A Celebration of Limits: an interview with Joseph Fasano
Joseph Fasano is an American poet, novelist, and songwriter who is currently writing a “living poem” for his son on Twitter. He spoke with our interviews editor Esteban Rodriguez about that poem and about fatherhood.
Esteban Rodriguez: Thank you so much for your time, Joseph. Before we dive into your project, I’d love to know some more about your path toward becoming a writer. You’ve published several highly acclaimed poetry collections (Fugue for Other Hands, Inheritance, Vincent, and The Crossing) as well as the novel The Dark Heart of Every Wild Thing. Your new novel, The Swallows of Lunetto, will be published in November of this year by Maudlin House. How did your writing journey begin and what continues to draw you toward creating literature?
Joseph Fasano: The beginning is always a mystery. There came a time in my life, very early, when I felt compelled to let something in me speak, something I didn't understand. Perhaps I still do not understand it, and perhaps I never will. I would say most of my work is obsessed with the notion of atonement—of trying, in the trial of this life, to create some beauty that might redeem the life, the maker, the rest of what's been made.
My novels seem to come from a place that is different from the sources of my poetry. I think we tell stories for the same reasons ancient humans looked up into the stars and told stories: to find order in our experience, to find the consolations of meaning, and—quite simply—to have fun. A writer of novels should never forget that stories should be entertainments, among other things. I continue to try, in my fiction, to write something that cares about the sentence and the story, something that might find, if only for a moment, that sacred place where the story and the song are the same.
ER: Your latest project centers on writing a “living poem” for your son, Leonardo, and sections of it are tweeted throughout the day. The tweets can at times be one line and at other times contain more robust stanzas. Nevertheless, they form a continuous body of work dedicated to parenthood and your love for your son. When did you first conceive of the idea to begin this project and what do you see as its ultimate aim, for readers, you, and your son?
JF: Like everything I make, the poem for my son developed organically, unexpectedly. Three weeks before Leonardo was born, I found myself compelled to share a few new lines on social media—something I hadn't done before. I didn't have any idea what the project was. It took me a few days to hear in those lines that I was speaking to him. Since then, I have let this voice move through me, sharing it daily as it speaks. I find myself speaking to my son, certainly, but also to aspects of myself that perhaps never had a chance to hear such things—and I hope others can hear in these lines something that might speak to a child, a wildness, a beginning in them.
ER: As I mentioned and as is stated on the project’s Twitter page, this poem is a “living poem.” How best would you describe this to those who might not be familiar with this concept? How would you describe it to other poets/writers?
JF: The term "living poem" came to me as organically as the poem itself, and by that term I simply mean that the poem is a growing, organic process that carries its own ideas of its form, much in the way that a growing body, in ways unknown to its person, contains the information necessary to manifest and realize itself. The process is a mystery to me, and I enjoy that. Much in the same way that parenthood is messy, imperfect, and full of mistakes, this poem seems to be a celebration of those aspects of being. I cannot edit a tweet, as I cannot change what I might have done in my life last Tuesday. Nor can I change how others might have responded to it. But I can do things differently today, in life and in poetry—or assert their rightness by choosing to do them the same—and the new acts and words alter, shape, and give dignity to the past.
This certainly brings the project to the edge of what art is, insofar as a work of art is a crafted thing, not just a record of a process. I believe deeply in craft, and this project is a constant challenge for me. But all around this project—and, I hope, alchemized somewhere within it—are the ravages of history, the burning of worlds, voices of ghosts and fire. May it last a short while as an affirmation to my son that his father kept himself open in a brutal world, and that he can do the same, in his own way, in his own time.
The life of a parent is a life with new limitations, and it occurs to me that this poetic project is a celebration of limits that have been chosen: just as I cannot exceed a certain number of words in a tweet, I cannot do certain things with my life now that am a father. To caress those limitations, even to praise them, is to find a place where form and freedom are one. And that, despite this project’s compromises in craft, sounds a lot like a poem. And a lot like love.
ER: With this project’s main platform on Twitter, what role do you believe social media plays in both the creation and promotion of literature? What ways do you think it can be of greater benefit in the future?
JF: Social media is a tool. So is nuclear energy. With the latter, we can power metropolises or destroy them. With the former, we can enrich our lives or destroy them. It is all in our hands. In the vast chorus of social media, I can do my small part to add this song, a father's public testament to his son, in the hope that it somehow helps him, me, and others.
I should add that the word "tool" is only partly accurate, in that social media is not just something we use. Like any real innovation, it uses us at least as much as we use it, and its existence reshapes who we are. It remains to be seen what social media will do with us, just as it remains to be seen what atomic energy will do with us—in that it remains to be seen what our unconscious is trying to do with us. But this small poem of mine has the humble and audacious goal of helping both its writer and its audience shake themselves awake, step more deeply into the dream, and reintegrate the shattered parts of ourselves.
ER: There are many great father-son poems in American literature, and when I think of this specific category of poem, I can’t help but be reminded of Bob Hick’s “O My Pa-Pa,” which seeks to reveal the true sentiments of a traditional version of stoic fathers. And perhaps a lot of father-son poems show a relationship that is less than positive. While we can see themes that emerge from your project that can be considered solemn (“Everything that can wake us / is called a monster” ~Feb. 21st) your project is inspirational and a shining light at the end of a tunnel of parental (and fatherly) uncertainty. Was this always the intention? How do you see the project evolving as your son grows?
JF: Consider our current cultural conversation about fathers, sons, or maleness in general. It’s about as deep as a kiddie pool. Anyone with a spirit understands our work—as individuals, as a society—is not to villainize a part of ourselves but to integrate all parts of what we are. The fear of maleness is a fear of something that lives in each of us, and to teach the young such fear is to pass along the neurosis of a shattered psyche, and any student of history can tell you what happens when the psyche of a society becomes one-sided. I look into my son's eyes and know my task is to help him love every part of himself, to teach him not to fear what he is, and to help him sing the whole song of what he is.
ER: What lines from this project have stayed with you the most?
JF: On February 12, 2022, Leonardo was having a tough night, crying and unable to sleep. I was rocking him, singing to him, speaking, trying anything to help him settle. At some point in the night it occurred to me just to laugh and say to him, "I don't mind if you leave me sleepless. / I've been asleep my whole life." He gave a little giggle, as if in reply, and fell asleep. Later I added those words to his poem.
ER: No one can predict what our children will grow up to be, much less what form their interests will take. If your son does one day become a writer, would you like for him to carry this poetic torch for his children?
JF: I often say, only half-jokingly, that no one in his right mind chooses to become a writer. It's something that chooses you, and I don't know what life will choose my son. But he is crying beside me right now, and as I set this down to care for him, I hear his voice that is still his own, and I hope it always will be.
