our consciousness through a hole
the size of a dime. We were small inside
our bodies. My body is sin, she told me once.
This poem addresses the intersection between public margins—with a reference to our current political climate—and private margins that seek to contain and place limits on women through cultural “norming,” often to the point where they become strangers even to themselves. The poem is not about octopuses at all but I never could have written that line if I hadn’t read about octopuses.
Have you always had this love of research, or is this something you realized about yourself later in life?
I grew up in a very academic family. We lived a block away from the University of Chicago. There was a big emphasis in our family on knowing rather than feeling. Logic and empiricism were considered superior to feelings and personal experience. I spent most of high school and college thinking I wasn’t smart. My oldest brother was the smart one—he could do math and science and he could recite facts about a myriad of subjects. I was never good at any of those things. Facts are important (especially in this day and age…) but when I read a book about something it’s not so that I can recite facts about what I’ve learned. It’s for some other, more organic, ineffable, and feeling-based reason. My way of being in the world is much different from my brother’s way. When I was growing up I just assumed his way was the only way. I even spent one summer during college reading our entire set of World Book encyclopedias hoping that somehow this would make me smart. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was already smart—just in a different way. In some ways, I was on the right track when I sat down to read those encyclopedias. Knowing about things and reading about the world does feed my spirit and is a necessary part of my life. It’s just that I do something very different with what I learn than what someone else might do. I didn’t realize any of this until I was in my 40s. That’s a long time to not feel smart. But, at least, I’ve finally figured it out.
Your first full-length book of poetry—Mosaic of the Dark—has just been released from Black Lawrence Press. Tell us a little about the book and the process by which it came into being.
Mosaic of the Dark portrays my early experiences as a closeted lesbian trying to fit my life into the prescribed script of heterosexuality and addresses the psychological harm that can arise from restrictive societal expectations for women. Some of the things I grapple with in the collection are my mother’s possibly non-heterosexual orientation, her alcoholism, and her eventual death (related, at least partly, to the alcoholism). The book also details my experience of finally shedding familial and cultural expectations in favor of my true self as well as my experiences of moving beyond the confines of a male-centered Christianity to a more expansive, mystical way of experiencing the divine.
As I mentioned earlier, I started writing poetry towards the end of divinity school. During the program, I had been taught to ask questions—when reading biblical texts, for example—about who has power, who doesn’t, who have a voice, who doesn’t, etc. After divinity school, I started asking these same questions—and writing poems—about my own life. These poems became the foundation of my book. Some of the poems in the book are from as early as 2006. Other poems are more recent and deal in a broader sense with these same issues.
What are your obsessions? What do you find yourself writing about again and again?
Well, my mother is one of my biggest obsessions! Just when I think I’m done writing about her, I write another poem. I even have a poem called “Last Poem about My Mother.” And, of course, it’s not really the last poem about her. I used to fight it, thinking: who wants to read another poem about my mother? But it’s not about what other people might or might not want to read. It’s about what I need to write. She keeps coming back to me, so I keep writing about her.
I’m also obsessed with gender issues. With patriarchy and violence against women. And with linguistic violence. Referring to the divine in strictly male terms is, for me, a kind of violence. Mary Daly—a feminist theologian—once said that If God is male, then male is God. I think about this a lot. The psychological and emotional damage that language can do.
Have you ever been scared by your own poems?
Years ago, I wrote a poem that seemed to suggest I had been physically or sexually abused as a child. It scared me to death. I didn’t know what to do with it. After a lot of processing, I realized that what the poem was telling me was not that I had been physically abused but that I needed to take the emotional abuse I experienced seriously. The poem was a way of telling me that even though what I experienced didn’t leave physical evidence, it was still real and it matters that it happened.
Who was the first poet you fell in love with?
Jane Kenyon. I started reading her in 2006 at the suggestion of one of my mentors, Kate Daniels. I had never read poetry that was so accessible and so profound at the same time. Jane Kenyon’s work gave me permission to write about everyday experiences—“mundane” experiences that are at the same time very important. After this, I discovered Marie Howe, Sharon Olds, Dorianne Laux, Ellen Bass. All of these poets have been hugely important to my development as a poet.
What is the best piece of advice you have ever received about writing? And what advice do you generally give about the writing life?
The best advice I’ve ever received is to guard my inner life. The inner life is as real as anything physical or visible in the world—and is desperately in need of guarding. The world is constantly trying to break in and disrupt our inner lives. I once heard the Irish poet John O’Donohue say that we live in a time in which we are experiencing an “evacuation of interiority.” I think about this a lot. Our inner lives are so important.
