Category: Poetic Voices

David Garyan’s poem “Reflections on the Roof of Chiesa della Badia di Sant’Agata” published by Int...

Valentina Ventura, VNTVNT
Tempera on panel

Interlitq publishes “Reflections on the Roof of Chiesa della Badia di Sant’Agata.”

Click here to read the poem.

About David Garyan

David Garyan has published three chapbooks with Main Street Rag, along with (DISS)INFORMATION, a full collection with the same publisher. He holds an MA and MFA from Cal State Long Beach, where he associated himself with the Stand Up Poets. He is currently studying International Cooperation on Human Rights and Intercultural Heritage at the University of Bologna. He lives in Ravenna.

David Garyan Interviews British Poet Fiona Sampson – Interlitq Interview Series

Ravenna, Italy


Interlitq Interview Series

David Garyan Interviews British Poet Fiona Sampson

Fiona Sampson


DG: In a large number of poems from your most recent collection, Come Down, there are symbolic overtones related to colors, along with light and darkness. In the piece, “Deaf,” for example, a powerful line reads: “darkness falling from your feet / so deep you could fall through it,” while in “Lady of the Sea” the poem’s speaker hints at the “black mask” of the Virgin Mary, and if she lets it fall, “could she / move among us?” Throughout the collection, there’s a strong emphasis on movement, whether it be literal and physical, but at the same time, the speakers within the individual poems never cease to understand that death is likewise ever-present, as the poem “Boat Lane,” along with its epitaph by John Davidson suggest: “I’m following / my father / who belongs / to marsh water / and to the sea.” Indeed, the sea both symbolizes movement but also death in the case of the great aforementioned Scottish poet; it’s a place where things both rise from (if we speak of divine beings like Venus, for example), but the sea is equally comfortable submerging even the most powerful mortals. You’ve chosen to title the collection Come Down. Can you, then, perhaps discuss these overarching themes related to movement, perhaps in the sense of following, but also in terms of leading and being lead—the movement from life to death, navigating depression and sadness, and why you ultimately chose colors along with notions of darkness and light to symbolize this movement?

FS: It’s interesting you’ve picked up so much on John Davidson. He’s not a very important poet to me, or indeed to most British poets working today. It’s just that he wrote a poem about Romney Marsh, the area where my poem ‘Boat Lane’ is set, that’s very resonant for those who know and love it. The Marsh remains somewhat remote and unspoiled even though it’s in the crowded south-east of England: ‘As I went down to Dymchurch wall /I heard the south blow o’er the land /I saw the yellow sunlight fall /On knolls where Norman churches stand.’

(I should add that the poem ‘Marsh’ was by contrast a poem commissioned by the Aldeburgh Festival about its venue, Snape Maltings, and its great founder-composer, Benjamin Britten. But I like the cross-hatching of this thematic link in the book.)

‘Boat Lane’ is a poem about my (adoptive) father, who is still alive, and who grew up on the Marsh. We used to go there on family holidays, and it the place is part of my imaginative hinterland. His father was the vicar of one of those ‘Norman churches’, and we used to go and visit my grandparents there on family holidays when I was a child. It’s quiet, secretive and forgotten country. But the skies above it were the setting of the Battle of Britain, and – as my poem mentions – my father is old enough to have seen active service in WWII. He rescued crews who had to ditch in the sea.

Beyond this, the South is very much a shared European dream. I’ll leave aside the extent to which traditional British culture was Mediterranean in origin (the Bible; the classical Greek and Latin which long formed the education of those few who received any schooling at all). Nor does it just have to do with sun-seeking tourists. There’s an almost tidal longing, a nostalgia for something we never quite had, that the South – in this poem, the South wind – conjures up. As in the great nineteenth century Macedonian poem, ‘T’ga za Yug’, ‘Longing for the South’, written in chilly Moscow by Konstantin Miladinov about his homeland.


DG: Another important symbol throughout the collection is that of the wind, which strongly correlates to the movement referred to earlier. In his famous novel Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad’s narrator describes the main character, Kurtz, as a “tree swayed by the wind.” Indeed, the further Kurtz sails downstream, the more he gives in to the darkness of his own psyche. Having already mentioned the important symbolic connotations of water in your collection, it’s pertinent to touch upon the wind as well, which is strongly connected to the oceans and sees. Returning to John Davidson’s suicide, for a moment, it’s possible to see it as an occurrence of fate, which he himself predicted in his last book, The Testament of John Davidson; at the same time, however, if we see life in terms of a ship metaphor, perhaps it’s possible to adjust our “sails” and to some extent control direction, as the titular poem “Come Down” seems to hint at with its line of strangers sailing away on “difficult waters” (once more with the connotation of leading and being lead), along with the “distant ship” which “dreams of a child” who believes she “can reach Australia.” In stark contrast, then, to John Davidson’s suicide, the poem “Cold War Afternoon” pays tribute to the great Iranian poet Forough Farrokhzad, who passed away suddenly, without any premeditation. In both cases, hence, we can say that fate doesn’t distinguish between events which are planned and those which occur accidentally—both Davidson and Farrokhzad, it could be said, were individuals of their own unchangeable fate. Since wind and water figure so frequently in your work, how do you perceive the life of an individual? Is everything purely chance as the title suggests—that things come down in a way which is based solely on the principles of gravity—or is there another message, such as the one in “Marsh,” for example: “We choose the room / we need to live in.” Can you perhaps elaborate on this tension running throughout the collection?

FS: Another way to think about this might be that the book Come Down as a whole is concerned with breath. You will see that the poems are each a single sentence – all-one-breath – this includes the nine-page title poem. The form is given internal tension by regular numbers of feet or stresses per line (but the feet themselves are not regular: they’re as various, just as they are in speech).

I’m using a single breath, and declaring punctuation redundant, while retaining meaning and music, as a way to connect every part of a poem to every other part. Of course, poetry is a chronologic art like music. Poems unroll through time, even when you read them to yourself. But there are ways to perform such poetic transformations as bringing things together to ‘speak to’ each other. And one that I’m very interested in right now is this all-one-breath movement in a poem. This is the culmination of a long development through my last four collections away from punctuation and towards composing on the breath.

There are also traces of the idea of the breath-of-life, the human spirit, in the book’s  preoccupations with both how to live and how to live meaningfully. The Forough Farrokhzad quote I’m thinking of is ‘The wind will carry us’ which, as I’m sure you know, is also taken by Iranian filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami as the title of that stunning 1999 film.


DG: In a rather subtle and most pleasant way, the concluding poems of the collection emphasize symbols of nature, most notably that of the earth. Especially poignant is the piece “Juno’s Dream” with the opening salvo: “Juno lies / under the earth / her great dreaming / has begun,” and these lines are powerful because they invert the ancient goddesses role as the overseer and protector of Rome; in this sense, the effects of time are brought to the forefront in the most ingenious way because Rome—once a great empire—has long ceased to exist and even its language is now extinct; at the same time, the city itself bears tribute to the glory of its past and the ruins lying among the earth are the ultimate testament to that. Juno, hence, simultaneously lies under the earth and dreams of Rome’s insurgence but since we also speak of her, she’s not completely invisible. Similarly, the tribute poem to Mary Shelley, “Last Man,” harkens back to things underneath the surface, using powerful nature images to evoke the sense of passing time: “the bare feet in the bare / orchard,” along with the surrounding bareness of winter powerfully evoke the notion of “walking / through the frost / under bare trees,” which harkens back to the impermanence of all things—from Rome to simple frost and snow (the latter being a symbol which likewise recurs often in the collection from start to finish). Also, too, in “Wild Equinox,” the natural properties of cold are used a symbol of alienation and movement (both literal and figurative); the poem ultimately returns to the imagery of light and dark to accentuate the tension between fate and freewill: “ everything is / and knows it is – / wild equinox / balancing light / with the / inseparable dark.” Indeed, as humans we both are and know what are—the tension of simultaneously being a part of the wilderness, yet, at the same time, having left it for civilization is a sign of the balance we’ve achieved in this world; even stranger, however, is the fact that the aforementioned evolution also signifies a type of darkness as we continue moving through time and further destroying that which we came from. Since these are recurring themes within the collection, it would be interesting to hear your perspective on perhaps the fate of humanity. In “Manoeuvres,” for example, you seem to take a satirical tone regarding civilization alleviating all our problems, subtly challenging John Bruton’s statement that the EU is “the world’s most successful invention for advancing peace.” In that sense, do you think the solution to our problems lies in politics or must we find the strength within ourselves to improve the world? And by extension, given the degree to which Greek and Roman mythology figures in your work, do you think a Roman-style collapse of the EU is inevitable or can we mitigate it in some way?

