One Question Interview: Chris Banks

09Apr15

Chris Banks is a poet with a Master’s degree in Creative Writing from Concordia University. He is the author of three acclaimed collections of poetry: Bonfires, The Cold Panes of Surfaces, and Winter Cranes. His new chapbook of poems is called Invaders, and is from Anstruther press. He lives, writes and teaches in Waterloo, Ontario.

Invaders was a potent chapbook, because in only a dozen well-crafted poems I get a sense of victory balanced by loss and then falling into the rear-view mirror of life anyway. And that would sound depressing if it weren’t for your reverence for the process of life, self-evident in your thoughtfulness and your conviction you “start with yourself,” if looking for rescue (from “Christian Island”). The first poem covers the first act of a life (yours, really) and the second poem encapsulates an entire life (“thirty years / inside a factory, hand-polishing wooden cabinets…”). And throughout, a poignancy that even gives elegance to an angry teenager (“Amplifier”). It’s all framed by your title, and a Martin Amis quote about the “dormant areas” of our minds growing populated. I think a space invader (as we see on the cover) could be seen as cute or horrifyingly blank. But given that “time is theft,” (from “All-Night Arcade”) I wonder if your own personal landscape is a comfort to you or if objects become like barnacles over time. Is there a way to hold on to the right memories or remain armed with the right things from the past?

Thank you Alex for your sensitive reading of my chapbook. I think, as a poet, you really do need to arm yourself with the right things from the past as you suggest in order to withstand what Wallace Stevens calls “the pressure of reality.” I think there is real danger in having a heightened awareness of how one’s self is conceived, BanksInvadersor how the “omnipresent” moment exerts itself upon consciousness. So much appears lost. So much feels arbitrary. Larry Levis felt this deeply. Philip Levine too. So many of Hayden Carruth’s best poems are like urns, little memorials to a world that no longer exists.

Each day there is always the constant terrifying barrage of sensory information that forms our experience, and our consciousness attempts to counter this by conjuring its own litany of images and thoughts and memories, each one hopefully meant to help us better connect to the moment before us.

I think the trick with poetry is writing in such a way that your mind accesses the right images or memories, the deep archetypal ones, the interior stories which for me is the meditational mode. The American poet John Koethe when talking about Ashbery describes the essence of a meditation “as an urgent exploration (by whatever means available) of a recognizable, but until now unrecognized, problem; an exploration covering—or, rather, defining—a concrete stretch of human time.” I think this is what I was getting at when I entitled the chapbook Invaders and lead off with the Martin Amis quote.

The best poems come through us, speak in our voices, and yet come from somewhere else entirely. We have to be other than ourselves at the moment of writing.

Only then does the poet’s imagination, recognizing the meaningless of most daily life, come to our rescue by offering its solution: a poem. An approximation of our experience in language but one that is more orderly, more meaningful and more humane.

Poetry is the invader that takes over those dormant areas of our minds when we are courageous enough to abandon our hold on them.

 

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