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Behind the Byline

Danielle Cadena Deulen

April 21, 2023

Photo by Sean Patrick

NER managing editor Leslie Sainz talks with contributor Danielle Cadena Deulen about formal contrast, speculation and POV, and the private language of water in her poems “Lake Box” and “Stalemate” from issue 44.1.


Leslie Sainz: Let’s start by discussing form. Your poem “Lake Box” is a narrow, 16-line prose poem that contains just two sentences. In my reading of the poem, I see a humanity cleaving to the remnants of the natural world post climate point of no return, often via simulation. I’m fascinated by the relationship between syntax, form, and subject in this work. How did you conceive of pairing a musical, protracted lyric with the cell-like physicality of the poem? 

Danielle Cadena Deulen: Thank you for such a considerate reading. The poem actually started with the title, which dictated the form, since I knew it had to be in a box! The box shape is so antithetical to what we think of when we think of the roundish, organic form of a lake. It seems somehow sadder and more alien to place a lake—or even the idea of a lake—into right angles. I wanted the poem’s structure to have the sense that it was holding water—a lyric fluidity (with sentences that seemed abundant and cohesive) that contrasted with its constraining shape.

I don’t normally begin my writing process with titling, but in this case, the title came first. I came across it while I was cleaning my child’s room and found a bizarre drawing that rendered the words “Lake Box” in smudged letters so that it looked like the words were evaporating. I thought immediately how it reminded me of Ed Ruscha’s art. I’ll attach an image of it here so you can see what I mean. I set it aside, but didn’t throw it away—kept thinking of it as I cleaned the rest of the room: how “Lake Box” combined the natural and unnatural, how the phrase embodied Capitalism’s tendency to consume the natural in order to replace it with a manufactured approximation (field to pavement, air to smog), or a more entertaining, replicable, sellable version of the original (ocean in a bottle). It seemed ripe for exploring how even the most elemental things in our lives might be commodified and/or replaced in the future. I was so obsessed I even jaunted out of the room for a minute to post my kid’s drawing on social media; I wanted to know if it had the same resonance with others. When I was done cleaning the room, I sat down at my desk and wrote this title at the top of the page, then the first draft of this poem. 

LS: I’m always impressed when a poem wields the first-person plural with deftness and stability. To me, this perspective seems inseparable from the element of time, especially in “Lake Box,” with lines like “How these days will arrive to us later, later . . .” and “The eyes of the world forever closed, we’ll say . . .” capturing the tension between individual or collective agency and predetermination. What does this POV afford a poem? What does it take away?

DCD: Yes, indeed: the temporality and POV are linked in this poem, since I’m imagining not just my individual future (like César Vallejo’s poem “I will die in Paris, on a rainy day”) but a collective American future. In this way, it might fall under the category of “speculative poetry” (now I’m thinking of Tracy K. Smith’s “Sci-Fi” and Elizabeth Lindsay Rogers’s “Columbus, Mars”). All literature of speculation, I think, implies a “we” in its imagining. It’s a way of saying, “I see what we’re doing now and this is where I think it will lead us.” The poem begins in the implied present with a consideration of what we are currently losing from the earth but moves swiftly into the future via an imaginative journey where we end at the most distant point: in the purely theoretical. To end a poem in pure thought when it began in a discussion of the material world—the physical magic of lakes—implies the trajectory we are on as a species: that we’re so invested in the idea of Capitalism that we seem to be willing to let go of the physical world entirely. But I like the physical world. I’ve had a lot of beautiful days and evenings swimming in lakes. I don’t want the future I’m imagining, and I suspect no one else does either. The collective POV asks us all to consider where we’re heading together. Of course, using this POV is tricky: I’m assuming so much about the values and lives of my audience—in the first place, that they will be willing to play along and imagine themselves as part of the “we,” or if they’ll feel immediate defensive at having been brought into the poem and refuse the experience of it outright. If they refuse the experience, then they also refuse the rhetoric, of course, and the poem fails in what it was trying to achieve.

LS: Both “Stalemate” and “Lake Box” are profoundly elemental poems in which the element of water is ubiquitous. Whether evoked through the concrete images of a lake, a puddle, a canal, or rain, water seems to be both an emotional texture and an envoy to the more theoretical aspects of these poems. In your own private language, what does the image of water carry and conjure?

