How would you describe the energies of your poetry?

I wouldn’t.

You once said that you recognized in your translation work poetry that will eventually lead you to your own voice. Do you find yourself embattled or battling with other voices when switching gears from dense translation to writing? (Does anything “happen” in-between these two creative processes?)

I tend not to think of poetry in terms of “voice” — and I’m guessing I said the translation would or might lead me to my own poetry. Which is what happened. It’s very much like the dialectic between silence and sound we just talked about. It’s not that first there is silence and then there’s sound and composition. It’s that the two are always in tension. Likewise with writing my own poetry and writing my own translations (or translating the poetry of others). Sometimes the transition between these activities is smooth, but more often than not it is, in fact, something of an agon if not an outright psychomachia. One can only hear so much at once. I usually have to tune out all the other voices I’m drawn to in order to hear the poem or poems that might be written. And vice versa. And that process isn’t always pretty. On the other hand, it is extremely rich. And once I’ve made the shift or crossed the threshold I actually enjoy the spontaneous return or resurrection of other voices.

As for what “happens” in between the two creative processes, the answer is: “Everything and nothing.” It’s all rather mysterious, and I like it that way.

From Rift (1988) to Things On Which I’ve Stumbled (2008), your poems evolve from an architecture of thoughts and images to different linguistic registers. What ingredients constitute the important poetic layer for your writings? How do you relate to image, and what are your biases?

It should be clear by now that sound is central for me: the range of acoustic options that English affords for texture, linkage, and effective surface tension. But I’m also increasingly interested in syntax and inclusiveness, the ability to speak clearly while also ranging widely and attempting to fold into the movement of verse things that aren’t easily said or generally talked about. On the whole I think it would be accurate to say that I want every part of a given work to be doing just that: work — whether I’ve written it, translated it, or edited and published it. Imagery is the least of it.

I am interested in your musical ear. What music draws you?

I listen to all kinds of music, and frequently. I love Near Eastern classical music (usually for voice and oud, or small ensemble). Byrd is a favorite among Western composers, and of course Glenn Gould. At the moment I’m listening to a lot of Schumann, piano works performed by Peter Frankl, who is one of the most sensitive interpreters of music I’ve encountered in years, and whose playing as part of a chamber ensemble (with Kyung-Wha Chung and others) I find utterly magical. I’m also wild about the tenor Ian Bostridge — his English Songbook, his Schubert lieder and Schumann songs. I love the English song tradition generally — Ivor Gurney (as composer and poet), and Gerald Finzi, to start with. I also listen to a lot of jazz piano (Bill Evans, Art Tatum, Monk, among others) and singers like Ella Fitzgerald, Tony Bennett, Louis Armstrong. And there’s always Dylan. And Elvis Costello. These are all musicians who have an impeccable and distinctive rhythmic touch, and who achieve an uncanny kind of counterpoint among the various elements that combine in their sound. My favorite rock band for the past few years has been Fountains of Wayne — geniusy lyrics (“The night I can’t remember with the girl I can’t forget”), extraordinary layering of historical tones, and just fabulously inventive combinations of word and melodic line. They’re the smartest band I’ve encountered, and also offer the most pleasure.