CONTRIBUTOR SPOTLIGHT:
INTERVIEW WITH ONYEDIKACHI CHINEDU
Rappahannock Review Poetry Editors: Queerness feels so central to “Inert Paw” and “Titanic Monologue.” How has queer identity defined, in different ways, your own interpretation and experience with poetry?
Onyedikachi Chinedu: That I am not alone; for everything I need to know about who and what I am has been written by the incredible voices of queer writers. The community of people whose hunger, for love and equality, is legal and not brought down by the oppositions of a bad government. A failed system. I feel known for the language of Hemphill, of Brown, of Romeo, of Chee, of Logan, of queer bodies honestly and bravely telling and documenting our histories and identities. Not too long ago, I discovered that I was non-binary. Non-binary, and enough to shun the stereotypical behaviors expected to be portrayed by a femme boy. So, my queer identity, which is quite hard to say without bringing down the walls of my house, has helped sharpen my understanding of language, of my environment as a writer of queer poetry, and how acutely tune I am to the plight/joy of queer bodies written, in large parts, in poems of betrayal, love, heartbreak, immigration, and so much more.
RR: We love the images in “Titanic Monologue” and the way they unfold, especially lines like “the moon is jaw white, sterile teeth / mirrored against them.” How do images make it into a poem for you?
OC: Sometimes, it’s instinctive; other times, it takes a lot of revision to get one good image that, I think, is in service of the poem. Or the muse who is timely and always needs the writer to be ready for inspiration.
RR: What does your process look like when crafting the shape of the lines, phrases, and interconnected images that remain so visceral in your work?
OC: It takes patience and a careful revision of most lines or phrases, of a poem, to make it shine. Also, it can be tedious and frustrating when it isn’t coming together to provide the feel I want. Bereft of sentimentality. Still, I will wait, think, tinker with the poem to allow it to reveal what it wants for itself. I like to think that my poems are souls: with feelings and distinct differences in language and structure. My process of drafting these lines involves the continuous rewriting of them; how I want them to show or stand out briefly and memorably. As I said, it is frustrating when the poem is obnoxious and unwilling to play along too. When I see no ways to better them, I restart all over again with the same theme in mind but a new poem.
RR: What inspired you to start writing poetry? What made you decide to dedicate yourself to that craft?
OC: Poetry has been a friend to me. I have become so susceptible to what I say, do, and create because of how humbling it is to build a poem from the crash. The commitment. The attention a poet must give to a poem is always riveting and beautiful to me. Like how a mother must be to a newborn baby. Being a poet and a teacher of the craft is what I long for. To discuss and marvel at language are what makes me work harder and strategically. I love language. I like how each reader can take two different meanings out of a poem but still align with the poet’s sense of language and attitude. I think the artist’s life chooses you; and when it does, there is no way you can deny that inevitable hunger to create a space for yourself and the reader—to make a shared space possible through a well-known medium, language.
RR: What advice would you give to young poets like yourself that are navigating their gender, sexual, or racial identity in their writing?
OC: Keep writing; keep being you. No one can take you away from you. All you have to do is live, drink water, and do the righteous work of being queer and proud. Also, remember that whatever you are writing is important and needs to be told: our stories are unique and audacious. You have to tell your story.
Onyedikachi Chinedu’s work in Issue 8.3: