“The Forbidden Fruit of Finally Feeling the Happiness You Were Afraid You Didn’t Deserve-”: Eight Questions for Michael Lally
I’ve always been fascinated with the little things people say when they think nobody is listening. The things people say under their breath and the silent thoughts someone is obviously having when spaced out mid-conversation. Those moments, the ones that feel raw and real, not polished and tied up in a bow. I like hearing people spit out words and sentences while frazzled and overwhelmed. I find peace in seeing that not everyone carries perfection on their shoulders. Chaos brings quiet bonding, and every fight comes with a silent “when we’re out of this, we will be stronger”. To me, Michael Lally’s poetry is a silent definition of the way these things make me feel. His words sound like someone is talking from the heart and not the head, like every word isn’t put in to show smarts but instead character. All of this led me to an interview with the poet himself. Michael Lally was born in 1942 and is now 83 years old. Lally, who was born and raised in the city of Orange, New Jersey, is an American poet with over 30 poetry books. Before poetry, he was in the US military and worked as an actor and writer of other genres. Lally won the American Book Award in 2000 and a few other notable awards for his Poetry.
I noticed that you were in the air force and spent four years in service before leaving. Being in the military is undeniably one of the most selfless things one can do for their country; Have you ever had your time in the air force influence or inspire a poem?
Far from selfless in my case. I was a teenager with a broken heart, running away from the pain (i thought), turned out the pain came with me and yes i’ve written many poems about that time (e.g. see my last book say it again: an autobiography in sonnets from beltway editions…).
In the last two stanzas, you refer to yourself as an “old man who still often feels like a woman inside”. Can you walk me through the process of how that line came to be?
I had a revelatory experience in 1972 that put me very much in touch with the feminine in me and wanted to acknowledge that’s still a part of who I am and recognize that aspect of my reality (and much more…).
Your use of line breaks often leaves words like “drool,” “slouch,” or “amen” at the end of lines. This makes them stand out and linger. How do you decide where to break a line? When making those choices are you thinking more about rhythm, meaning, or emotional weight?
All of the above, rhythm probably foremost. I started out in my teens playing piano, mostly jazz, in clubs and piano bars in the late 1950s, and poetry has always been about rhythm and melody (including discordant notes…).
There’s tension in the poem between loss and resilience, between things like “drooling” and “stumbling,” and moments of acceptance like “I’ll accept what I’m left with.” How conscious were you of balancing those emotions as you wrote? Did you aim for that contrast, or did it emerge naturally as part of your writing voice?
Both, mostly the latter.
Have you ever had another poet influence the way you write or perceive poetry? Alongside this, has any artist beyond the realm of poetry influenced your writing?
Oh yes, starting with whitman and dickensom, down through williams (wc) to frank ohara, jimmy schuyler, diane di prima, etheridge knight…
Over the years, poetry has been written and read less and less, do you have an idea or speculation as to why this is? In class,we read The Monkey & the Wrench (Essays into Contemporary Poetics). It talked a lot about poetry in today’s world. Are there any other articles you would recommend about today’s poetry and/or the lack of it in today’s society?
I’d say there’s way more poetry being written, and hopefully some of it read, than when I was young. I can’t think of any articles just now.
In your poems, memory and the present often overlap; almost like two voices speaking at once. If silence could respond in those moments, what do you imagine it would say back to you?
Clever question, it might say that’s enough of that in the voice of my mother, who died in 1966 but still lives as part of me (another version of ’the woman inside’), but also good work michael you did what you set out to do, express the ways your (our) personal history is still present in us (the title of one of my books is: it’s not nostalgia) (in response to that accusation).
Looking back, considering the fact that being a poet is only one of the things you chose to pursue in your adult life, is there any lesson you think that your poetry taught you that you wouldn’t have learned somewhere else?
Tough question, maybe it taught me how to listen and respect all the various voices of other poets, and people in general, (including all of my me’s)