Susan Wismer (she/they) is a queer poet who is grateful to live on Treaty 18 territory at the southern shore of Manidoo-gitchigami (Georgian Bay) in Ontario, Canada with two human partners and a very large dog. Recent work has been published in MsLexia, The Goose, The Book of Night (ed. Lorna Crozier), Poetry Plans (Bell Press) and Poets in Response to Peril (eds. Penn Kemp, Richard Sitoski). Susan’s book Hag Dances is coming out with At Bay Press in Spring 2025. www.susanwismer.com
You can read From the Edge in the July 2024 issue.
Would you like to tell us a little bit more about your poem? For instance, how or why you wrote it, or perhaps provide some extra context?
I will be 73 years old on my next birthday. I feel fortunate to be here with you all. When I look around at my peers, I realize I can’t make any assumptions about my health or longevity. I feel great at the moment. And I know I have more years behind me on our beautiful and troubled planet than I do before, for this time around. My queer identity means that the place where I live has always been an edge-walker. At this age and stage of living, I have an even stronger and more poignant sense of what it means to live `from the edge’. Beyond where I am is filled with mystery—what will come next? With me here now are my sorrows and concerns about human life on this Earth at this time—what we do to each other and to the planet that is our life source. With me here also, all that I love. Passionately and without reservation.
Why was the poetic form the best fit for this particular piece of work?
Poetry can use a page of white space and relatively few words to convey so much. That breathing space, between words and lines and stanzas and surrounding text is an invitation to readers, giving them space to make the poem their own. That’s what I love about poetry and it is what I have tried to do here.
Do you have a collection of poetry or even a single poem that acts as a touchstone?
Oh, so many. Lately, I’ve been reading Jane Hirshfield’s The Asking and Lydia Davis’ Essays 2 for their precision of language, and capacity to convey so much through close observation of their own daily lives.
If you didn’t write poetry, how do you think you might access the same fulfillments that poetry offers in your life?
Through dance, hiking, music. Our cellphones and much else in contemporary Western life here in North America inundate us with language and information. Wordlessness, breathing space—in poetry, dance, music, walks in the woods— help me to choose words as a place to return to, with care,
How do you revise your work?
One thing I love about the opportunity to submit my work to journals is that it gives me a chance to review each piece in the submission, editing as I go. Some edits are playful, trying one thing or another just to see how it lifts off the page. I find often, though, that returning to a poem after I haven’t looked at it for a while is inspiring and allows me to take another run at digging a little deeper, smoothing out trouble spots. I am still learning so much about how to write the poems I want to write.
Before I submit, I read each poem aloud, try to make the poem sound to my ears as it does in my head. I read in Kim Peterson’s interview with Pinhole that she records her readings before submission. I’m going to give that a try—I think it’s a great idea..
As a poet, what does creative success or achievement look like for you?
My first book Hag Dances is coming out with At Bay Press in Spring 2025. That feels like a real achievement. I have enjoyed working with a larger collection of poems. It offers creative opportunities beyond those of each individual piece. What sends me back to my writing desk again and again, though, is that I like how it feels to write, to work at expressing something important to me; then to share it with others. Although writing is a frequently solitary practice, there is a strong feeling of community in it for me.
We love the artistic underdogs, the experimentalists, the lovely weirdos — who or what might you get creative joy or energy from that others might not be aware of yet?
For the past few years, I have participated in National Poetry Writing Month, receiving a new prompt every day and dashing away spontaneously in response. I find myself writing in forms I would say I have no real interest in; writing on subjects or in ways I might not otherwise choose. My inner editor falls into a state of overwhelm and disappears. All of this moves me away from my usual habits for a few weeks. I emerge refreshed and amused. And I always get a couple of poems out of it that I want to work on further.
What are you working on now?
Editing for Hag Dances is happening this summer, so I’ll be working on that over the next few months. I have another collection in progress, meant to feel like one long poem, about what it means to be a settler on the land where I live at this time in my life. I’ve been working on that one for years. And I have an emerging collection simmering in the background about my daily unremarkable life as a queer polyamorous witch in the third stage of my life on the planet at this moment in human history. And then, there are a couple of efforts from April’s daily scribbles that I want to take another look at.
How or where or with what does a poem begin?
Most begin with a visual image, a stray comment, or a thought that stays with me, for whatever reason. I’m always fascinated to see where the writing will take me. I don’t usually know where the poem is heading until I’m in the middle of it.
Are there other art forms that inspire or inform your poetry?
Many: visual art, music, contemporary dance
How do you make space for poetry in your daily routine?
Daily routine has been elusive recently. Last year, in June, one of my partners was diagnosed with cancer. We are delighted that her treatment has been successful and her body is now free of cancer. Her recovery comes after a very intense year of care-giving during which she was very ill, and there were many minor and major emergencies. Meanwhile, my other partner’s father was declining rapidly. Her parents live in another part of the country. Physically, and emotionally, writing time has been hard to come by. But:
Every day in every season I go outside at some point in the day, notice something and then return to my journal and write a haiku. That much I can always do. A place of return; and a place to begin.
What are you reading or watching or listening to lately that intrigues or inspires you?
Well, this probably isn’t what you mean by this question, but these days it’s the garden. So much new plant and tree life is rising up and blooming, or fading, or being eaten by rabbits, chipmunks, squirrels, insects, birds. Luckily for us, the garden is abundant. At the moment, we have lots of rhubarb and kale and aromatic herbs. Strawberries and lettuce getting close.
Have you ever received advice (or has there been something you’ve learned on your own) about writing or revising poems that has made you a better poet? What was it?
I came to poetry after doing other things in my life. I am still receiving lots of advice that improves my work. I’m very fortunate to have a poetry group that meets every two weeks and that offers comments on much of my new work. Their fresh eyes and considerate reading are very helpful in assisting me to keep my poetry accessible to readers while still finding interesting ways to write.
How did you begin writing poetry? Was there a specific inspiration or reason?
I wrote my first poem at age 5. I still have it somewhere, misspelled in pencil:
Here it is:
My name is Susie Wismer
I want to have a dog
Although I continued to occasionally write poems for myself and my journal, I didn’t really start to work at it as a regular writing practice until about 10 years ago.
In terms of poetic style or craft, is there a big question you are trying to find an answer for?
How can I touch the deeper connective tissues, work with the vagus nerve of my life here on Earth? Always, it’s about how to connect with the essence of who I am and share that with others.