The advice I often give is about the importance of loving the process of writing. Getting published is never going to make me as happy as the act of writing is. Internal concerns are way more life-giving than external concerns. This is not to say that getting published isn’t important—I love it when my poems get published. But the writing itself is what feeds and sustains me; it’s what makes me feel fully alive and full of joy.
What do you do to protect your inner life?
I carve out—and deliberately schedule—time for reading and writing. I have designated reading and writing days during the school year. Also, I recently requested a reduction in my teaching load so that I can have a little more time to write during the school year.
During the summer, I have more time for reading and writing. But, even then, it’s a challenge. Yoga and meditation help me stay focused. I have also learned to say no without feeling guilty. I recently resigned from a neighborhood Board I’d been on for three years. It was starting to feel like a part-time job. And it was taking up too much head-space.
The key thing for me to remember is that writing is a job for me—it’s not just something to squeeze in here and there. I have to make time for it, to create space for it.
If you could change one thing about the poetry world, what would it be?
One aspect of the poetry world that I dislike is the fact that it is so contest-driven (for book-length manuscript submissions in particular). I love the model of the open submission period because it allows several manuscripts to be chosen. I have no problem paying a fee to submit to a press—I realize presses need to do this to cover their costs. But for a press to choose only one manuscript out of fifty or even a hundred strong manuscripts, to me, gives a false sense of objectivity to the process. There is no such thing as one best manuscript. I know there has to be a weeding out process. And even after a press has winnowed the submissions down to fifty or sixty strong manuscripts, that doesn’t mean all of them can be chosen. But by choosing four or five to publish instead of just one, presses could send an important message about multiplicity and diversity that could go a long way to dismantling the hyper-competitiveness of the current model.
TAGS: Lisa Dordal, Poetry, TNB Poetry Feature, TNB Self-Interview
LISA DORDAL holds a Master of Divinity and a Master of Fine Arts, both from Vanderbilt University, and teaches in the English Department at Vanderbilt. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize, the Robert Watson Poetry Prize, and the Betty Gabehart Poetry Prize. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of journals including Best New Poets, Vinyl Poetry, Feminist Wire, The Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion, Ninth Letter, Connotation Press, CALYX, and The Greensboro Review. Her work has also appeared in various anthologies including New Poetry from the Midwest (New American Press) and Nasty Women Poets: An Unapologetic Anthology of Subversive Verse (Lost Horse Press). Her first full-length collection of poetry—Mosaic of the Dark—is available from Black Lawrence Press.
Quoted in Sidelights: “One huge misconception I had about poetry early on was the idea that poems weren’t supposed to have many words and weren’t supposed to take up much space on the page. … Slowly, as my feminist consciousness emerged, I began to see that I was entitled to take up space in the world,” she said. “And, at the same time, I began to see that it was just as important for my written words to take up space. So, my poems now are much sturdier on the page; darker and more embodied.”
“I can remember way back in high school and college actually being afraid to read too much poetry because I was worried I would lose sight of my own voice; that I would end up sounding too much like other people,” she explained. “But, really, the best way for someone to find their own voice is to read the work of other poets.”
Lisa Dordal on Writing Poetry
In this interview on writing poetry, poet Lisa Dordal offers advice to new poets and shares her own writing process.
Lisa Dordal has published extensively in literary journals and has an upcoming chapbook, Commemoration, from Finishing Line Press. You can learn more about Lisa Dordal's poetry on her website, Lisadordal.com.
A Conversation with Lisa Dordal
CWN: When do you write? Do you have a regular schedule or routine for writing poetry?
Lisa Dordal: During the school year (I teach at a private university in Nashville and also at a local community college), I typically set aside one or two days a week to write. During the summer, of course, I have the luxury of more time and can write every day. But during the school year I have found that what works best is to designate a day ahead of time for reading and writing – almost like making an appointment with myself – and then committing to writing that day. I know some writers speak of the importance of writing every day but that’s not possible for everyone and I think it’s important for writers to discover what works best for them. When my mother was a young woman she mentioned to someone that she wanted to be a writer and the person told her that the only way she could become a writer was to write every single day. But, at the time, my mother couldn’t write every day – she was juggling a job and lots of other responsibilities – and so, in the end, she never pursued her writing. My own sense is that it’s not the amount of time that we spend writing but the quality of that time. I am convinced that when I book an appointment with myself to write, something happens inside of me – something readies itself. There’s that famous expression: If you build it, they will come. I think you could say the same for writing: If you schedule the time, the writing will come.
