Conducted April 10, 2023, by Brandon Henry
Marcus Cafagña is the author of three books of poetry: The Broken World, a National Poetry Series selection; Roman Fever; and All the Rage in the Afterlife This Season. His poems have appeared in Slant, American Poetry Review, Arts and Letters, Harvard Review, Quarterly West, Rattle, The Southern Review, and The Threepenny Review, among other journals and anthologies. Born in Michigan, he left Pennsylvania for the Ozarks, where he teaches poetry writing at Missouri State University.
BH: I’m here today with poet Marcus Cafagña, whose new book All the Rage in the Afterlife this Season was recently published through Finishing Line Press. Marcus, thanks for taking the time to meet with me today.
MC: You’re welcome. Glad to be here.
BH: I thought we’d start out by talking some about this new collection. I understand this book was fifteen years in the making. Could you talk about that some? I mean, how do you know when a work like this is finished, for example?
MC: Sure. There are 49 poems in the new book. I wrote at least 150 poems in order to discover that those were the ones which needed to be in the book. It was a long, gradual process of writing poems and trying to organize them into a book manuscript form. As far as “when did I know it was finished?” — I knew it was finished when I came up with the title of the book. That gave me the central metaphor and allowed me to organize the book in a cohesive way. Suddenly, the poems seemed to fit together in a way that they hadn’t before.
BH: How do you stay organized over this long of a time?
MC: Well, once I’ve written a poem that I feel is worth showing someone or sending off for publication, I keep a log of it and I start keeping track of poems that I think are of publishable quality. Between writing the poems and sending them out for possible publication, I start to organize them in a book manuscript format. And that’s when the creative process becomes a process of publication and that’s how I stay organized.
BH: How many poems got lost or were set aside along the way?
MC: Well, at least a hundred poems. They aren’t all lost. Some of them I discarded, but many I kept. Some of these I published in journals, but I didn’t feel that they fit in the book manuscript. Some of them still linger in a folder in my desk drawer.
BH: What is it like, editing a poem that you wrote over ten years ago?
MC: Let me be specific in answering this question by talking about “Last Things,” where the title of the book comes from. That poem was originally a formless poem that I published in a magazine about ten years ago. Then, I revised it as an extended pantoum, and I liked it much better in that form. It was an exhilarating process to take what I thought was a good poem and, hopefully, make it great, or at least, much improved. Ironically, this poem defines the book. I say “ironically,” because if I had not revised it, it would not even be in the collection. So, it is by chance that something I wrote ten years ago gets a second life.
BH: When do you see a poem as “finished?”
MC: There are three moments in time when I feel a poem might be finished. The first time is when I have written the poem and it moves me. The second time is when the poem gets published in a journal, so an editor has agreed with my initial opinion about the poem. Then, the third time is when I go back to the poem, feeling it is not as good as it could have been, and revise it, after its journal publication. That third moment in time is usually when I am putting together a book manuscript.
BH: What kind of advice would you give to others who have many years’ worth of material?
MC: Celebrate the poems you have written, especially the ones that you are particularly fond of. And celebrate your productivity! Writing a poem you like is an end in itself, but if you want others to read it, it is much easier to publish a poem now than it has been in the past. It’s easier because there are so many online publishers of poetry, and many have large readerships. If you are interested in publishing a book, there are many options nowadays. Everything from self-publishing to submitting a book manuscript to an established publisher. There are many poets functioning all along this spectrum.
BH: The collection is titled All the Rage in the Afterlife This Season. What does that title say about the collection?
MC: I think the title and that line of poetry encompasses the theme that is central to the book. Specifically, the book takes the reader through stages of trauma, grief, and guilt, but also celebration and joy. I think it opens up a conversation about different layers of meaning.
BH: When you find that central poem, do you write other poems around it?
MC: Yes, I did write some newer poems around that central piece. Maybe I didn’t consciously write poems around it, but I did arrange other poems around it and edit the shape of certain poems to compliment it.
BH: This new collection seems to be structured in a novelistic way. Could you speak to this?