FS: The opening poem of the book is called ‘Come Down’, and the closing poem is ‘Surfacing’, and the long title poem is also (of course: it’s the title poem!) called ‘Come Down’. I think you can see that this maps a descent and then a departure by ascending. But since the descent is into a valley full of rural imagery, ecopoetic arguments, and myth – rather than being in any way the Valley of the Shadow of Death – I guess it’s a book about arrival, settling, and ‘putting down roots’. Really, a sequence as much as a book.

Life has a grainy texture, doesn’t it? Living is decidedly not a slick operation. There are lacunae and losses, terrors and stresses. I want the book to be alive in this way, not inert on a scholar’s table. I would rather poetry took risks and was messy than it be irreproachable and dull. I mean that as a reader and as a writer. Let my prose be well-behaved! But let my poetry have fiercely incorporated technique (so well-incorporated perhaps that slack readers miss it) but let it be fierce in what it takes on, from life and for poetry too.

Which includes the political. I don’t think we can live outside politics – it is everything in society, even when it pretends not to be. ‘I’m not political,’ says the political conservative – meaning, ‘I see no need to question how things are or to change them’: which is a deeply political statement. I’m sorry that ‘Cold War Afternoon’ reads as though that I’m challenging John Bruton. I want to do the opposite.  We have had peace in Europe, apart from in the former Yugoslavia, for the longest time in Europe’s history: and that is because we have created and cemented alliances instead of jockeying for local national advantage. My aged parents are typical of their generation, the one that actually remembers what war is like, in grieving Brexit. They say it has destroyed everything they spent their lives building.

Unlike Rome, or indeed the old European empires, the EU is not an empire. I can think of countries that have imperial ambition, that meddle in the affairs of others: but the EU is a stabilizing check and balance on rogue governments, on global capital, and on mega-businesses cruising in from the US, China, to asset-strip us. It has raised the living standards of millions, and the standards of hygiene, water, food, medicine: all the important things. Because it had no vested interest in doing otherwise. Our future now, outside its protection, is as a vassal state of the US, a place for dumping cheap goods and fighting proxy wars with, in particular, Russia.


DG: Perhaps the most sui generis poem in the collection is “Old Man.” Quite outstanding in its stand out way (from the rest of the collection), it takes multiple risks not just with theme but also language, posing a question throughout, yet never using the punctuation mark to emphasize that fact; in this sense, it reflects life, which is inherently composed of questions we either don’t dare ask or will never have an answer to—hence the form and structure of the poem itself can be thought of a symbol. The piece ends on a note which spares no embarrassment or shame: “I tried to touch you after / we fucked stroking your wide / back made you groan / with pleasure your eyes shut.” In reality, this poem isn’t really a departure from the rest of the collection because its theme returns to the passage of time, the movement of emotions, and the disconnect which can happen as a result of those things. In terms of the title, Coming Down, do you see, then, age as a symbol of drowning or is it a form of rising from the sea towards wisdom and enlightenment? The poem seems to suggest the former, but poets rarely place everything on the surface of a poem. Aside from the poem itself, how do you feel about the issue of age in general?