CWN: Could you talk about your typical process for writing poetry -- from idea to final draft?
Lisa Dordal: Well, the process can vary quite a bit from poem to poem. Some of my poems have come out of me almost unconsciously – all at once and needing very little revision. Almost as if someone else wrote them. This has only happened for a few poems and for at least two of these poems I was very angry about something at the time and completely overcome with emotion. I think that’s why I barely remember even writing them.
But most of my poems don’t have such easy births! I would say my typical process starts with reading poetry. If I told myself that I had to wake up tomorrow morning and sit down in front of a blank computer screen or a blank piece of paper and start writing I think I would probably never get out of bed! Instead, what I tell myself is that when I get up in the morning I have to read poetry; i.e., read the work of some of my favorite poets or the work of new poets. Nine times out of ten, after an hour or so of reading, a line will pop into my head and that’s my cue to either take out a piece of paper and start writing or crank up my computer. My goal at that point is to write, as much as possible, without my “editor” turned on. I write and write until the basic reason for the poem’s existence has made itself clear. Only after this initial spark of creativity do I then allow myself to labor over the poem – to do the hard, brainy work of editing, choosing different words here and there, re-ordering the text, etc. Sometimes this process – from start to finish – takes a few days. But often it takes much longer. I wrote the first draft of my poem “Wedding,” for example, in 2006. It was a good first draft in terms of the emotions and ideas I was trying to convey. But the language itself was on the thin side, lacking in texture. It wasn’t until 2010 that I was able finally to get that poem to the place where I felt it needed to be.
CWN: What other poets have been important to your work? Could you talk about what you have learned about writing poetry from each of them?
Lisa Dordal: Jane Kenyon was a huge influence on me early on (i.e., when I really started working on my poetry in 2005). Much of her poetry focuses on completely mundane human-relational experiences and has helped me to see that, in many ways, there is nothing more sacred – nothing more extraordinary – than paying close attention to the ordinary moments of our daily lives. I love the simplicity, the plainness of her voice. There is a sparseness and succinctness in her voice that is consonant with my own; a kind of containment that I resonant with deeply. I’ve also been influenced by the way she incorporates religious imagery into her poems. Many of her poems contain a subtle religiosity – a kind of ordinary religiosity that is woven organically into the fabric of the everyday. In her poem “The Needle” she describes her grandmother’s body as “pale as Christ’s hands.” In “Depression” she references the women who visit Christ’s tomb and are not believed. And in “The Bat” she connects the elusiveness of a loose bat in the house to the elusiveness of the third person in the Trinity. My poem “Holy Week” – in which I connect the return of Jesus from the grave to the return of my mother from the stink and slur of nighttime drunkenness – emerged during a time when I was reading Kenyon almost exclusively, as did several other poems of mine in which I incorporate religious imagery.
Marie Howe, Ellen Bass, Dorianne Laux, Sharon Olds, Claudia Emerson and Natasha Trethewey are other poets who have had a big impact on me as a writer and to whom I continually return for inspiration. Much of the work of these poets is rooted in the domestic sphere with a focus on human-to-human relationships. Claudia Emerson’s Late Wifefocuses on the loss of relationship through divorce and widowerhood. Natasha Trethewey’s Native Guard casts the brutal racism of a nation in a deeply personal light. Ellen Bass, Marie Howe, Sharon Olds and Dorianne Laux all write intensely personal narratives about sexuality, female bodies, and domestic abuse, topics that are of particular interest to me. In many ways, these poets have given me “permission” to write about these topics as they relate to my own life.
I also feel a particularly strong connection to the work of Maxine Kumin, even though there are significant differences between Kumin’s work and my own. The first time I devoted considerable attention to her work, during the summer of 2010, I was in a difficult place emotionally – anxious about my abilities as a poet and about my life in general. As soon as I began to read Kumin’s work, however, I felt a sense of peace, a sense of homeness. I was drawn particularly to the rhythm of her work (which I learned later was “loose” iambic pentameter). The simple act of reading her poetry aloud inspired me to write several poems in a similar meter and voice.
CWN: Could you talk about how your work has developed or changed since you first started writing poetry? Are there any mistakes you feel you made as a beginning poet?
