This week, we caught up with Emory junior and poet Sasha Rivers to learn about her creative process, moments of inspiration, and the beauty of reading her favorite poets.
First off, tell us about yourself! Where are you from? What year are you at
Emory? What are you studying? What kind of art do you make?
Hi! My name is Sasha Rivers, I am a junior studying Arabic and Jewish Studies. I’m
originally from Cape Cod, MA (but like, actually from there), although I have been living
in Atlanta full-time for just under a year. I am a poet! I have tried my hand at many other
art forms, and this is the only one that ever truly called to me.
When did you start writing poetry? What drew you to this art form?
I think I started writing poetry in eighth grade – I still have my first journal entry that
really reads like a poem, and I wrote it sometime around May 2015. I have always loved
reading poetry; I was a macabre little kid and have enjoyed Edgar Allen Poe since I
recited “The Raven” as my English project in fifth grade. I really got into Richard Siken
during the heyday of Tumblr, and I remember reading lines like “you’re in the car with a
beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you”, from Siken’s
piece “You Are Jeff”, and thinking that I wanted to make people feel the way that line
made me feel, before I had ever even loved any beautiful boys.
What do you love most about poetry?
This is so silly but I just love the way it makes me feel. I am currently in an intermediate
poetry class, and the “work” I look forward to most every week is my assigned readings
for the class. My professor uses the phrase “luxuriate in poetry” a lot, and I think it is
one of the most precise ways to describe what I do when I read poetry. I just find so
much solace in it - even if I’m reading a really dark piece, the connection I feel to the
narrator or author in the minute or two that I’m reading their words is one of the things
that makes me the happiest.
What does your creative process look like? How do you typically get inspired in the
beginning?
Recently, I have been creating just massive amounts of work because I have been so
surrounded by other great poems and poets – every week since the start of this semester, I have been able to write one or two poems; I am so inspired by reading others’ pieces, and finding new forms and styles to play with. It’s a lot harder to write when I don’t have ten assigned poems to read every week, but I usually draw inspiration from my life - most of my favorite pieces I have written were first drafted coming back home from a long night at 3 am, or in a notebook for another class, or even on my phone. These days, I feel inspired by everything – it can be something my friend said that had a little music in it, or a phrase that pops into my head that I just know I need to write down or I will never remember it.
What are your goals for your work? What do you hope other people take away
from it?
I want other people to feel the way I feel when I wrote the poem. My writing is relatively
straightforward (in my opinion); while I deeply admire poets like Plath who can take a
simple concept and really make me work to understand it by drowning every line in
metaphor and allusions that I am not well-read enough to know, that isn’t what I find
myself writing when I get that little spark of inspiration. I have a few poems that are
mini-love letters to people in my life, and I am always smiling when I go back to re-read
them. I hope pieces like that convey that love I feel for the people they’re about, even if
my reader doesn’t know me or the subject. I try not to be one of those people - and I say
that lovingly - who bugs the people around me into reading my mediocre poetry, but I
just feel like it is the way I can share myself best.
Who are some of your favorite poets?
I’ve certainly already mentioned a few – despite all her flaws, I have loved Sylvia Plath
since I first read “The Mirror” in seventh grade. Recently I have been reading a lot of the
New York School, specifically Frank O’Hara and James Schuyler. I feel a certain kinship
with them in the way they talk about the people in their lives. I also adore the
aforementioned Richard Siken; his book Crush is a great read for any poet or lover of
poetry.
What advice do you have for someone looking to get involved with Emory’s
poetry community?
Take a creative writing class! I have already met so many insanely talented and cool
people, not to mention we have one of the best creative writing programs in the country
(shameless plug for a department I’m not technically in). Unfortunately, I am not yet very
involved with other artist groups on campus, but I am looking to change that this
semester, after meeting all these wonderful Emory poets.
Read on for a sample of Sasha's work:
proof that we’re all in love with each other
i always notice
when you
take out an earbud
while we’re
only half-
engrossed
in our work
in the library
in order to
hear me
whisper-recite
my poems
or when you
catch me staring
at your chest
because the shirt
you’re wearing
is from my favorite
breakfast place in
my hometown
a polyester reminder
that i can’t
escape
where i’m from
and for you
just a stranger
staring at your
vacation memento
for too long
or when you
brew the coffee
just a little stronger
after my complaints
of its watered
downness
or when you
mirror a habit of mine
like how you started
laughing through your teeth
sucking in air
between giggles
just like i do
and just like
my tenth-grade-boyfriend
did
and maybe still does
or when you
stopped throwing
butts in the street
to put them gently
once cool
in our garbage can
even though they
make our place
smell like the
floor of a bar
(a good bar)
it is good
for the planet
after all
or when you
remember it’s
a holy day for me
even though we have
only spoken a few times
in that one class
or when you
call me
to complain about how
mom started
crying
on your last
first day of school
despite your hatred
for phone calls
or when you
bring over a
bottle
of wine
and five dollars
for the movie
we rented
or when you
smile at me
in a genuine
full blown
toothy way
as you
sit facing me
on the bus
and then get off
the stop before
me
Body, 2019
a mess of reddish-brownish tangles
sits upon my head,
where live my grandfather’s eyes,
nine metal studs,
a mouth that never ceases
concealing teeth that never wore braces
and a tongue that still trips on the words
of its second language
a stiff neck atop stiffer shoulders
(that’s where she carries her stress)
freckled, damaged by too many days spent
crashing in waves without
someone to scold me into wearing sunscreen
bruises that develop like polaroids
after a night that’s still fuzzy in some places
and scabs that get picked until
they become small white marks
an army of lame scars who never
saw any front lines
creaky knees that haven’t
worked quite right since sixth grade
dented shins and twisty ankles
feet who know red mud can’t replace
the salty sand of their home
Body, 2021
a wavy nowdisaster
of usedtobebuzzcut
serves as disheveled-greasy crown,
halo above freckled
solar-damaged forehead,
a brutal reminder
that i moved
to the sun belt
and that melanoma
is hereditary
tar-stained lungs
and out-of-practice heart
that still know gratitude
when i decide to feed them
Appalachian air
instead of
American spirits
(although sometimes,
just sometimes
bad things
taste best
after doing a
good thing first.)
a stomach that i no longer
twist into knots
at the notion of
bigtest
or longpaper
but that i sure
wish would work
a lot better
for our age
feet who still
recall the choreo
of daddy-daughter
dance-routine
but now bother
neighborsbelow
with the steps
and who don shoes
now southredmud-stained
having finally shaken
the inescapable sand
of oldislandhome
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