FS: I think we live in an era of catastrophic ageism, a commodification of the body but also, worse, of the human self. And that this is being compounded by coronavirus, which has made it crystal clear that youth culture has created such a self-centred take on life that younger people at less risk of serious illness really think their ‘right’ to go to a party is greater than the right to life of other generations (incidentally the ones who wiped their baby noses and bottoms, labored to educate them, etc). This seems to me as jaw-droppingly immoral as condoning modern day slavery (through human trafficking, sweatshops etc) on the grounds that our ‘right’ to have cheaply painted nails/throwaway fashion/sex is greater than the right of other people to freedom and life.

I certainly hope there is nothing in Come Down that suggests I think age is a form of drowning! I want, when I do get to the point of beginning to age myself, to continue to function as a free energetic agent, just like my many friends and colleagues who are multiple decades older than me.

But the poem ‘Old Man’ is a specific revenge poem, taunting a particular someone who has been quite vain but who is by now, I think, too old ever to secure another lover like the one I was for him some years ago. Even though he is a man, and of course ageism is not nearly so crushing of life chances for men: I give you the ages of American presidents, for example. It’s just me having what I hope is the last laugh.

As you’ll gather, I am very strongly committed to human rights – life, liberty, and the pursuit, if not of happiness, then of a meaningful life. I am equally strong in believing these rights are unvaried by identity. Doesn’t matter who you are: you have these rights (even when people steal the opportunity to exercise them from you). I am very interested in identity, but not as a variant on rights, but as part of the mystery of individuation. So the long title poem ‘Come Down’ is about tracing my half own identity: two years ago, discovering my Australian natural father and my entire Australian family history of emigration. (I traced the other half of my identity more years ago.) My father had died before I found him, but the poem’s epigraph, ‘I wanted to know the true nature of the otherness I had been born into’, is so telling about non-indigenous Australian identity, and it was written by the greatest Australian artist to date, Sidney Nolan, who ended up living near the valley in which my book is set, here on the Welsh border.


About Fiona Sampson

Fiona Sampson has been published in thirty-seven languages and has just received two major European prizes: the Naim Frasheri Laureateship 2019 and the European Lyric Atlas Prize 2020. She has also received the Zlaten Prsten (Macedonia), the Charles Angoff Award (US), the 2016 Slovo Podgrmec Prize and the 2015 Povelji za međunarodnu saradnju Award (Bosnia) and the Aark Arts International Poetry Prize (India), and been shortlisted for the Evelyn Encelot Prize for European Women Poets. She received an MBE for services to literature in the Queen’s New Year’s Honours, 2017.

Good Fences, Good Neighbours, an article by Elizabeth Rimmer



Good Fences, Good Neighbours

I have been reading Kei Miller’s fabulous new collection In Nearby Bushes which came out late last year. The title is a Jamaican phrase meaning not just undergrowth, but backwoods, maquis bandit country, – a refuge for criminals and illicit behaviour, but my first response was to remember the ‘little gardens’ in front of our row of council houses when I was young. These were not the front gardens, which quite clearly belonged to each house, and were looked after with varying degrees of efficiency and expertise, depending on who lived there, but small patches of grass, set with a hawthorn tree in front of each house, and enclosed with hedges of privet (mostly) and hawthorn where the trees had sowed into the hedge. These were a kind of no man’s land. I don’t know who maintained them, or if, in fact anyone did. Some householders must have done, because their hedges were kept low and neat, and the grass inside was short, but others clearly weren’t. Their hedges grew to shoulder height, bristling with thorns, and the patch within had grasses higher than our heads, clumps of nettles and weeds of a variety unknown to town children. I remember finding a big purple patch of cranesbill in there once, and thinking that its bright elegance was the most exotic and luxurious thing I’d ever seen. No-one could identify it, but a bigger girl told me it was called ‘mother of millions’.

