Heal
A Conversation with Briana Turnbull
When one thinks of the word “heal,” poetry doesn’t immediately come to mind. A few years ago, there was a fierce Twitter debate among poets and writers about the usefulness of poetry in the public sphere, with one side claiming that it did little to move the social needle while the other side adamant that it did indeed promote and inspire change. As a poet reading the arguments, I naturally thought of the role of poetry in my everyday life, and quickly, I saw the ways in which it has heightened my worldview and improved my interactions with others. I like to think I have greater sympathy because of poetry, that I care more for others because I’ve read Mary Oliver, that I can decide what’s right and wrong because of Lucille Clifton or Thomas Merton. This is not to say that poets lie outside the realm of the real world; they are very much a part of it, but if you are a poet, chances are you see the world a bit more closely, that sometimes things mean more, that every interaction is an opportunity for reflection, and that poems themselves have the power and potential to if not “heal,” then at least lead you in the direction where healing can begin.
Briana Turnbull’s debut poetry collection Heal (Olympia 2023) is a reminder of which side of the social media debate I landed on. A moving book that traverses the globe, takes a microscope to everyday emotions and events, and that navigates an understanding of oneself with vigor and care, Heal is a testament to poetry’s power and a reminder of what literature can truly accomplish. I had the privilege of speaking with Briana at the end of 2023.
Esteban Rodriguez: Briana, thank you immensely for your time. Heal is your first poetry collection, and it’s a stunning and moving debut centered on grief, reflection, and a longing sense of trying to belong in a world that seems just out of reach. How did you come to poetry? What motivates you to continue writing in this medium?
Briana Turnbull: Esteban, thank you for taking the time to talk about Heal with me. Poetry came to me when I first moved to New York. Friends would share work with me from authors like Marie Howe and Ellen Bass. At the same time, poetry was being introduced on social media, at least for the first time I’d seen it. I closely started to follow and admire authors like Cleo Wade and Yrsa Daley-Ward. My writing practice began when I came to New York at eighteen. I would write daily journal entries, which eventually became short form poems and reflections of my time in the city. Short poems helped me understand the power of language. I didn’t feel like I was able to write long form poems or prose until I could write the short poem and understand the value of every word when being confined to only a few lines.
Since moving back to New York, I’ve thrown myself into the world of poetry. I’ve seen how workshops empower vulnerability and create a community of shared learning. Seeing the work of other writers keeps me inspired and wanting to write more into the craft, to learn new forms, and to share in workshops.
ER: You’re in New York right now, the most populated city in the U.S. When people think of New York, they might think of abundance and excess, but when you spoke about the language that you’re trying to engage with in your poetry, you mentioned your desire for the minimal. Can you talk a bit about the contrast between this abundance in the place you call home versus the minimal but very emotionally intentional verse rendered on the page?
BT: That’s a good point. There’s so much access to information right now and being in a city where there are so many people can feel overwhelming. I lived in Massachusetts for two years prior to coming back to the city, and I felt as though my nervous system had decompressed. I had given myself time to rest, and it was actually during this time that I wrote the first draft of Heal. When I came back to New York, I continued editing the manuscript with the mindset that less is more. I needed less in my life, and I think that came through in the text. The abundance of New York comes through in many poems, but as you’ve mentioned, the minimal approach and emotionally intense verse were a way to find balance through these transitions.
Coming back to New York in my late twenties, attending workshops and readings, I feel as if my writing is becoming stronger. The language that I’m using is richer. I hope that answers your question.
ER: It most definitely does. I love how you talk about the vibrancy of workshops and readings. Can you talk about how going to readings and attending workshops influences you as a writer?
BT: When I first attended readings and workshops, I was fearful of vulnerability. I remember sitting in on some of my first workshops and my voice would shake because I was learning how to be comfortable sharing my experiences with a larger audience. What I learned was that vulnerability creates a space for collective learning. The poetry community is inclusive, open-minded, kind, and generous with their time and thoughts. Like you said, there is an energy that I’ve experienced in those settings. And then there’s the educational component, which is also important to me. In those early workshops, I was introduced to tools that helped me go deeper into emotional range and storytelling. Since then, I’ve started writing towards the relationships and friendships that have nurtured me over the years and have found I have a greater appreciation for the love poem. I feel like I’m a student again in these spaces and I appreciate that.
ER: Throughout the collection, there’s constant meditations on the body, specifically the ways in which the speaker views her aging self. I’m thinking of the poem on page 41 and following lines:
To live in this body
means to guide from
a place unknown.
Still young
in the stories that
I tell myself.
The body remains young only in memory. How did you approach writing about the body throughout the book? Was there any hesitation about putting forth matters that were personal for potential readers?
BT: The book sequences from sorrow to reckoning to healing, and through that personal journey the subject of the body is weaved into each of those chapters. In “Sorrow,” the speaker associates the body with vanity and only sees itself through the eyes of other people. As the body has different experiences throughout one's lifetime, the speaker starts to see the body as a place of survival. I wanted there to be a connection for the reader where they can go from this focus on vanity as a young person—especially with the culture that we’re living in today—to understanding that our bodies are what give us life and require care.
ER: I’m sure you’ve shared some of these poems with close friends and family. What has the reaction been to the subject matter?