Lisa Dordal: One huge misconception I had about poetry early on was the idea that poems weren’t supposed to have many words and weren’t supposed to take up much space on the page. Many of my early poems were skinny, wispy things. And, in many ways, I was a skinny, wispy thing, too! Slowly, as my feminist consciousness emerged, I began to see that I was entitled to take up space in the world. And, at the same time, I began to see that it was just as important for my written words to take up space. So, my poems now are much sturdier on the page; darker and more embodied.
Also, I would like to think that my poetry has become more textured since I started working on my writing. The problem with writing, as I do, in a “plain” style is that it’s easy to become too plain. I have to constantly work against this. Reading the work of other poets is something that has helped immensely – paying attention to the vocabulary they use, their word choice, the rhythm of their language. Claudia Emerson is someone I go back to again and again for a reminder – a tune-up! – about texture.
CWN: What advice on writing poetry can you offer to beginning poets just starting out?
Lisa Dordal: Read, read, read! I can remember way back in high school and college actually being afraid to read too much poetry because I was worried I would lose sight of my own voice; that I would end up sounding too much like other people. But, really, the best way for someone to find their own voice is to read the work of other poets. Other poets are our best teachers. The voice of another poet – particularly if it is a voice that is resonant with your own – can help immensely to draw out your own voice.
My other piece of advice is to not compare yourself to other people. There are always going to be writers who are better than you are, more “successful” than you are. But the point is to love who you are as a writer. And to encourage yourself to grow into the best writer you can become.
Writing Poetry - Next Steps
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Quoted in Sidelights: “outstanding collection,”
“Humming with inspired metaphors and everyday relevance, these poems are gems.”
Print Marked Items
Dordal, Lisa: MOSAIC OF THE DARK
Kirkus Reviews.
(Nov. 15, 2017):
COPYRIGHT 2017 Kirkus Media LLC
http://www.kirkusreviews.com/
Full Text:
Dordal, Lisa MOSAIC OF THE DARK Black Lawrence Press (Indie Poetry) $None ISBN: 978-1-62557-
986-7
A debut poetry collection explores faith and sexuality.
Many of these poems have previously appeared in literary journals or anthologies, and Dordal
(English/Vanderbilt Univ.) has received a Robert Watson Literary Prize and an Academy of American Poets
Prize. Her degrees in divinity and fine arts account for her graceful interweaving of Christian references. For
instance, "On the Way to Emmaus," alluding to Jesus' post-Resurrection appearance, presents the narrator's
own dramatic metamorphosis: still closeted while teaching a New Testament course, she came out on the
last day of class. Many poems dwell on this seemingly autobiographical theme of coming to terms with
one's sexuality and laying claim to a new voice and identity. The multipart "Holy Week" juxtaposes a
mother's death from heart problems with the disconcerting revelation that she may also have been lesbian--
"the queerness you passed on...falling out of hiding" in the next generation. "Clues" is a prime example of
religion and sexuality's intermingling: "Her lips parting for me every time-- / a deep-throated 'hey' or 'hello' /
was enough, the way a weekly token / of bread or wine can be enough." That first line--initially erotic, then
an introduction to casual conversation--leads into Dordal's reminder that sex and religion meet deep human
needs as loci of connection and nourishment. Similarly playful and sensual is "Plumbing the Depths," in
which a plumber's sticking-up zipper is "a tiny, totem dick." Two poems in this outstanding collection reflect
on encounters with prisoners at Riverbend Maximum Security Institute; the natural world provides the
imagery of the title section. These pieces aren't about showy structures or sonic techniques but about wellchosen
words carefully arranged. Rhythm is key, and internal rhymes and alliteration have subtle potency.
The title phrase comes from "Even Houseflies," in which the insects' manifold eyes are likened to those of
gods hiding in corners of rooms--a down-to-earth lesson in seeing the holy everywhere. Likewise, the
various approximations of prayer are helpfully loose: recognizing a prisoner's fellow humanity, stilling one's
breathing, and communing with nature.
Humming with inspired metaphors and everyday relevance, these poems are gems.
Source Citation (MLA 8th
Edition)
"Dordal, Lisa: MOSAIC OF THE DARK." Kirkus Reviews, 15 Nov. 2017. General OneFile,
http://link.galegroup.com/apps/doc/A514267649/ITOF?u=schlager&sid=ITOF&xid=419a7699.
Accessed 4 Mar. 2018.
Gale Document Number: GALE|A514267649