Harm’s Way
Poems by Eric Leigh

What is the significance of the title of the collection?
The poems that comprise this book—whether they are investigating parental loss, the loss of love, or navigating the choppy waters of seroconversion—are on some level about the harm that we can and cannot keep from those we love and the harm that cannot be kept from us. For me, the central image in the book occurs in the title poem. It’s a moment that describes an instance from my childhood: while I was a passenger in my mother’s car she had to unexpectedly slam on the brakes. Without thinking, she threw her arm out in front of me to keep me safe. Now keep in mind, I was wearing a seat belt and her arm wouldn’t have done anything except perhaps get broken. But she wasn’t thinking about herself, only of someone she loved more than herself. To me, that image is about the devotion that goes along with love. It’s a moment in which the threat of harm and the instinct to protect intersect, and both were ideas that I wanted to explore in this collection.

You tackle a number of solemn topics in your poems. How does writing about these very personal experiences help transform their meanings in your own life?
I think that part of the process of writing for me is gold-panning for wisdom. If a poem is successful for me, it allows me to locate some emotional truth about an experience—no matter how traumatic that experience may have been or continues to be—and share that truth with a reader. I always learn something about language and about life by writing a poem. And I’m always grateful to the poems for finding me.

How did the death of your father impact the development of your work and / or the specific poems in this book?
Initially, it didn’t impact the work at all as I’m very conscious that writing too close to the bone for me—too close to the time of a traumatic event—always results in self-indulgent and mediocre poetry. It was a year before I was ready to deal with his death and the loss of him in poetry. I knew the day would come when I had done enough feeling about the subject to be able to do some thinking about it, and that’s when I think good poems can be born. At that point, I realized my initial ideas and hopes for my first book would have to be reconfigured to allow space for the poems that dealt with this particular loss and life journey. It’s not the constellation of poems I thought my first book would be. And I’m actually thrilled about that. The last ten years have required me to push myself and the poems into new territory. It’s been a long time coming, but I’m happier now with these poems than I’ve ever been.

Harm’s Way is structured in two distinct sections, a rare choice for a first book, can you say a little bit about how you arrived at this particular model?
The book has gone through a lot of transformations over the years in terms of sections (anywhere from 3 to 5 of them). And while it had a good deal of success—being named a finalist or semi-finalist in several national contests—I was never really happy with the flow of the book. After much soul-searching and experimentation, I settled on two sections. To me, the first section explores the rural landscape, while the second explores the urban. The first is about the discovery of sexuality, while the second is about the blossoming of that sexuality. The first is about biological families, and the second is about families we choose. The first about the loss of a parent, while the second is about coming to terms with one’s own mortality. In short, I was over the moon when the incredible Enid Shomer called from The University of Arkansas Press and said she wanted to publish the book. It was a great affirmation of having ordered the book in two sections.

When did you start writing as a child? What form did these early writings take?
I grew up in the country with no neighbors my age, but I did have a rather rich internal life. So I was always writing stories when I was in elementary school. I first turned to poetry at the age of fourteen after the death of my cousin, and it was not conscious at all. His death changed how I expressed myself. Sentences began to become lines, paragraphs morphed into stanzas. Language became more powerful and immediate that it had been for me before. Up until that time I’d read poetry but never written it outside of mandatory writing assignments for school.

Do you write for yourself or for an audience or both?
I write for both myself and for the audience at different times in the process. I write for myself and for the poem (because I do believe that it is its own entity with its own aspirations, mission, voice, etc.) in the beginning of the process, and later in the process I’m totally conscious of readers. What space am I leaving for them in the poem? What do I want them to experience in this space? Where does their journey start? How can I make that journey continue for them beyond the last word of the poem? I think poetry is equal parts magic and architecture.

Who are your role models?
Artistically speaking, I try not to have role models. I find inspiration in fellow poets, their work and their lives, but I’m also content to follow my own creative path without patterning it on or comparing it with someone else’s. I’m sure this is going to sound slightly corny, but personally I only have two role models: my mother and Dolly Parton. Those are two of the hardest working, nicest people in the world in my opinion and no one (to my knowledge) has ever said a bad word about either one of them. I never claim to be as nice as either of those women, but they both continuously inspire me through their work ethic and their charm. You just try being around my mom or at a Dolly concert and not smiling.

What inspires you?
Inspiration is everywhere. Each of our environs is rich in material both for life and for poetry. Personally, I find the hardest thing is to train myself to stay open to the world that is constantly changing around me, to really be in each moment as much as possible so that when something trips a wire, be it a sound or an image or a phrase, I can recognize its promise, take that particular road and see where it leads. Not all of these moments lead to poems right away, but I often find that if I follow that initial lead it will arrive at a poem eventually, even though the journey from initial inspiration to finished poem may take several years.

In general, does music inform your work or flow into your writing process?
I try to be as aware as possible to the music in language. Many times, I’ll begin the writing of a poem with a phrase that is quite musical—to my ear anyways. I’m equally invested in narrative and lyric traditions, and so I always strive to make poems that will have a life both on the page and in the world of the spoken word. The first section of the book is in part inspired by the county music that I grew up with and the alt-country music that I love as an adult; it’s no coincidence that I invoke Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, and Loretta Lynn over the course of the book. Strangely enough, it was my love of Lucinda Williams and her music (a passion I shared with my father) that led me to the work of her father, the poet Miller Williams. And so, when I saw the announcement for the first annual Miller Williams Prize, I thought it would be a wonderful contest to enter, especially considering the connections to my life and that the contest was being sponsored by such an incredible press.
As far as the process goes, there are times when writing when I need silence, when I need to be quiet with the poem. And there are other times when I need certain musical artists to help me get in the right space.

Do you consider yourself a "gay poet?" Do you write “gay poems?”
Each of us is comprised of many identities, some of which are devalued by society. I think it’s natural (and right to some extent) to focus on and foreground those devalued identities in our lives and in our creative work. I certainly have no qualms about owning the title of “gay poet” as long it doesn’t exclude others who may not share the exact same identities as me from being able to experience my work.
In answer to the second part of that question, my poems are written by a gay man who considers himself blessed to have that identity. Gayness has given me a great deal of strength, of inspiration, and empathy for all those who are othered. While certain of my poems may have a gay narrative or theme, it’s not really my concern to decide whether or not the whole of my poetry is “gay,” per se. I’m much more concerned with whether or not the work is successful in its mission, if it moves people, if it creates moments of resonance for readers.

Where is your craft taking you next?
I’m just getting the sense of where I want to go in my second book of poems, and I’m half-way through writing a young adult novel called When the Fat Moon Dances Skinny, about a young heavy-set girl who escapes a life of self-doubt and body images issues by finding her voice as a blues singer. I have no idea when these projects will be finished. I’m very much from the Kate Bush school of things, where the process takes as long as it takes, though at times I feel like I make Ms. Bush look like a speed skater.