BT: I thought when I wrote this it was for a younger audience that may have been going through some of this reckoning in their own lives. What surprised me was how many older women reached out and said that these weren’t topics that were talked about in the time that they grew up, and that they felt as if someone understood their feelings, of shame, of fear, of grief. To have people outside of the poetry community also come in and see poetry—some of these women for the first time—and feel as though they’re seen, is really powerful. It’s pushed me to keep writing and sharing.
ER: Even though there are no titles for the poems, there are titles for the different sections in the book: Prologue. Sorrow. Reckon. Heal. Can you speak a little bit about how these titles came to be? Can you also talk about your approach to omitting titles from the poems? How did it alter your writing process?
BT: Well, I wrote a lot during the two years that I was in Boston. I printed all of my work out knowing I needed to see it in its entirety. As I was reading, I realized that there was a chronological order to the text. I didn’t have titles for sections; I just had short poems that were starting to come together as a coming-of-age story. I used chronology to place the timeline and then I started to read the body of work as a whole. I recognized in my words that I was reckoning with a sense of sorrow that I felt in early childhood and adulthood while also learning how to hold space for the pain of others, the older I became. The chapter titles came after reading the complete body of work. I didn’t write the “Prologue” until the end. I felt that once I read the story as a whole, I could give more context to the text.
ER: Another fascinating theme that emerges within these pages is that of grief and solitude. There is an attempt by the speaker to understand the true extent of loss (whether real or hypothetical) and come face to face with the reality of loneliness, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the following stanza (pg. 61):
Would you still be with me?
Or would you live in a network
of memories only brought back
by the smell of the ocean
and old leather seats.
What about these themes compelled you to bring them to life on the page? Do you write toward subjects, or do the subjects surface as a result of your writing?
BT: I was trying to understand my belief system more than anything. It was instilled in me early on that grief is an experience of fear. I was undoing that belief through the text. That origin of fear stems from the loss of family or the loss of home in early childhood. When the speaker experiences the loss of an elder, she begins to understand that grief is not always a place of fear, but can be a place where we come to understand love. The reckoning and healing in the final chapters are the speaker coming into this belief through reflection.
I rarely write towards subjects. Subjects sometimes come to life in my writing through memory, but this text works to understand the beliefs passed down from generation to generation.
ER: New York City plays an important role in the collection. It almost appears as a metaphor for the loneliness the one experiences in the face of so much life. What about New York is important to you? As a writer and as a person.
BT: Community and service-work were at the core of my childhood. When I wasn’t in restaurant kitchens with my dad, I was with my mom prepping for holidays that brought friends and family together. Food is my family's love language and five siblings meant very little time alone growing up. When I moved to New York, the idea of solitude was foreign to me. There was an innate sense of fear that I was alone and I think the reader can sense that in my writing.
New York’s the first place I saw myself outside of the family unit and could start to build my own identity. It’s the place where I started to question my beliefs and the culture I grew up in.
In a poem that I wrote to my sister, I say:
Truth is the city never sleeps. They weren’t lying.
My eyes have learned to live with this kind of tired.
You can sense the speaker coming to terms with her time in New York while longing for a sense of community. Eventually places don’t serve us anymore and it’s important to be aware of that, to take our experiences and share them with others or to have news ones. That’s where I am today.
ER: While New York is central, it isn’t by any means the only place mentioned. You beautifully take us through brief journeys to the American southwest, Morocco, Italy, and beaches where stars dance in the heat of summer. How did you go about documenting these places in your work? How have your personal journeys translated to your poetic travels?
BT: At times, poetry and travel play the same role for me—they keep me grounded and present. Sometimes the work of reflection can be heavy. I keep a notebook on me when I travel to document my observations, what I’ve learned and how I’ve felt. When I have a heightened sense of excitement or sensory experience, I write those moments down so I don’t lose them. When I go back to those notebooks, I often see as a whole how heavily the culture we grow up in affects our perceptions and beliefs. This is usually where I start to ask myself questions. Why am I scared of this experience? When did this belief form?
ER: What have you learned from these places?
BT: I’ve learned how to slow down, listen, and live more deeply. I’ve learned how to be present with the natural environment and with the people I meet. For someone that spends so much time in the past and with her memories, travel has aided me in focusing on the present moment.
ER: As a writer from Rhode Island, I can’t help but make the connection between other writers from the state, including Cormac McCarthy, a huge influence on my development as an author. You mentioned a few writers, but are there any other individuals that helped to nourish your work?
BT: We spoke about Marie Howe and Ellen Bass in the beginning, and I go back to their work often. Maggie Smith explores the child/parent relationship and what parents choose to teach their children. I return to her work often too. Mary Oliver focuses on nature, bringing the reader back to the natural experience and away from culturally-driven narratives. I’ve started reading Rita Dove recently and her ability to capture a moment with so little words and with so much depth is beautiful. I haven’t tapped into humor in my own work yet, but I find that I’m drawn to writers that weave humor into their storytelling. I love Margaret Atwood's writing too.
ER: What’s next for you? What projects are in the works?
BT: I’ve spent the last year in New York attending workshops, readings, and learning more about the craft of contemporary poetry. Many of my recent drafts explore the heart of place and memory through prose. I’ll be in Vietnam for the next few weeks and I’m hoping to use what I’ve learned this year to write new work.