MC: Yes, it is novelistic and largely autobiographical. It contains recurring characters, dramatic events; there is a narrative arc to the collection. I used to write fiction, until I discovered that I was a narrative poet. I continue to try bringing my love of fiction to my writing of poetry.
BH: You mention that your poems are often autobiographical in nature. What are the benefits (and dangers) of this approach?
MC: Most of my poems are autobiographical. A few are written in voices other than mine and, occasionally, I will compress time or use other fictional techniques within an autobiographical poem. When one writes in this way, one is acknowledging, to paraphrase both the poets B. H. Fairchild and Ellen Bass: human beings are creatures who are bound by time — that the poet’s job is to write about the actuality of being alive. To me, that’s the gift of poetry. That’s what it is all about.
BH: There are three poems in this collection that are written in numbered sections: “Friendly Fire,” “The Forgotten War,” and “Morphine Sulfate.” Each of these poems appear in a different one of the book’s three sections. Could you talk about these poems and the decision for sections? Do you enter a poem knowing it will be written in sections or does this come about later?
MC: I was taught that numbered sections of a poem should be like little, intact poems that add to the larger narrative. They should build into a cohesive whole. It’s usually an afterthought to break a poem into sections.
BH: Would you say that you use numbered sections to compress time or address gaps in time?
MC: Yes, certainly. I use them to address gaps in time or shifts in setting. Or to briefly dramatize specific moments.
BH: Your poems have always showcased such a strongly narrative style, as well as a periodic embrace of traditional forms. Could you talk about this some? What do you think are the benefits of this approach for poets?
MC: Poetry evolved from song and storytelling. I feel, as a poet, I need to evoke emotions in the reader, to give them a vivid experience reading the poem. Sometimes, the old ways are best. I don’t write most of my poems in traditional forms, but I often will write a draft of a poem in a traditional form. Usually, that helps me make certain choices.
BH: Your poems often deal with trauma and grief, usually from your own life and the lives of those close to you. This is certainly true of this collection and seems central to your work as a whole. What challenges does writing about grief and trauma pose to you, as a writer and a person? What gifts?
MC: When writing about grief and trauma, one has to relive those experiences, which are painful. One has to walk a fine line between drama and melodrama. The poet Ted Kooser likes to refer to Charlie Chaplin in this regard. Taking readers close to the edge without going over. And that becomes a gift, being able to share the intimacy of trauma with the reader. Sometimes, the most horrible moments are the most memorable and, strangely enough, often the ones that define us. When I met Yusef Komunyakaa, who selected my first book for The National Poetry Series, he gave me some advice: “You are writing about trauma. Don’t let them talk you out of it.” I see now that he was warning me that some readers would rather turn away than look at or relive traumatic events. I understood Komunyakaa’s poetry better after hearing his advice. His words gave me a sense of my own vocation.
BH: You are soon to retire from 30 years of teaching creative writing — a big life change. Any words of wisdom for those poetry writers out there?
MC: Don’t let them talk you out of it! Everybody has poetry within them. We live in a time where poets have the opportunity, merely by posting a poem, to find many readers. Many of us feared that the Internet would lead to the death of poetry, but I feel the opposite. The Web has provided so many new publishing opportunities and platforms within which writers can exchange work. That serves as a reminder that poetry is spreading in new ways. Once, the Irish poet Eavan Boland was criticized for meeting with Irish housewives in a writing group. Critics said she was wasting her time. Her response was to remind us that poetry is richer if we sow a wider field.
Many of my students are buying my new book and sending me responses to poems they’ve read. This is especially gratifying as I near retirement. Not just for my own sake, but because the act of reading another poet’s work and responding to it is both an ancient and necessary act.
BH: What a wonderful sentiment. Gives us hope for poetry.
MC: Certainly.
Brandon Henry is a poet and doctoral candidate at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. His creative work has been featured in Quiet Lightning and Moon City Review. A native of Springfield, Missouri, he earned an MA in Creative Writing from Missouri State University in 2018.
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