Paola Corso Interviews Tina Kelley

Kelley: Well that’s a cheery little number, isn’t it? I wrote it during a spell of writing dark, sad poems, around the time my mother’s health started to decline. The images came from daily life— – I remember going running, and feeling better by the time I got up the hill, and the idea of the melting of the deep-fried outer coating of my heart just popped up. Probably too weird to use, I thought at the time. But I filed it away, and it definitely fit in with the dead baby deer! I don’t know where he or she came from. The line about “her absence” was basically one that got cut from my non-fiction book about homeless young people.

Corso: I’m also thinking of poems that moved me to tears such as “The Brother My Parents Almost Adopted” or “All the Birds Now Silent in the Yard” and the last time your mother sat outside before she died. Tina, how has experiencing loss in your own life informed these poems?  

Kelley: I never know what to say when someone says something I wrote made them cry. It makes me happy, on one level, that my writing connected strongly, but it’s also frowned upon to make people cry, on purpose, in polite society! So thanks-and-sorry! Many of these poems were inspired by my mother, who passed away in 2016, and I am also deeply moved by the failing health of our planet, which weighs heavily on me. I find so much solace and inspiration being outdoors. It’s hard for me to stay inside if I have any other option. That obsession, to honor something or someone in decline, drives me and my writing.

Corso: As I read Rise Wildly, I’m reminded where there’s darkness, there’s light. It’s impossible to experience one without the other.  I think of a line from the English Romantic poet John Keats: “Glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.” 

Kelley: Yes, and that was my main theme in Abloom & Awry, how both the horrible and delightful are awe-inspiring in this life, in that you can’t make this stuff up. I’m always awestruck by the beauty and dastardliness we see in the same scene. A thin layer separates sadness and happiness. During any crying fit I’ll almost always be flitting back and forth between the two.

Corso: Let me shift to another duality:, your writing as both a poet and a journalist. During a recent CKP reading you gave, there was a question about the intersection between the two. You had mentioned how many people you interviewed as a Metro reporter for the New York Times, the odd situations and hobbies you heard about, and how some of what was said became lines in your poems. Can you give an example or two and what struck you about them?

Kelley: Oh I steal shamelessly (and respectfully) from the people I interview and even, occasionally, from posts I see on social media. Being a daily general assignment reporter gave me the chance to talk to so many people I wouldn’t usually have met, and to hear their perspectives and words. Metro assignments led directly to “World Premier, Nocturnal Bird Migration Concert” and “Would You Learn Your Lesson If I Made You Take Your Clothes Off?” Then, “Notes from a Survey of Home Health Aides” came from a book project that alas turned into a magazine article. “Looking at Saint Francis in the Desert, Two Days before War” came right out of disaster/terrorism training we had to take at The New York Times. I know I wrote more accessible poems, with better “ledes” and kickers, thanks to journalism.  

Corso: You also said just as your journalism informed your poetry so was your poetry instrumental in you getting a couple of journalism assignments. I’m very eager to hear about those! 

Kelley: I think one or two hiring people liked that I was a poet, that I had a quirky voice. I was even the Metro poet in there for a bit. I know they appreciated tight writing, a skill that comes with practicing poetry.

Corso: So this is a book of facts and feeling?  

Kelley: Yep. I was amazed by the intense fact-checking that went into the production of the book. CavanKerry Press worked so hard, through the editing, copy editing, and production to treat these poems like gems.

Corso: You are a journalist and a poet. Now I want to bring in another pair—love for your family and community activism. Tell us a little about each and how you balance your personal and social lives. And also with your writing. 

Kelley: Family comes first, full stop. But I have a family that is very supportive of my poetry (my husband spent many hours on the kids so I could visit the muse) and also of my mask-making venture, which has kept me sane, or saner than usual, during the pandemic.

Corso: I’m eager to hear about the Sewing Volunteers project. Are you writing new poems about this? Or what now?

Kelley: I help wrangle volunteer mask-makers in South Orange and Maplewood. There are 500 members, and they have collected and cut fabric and elastic, sewn, and figured out optimal recipients for…nearly 40,000 masks we’ve donated to hospitals, food banks, homeless shelters, and other social service agencies. I’ve written about it here. No mask poems yet…though like everyone I have a few pandemic poems.

Corso: Let’s end the interview with the last poem in Rise Wildly, “To Live-The Imperative,” which I want you to know, Tina, is my go-to poem that I read and reread for solace. It takes us back to the title of your collection, what you ask of your readers, and of yourself, I’m sure. What can and must we do together?