The little gardens were forbidden territory of course, but that didn’t stop us. We jumped the hedges when they were low enough and pushed through where they weren’t. I discovered the word ‘meuse’ lately – an old name for a gap in a hedge made by the passage of animals – and instantly remembered the phenomenon – all the hedges of the little gardens had meuses created by children, and most of them had desire lines in the grass too. It was a rite of passage to be able to get into, and through, all the gardens of the street from one end to the other. Not getting caught by irate householders was part of the challenge, and so was not being intimidated by the prickles and thorns. Big boys hid in the ones with high hedges to jump out at the unwary, and smaller ones laid traps for them by tying bunches of grasses together across the paths. The principle was that the bad boy would catch his foot in it and trip up, but we never really put it to the test. To be caught in the little gardens was to be in trouble. They are all gone now, paved for off-road car parking, but that in-between space, neither exactly private, nor explicitly public, was a formative part of my childhood, and it started me thinking.

I thought some more when I got to the poem Here That Was Here Before.

When I did my MLitt. in (ulp!) 1984-8, I came across an article (in PMLA, and dating from, I think, the fifties, if anyone has access to it, and the stamina required to wade through all of it), describing the gradual creation of nation states, and with them the notion of fixed borders. I never referred to it in my dissertation, so I didn’t keep the reference, but I think of it often now. The process was a gradual one, from about 1350, and completed by the upheavals consequent on the Reformation, but the point I remember is that before about 1370, you could go from one end of Europe to the other, and guides from each village were able speak to the people in the next, because the languages they spoke merged and melted into each other. Once there were borders and boundaries, their languages developed independently, gradually becoming standardised within the separate nation states. Once, you had neighbours, for good or ill. Now you had foreigners, and strangers, and immigrants.

I’m not sure that good fences make good neighbours. Good fences are a means to establish control over a place

They can palliate our anxiety about who owns what, about who we can trust within our designated allotment, and how we can define a trespass. But they don’t teach us how to handle proximity, adaptation, blending, withdrawal, the definition of acceptable (and unacceptable) risk, or the halting rollercoaster process of communication and coming to an understanding.

Boundaries are important, but they need not be barriers – they could be bridges. I wrote Haggards about the ‘places in between’, places where neglect allowed wild things like my cranesbills, and forgotten things like Latin in Ireland during the penal times, to thrive. Permaculturalists write about the ‘edge effect’ where separate zones – field and hedgerow, woodland and heath, water and land, can blend, and where species from both can live. Perhaps borderlands might not be lawless places, but places of dialogue, of shared stories, of memories and aspiration – they could have meuses for people from both sides to experience adventure, wonder, resilience and co-operation.

About Elizabeth Rimmer:

Elizabeth Rimmer is a poet, editor for Red Squirrel Press and occasional translator. She has published three collections of poetry with Red Squirrel Press: Wherever We Live Now (2011) The Territory of Rain (2015) and Haggards (2018), and is working on a fourth Burnedthumb, which will be out in 2021. Her website is at

La columna de Flavia Propper – Amor



¿Alguna vez un amor dormido te despertó sin previo aviso, y te besó con palabras, te escribió con besos, te guiñó con la boca y te sonrió con los ojos?
¿Alguna vez soñaste un amor real y viviste un amor de ensueño?
¿Alguna vez te perdiste en su mirada y te reencontraste en su corazón?
¿Alguna vez se te erizaron las palabras al sentir sus caricias?
¿Alguna vez recuperaste el amor que nunca habías perdido?
¿Alguna vez abrazaste fuerte el presente para que no se te escapen los futuros?


Flavia Propper nació en la Ciudad de Buenos Aires en 1973. Es Magíster en Educación, Licenciada en Ciencias Pedagógicas y Profesora de Yoga. Es autora de “En boca de todos (monólogos de novela)“ (Azul Francia, 2020) y “La era de los superniños. Infancia y dibujos animados“ (Alfagrama, 2007) -libro que fue adquirido por el Ministerio de Educación Nacional de Argentina para las bibliotecas escolares de todo el país. Ha publicado numerosos cuentos en diversas obras colectivas, y textos didácticos y de divulgación científica para diferentes editoriales.