DCD: What a beautiful question. I can’t say that anyone has asked me about my own private language of water before. I think of water as the most powerful element on earth—capable of creating and sustaining life but also capable of catastrophic destruction (floods, hurricanes, tsunamis). I also think of it as something quite external to me: I’m not a watery person. If we’re talking elemental characteristics here, I’m probably all earth and fire: my energies tend to be volcanic, for better or for worse. Perhaps that’s why I’m always literally thirsty, and why I tend to be drawn to water and “watery” people: it’s something I feel I lack, so tend to seek out. At the same time, feeling too saturated makes me mushy and ineffective and terribly depressed. I grew up in the Northwest, which is basically a cold rainforest. When I think of my childhood, I think of the rain and the rain and the rain—a melancholic oversaturation of everything. I saw The Neverending Story when I was a girl and whenever I’m sunk in a depression, I always think of that scene in The Swamp of Sadness when Atreyu’s horse Artax loses hope and drowns. How’s that for a high lyric reference! Anyway, when I moved away from Oregon, I moved to the desert—to New Mexico to “dry out.” I think, without really being able to articulate it, I wanted and needed the experience of missing water.

I love your observation of water in my work as an “emotional texture” and “envoy” to abstraction. That seems exactly right to me. I’m thinking of several poems that align water with thought, but especially Elizabeth Bishop’s “At the Fishhouses,” which ends: “It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: / dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, / drawn from the cold hard mouth / of the world…” So, there’s my educated association. And while I can get on board with this metaphor, I think its equally plausible to think of water as pure feeling: powerful, vulnerable, responsive, weighty, mutable, impossible to ignore. But thinking of water as a “texture” and “envoy” seems even more perfect. Water is a natural symbol of transition—it holds us in the womb, it cleans us, carries us, keeps us alive. The crossing of a river in a story always means a great shift in the protagonist’s lot. In Greek mythology, Charon carries souls from earth into the underworld across the river Styx. I also think of it as the most sensual of the elements. It’s probably true of all forms of water, though there’s something about a lake specifically that I associate with contained desire. When I think of lakes I immediately think of swimming nude at night. It’s probably no mistake that the poem ends with us all undressing and lying in what’s left of our idea of a lake, in what is perhaps the saddest skinny-dip of all time. 

LS: Your third full-length poetry collection, Desire Museum, is forthcoming this fall from BOA Editions. How are the themes, mythologies, and windows of “Stalemate” and “Lake Box” representative, or not, of this larger work?

DCD: Thanks for asking about my new collection. It’s the first book I’ve published in seven years, so I’m ridiculously excited about it. Each section of Desire Museum focuses on a different aspect of desire, which I think of as a catalyst for so many other emotional experiences: romantic longing, of course, but also a sense of hope, ambition, devotion, infatuation, mania, supplication, greed, rapture, etc. Desire is always an aspiration of some kind—a dream of fulfillment. The collection aims to explore what happens when that desire is thwarted, the fulfillment never attained. The first section focuses on the psychological and political traps of desire—what we will allow for ourselves and others while inside our obsessions. The second section is a series of sapphic love poems that explores erotic love, female embodiment, and the transformative power of desire. “Lake Box” is representative of the themes of the third section of the book, which centers on the climate crisis. It expands the idea of “desire” to consider what we, as humans on this hurt planet, want and need for our future. In this poem, you can see how the idea of a lake becomes a longing that cannot be fulfilled, so is commodified. “Stalemate” is from the elegiac fourth section, which meditates on grief and how to accept radical loss. This poem falls right after the longest, densest work in the book, “Museum,” a lyric essay which will be published in Seneca Review and meditates on the suicide of a friend. In “Stalemate,” I tried to illustrate our closeness, how his presence remains a part of my psyche—but formally, I needed it to appear much lighter than the poem that came before it to give readers a visual break. I needed it to “float” on the page. When I stumbled upon this dreamy, fluid form, it felt right. I think of it as a hinge poem in the book, one that turns from grief toward acceptance. 

LS: To risk a water pun, what kept you afloat as you were writing these poems? What sustains your creative practice more generally?

DCD: The quick answer is that art sustains my practice—and I mean that in all its forms. Creativity is my favorite attribute of humanity and when I can’t think of anything to say for myself, I love attending to what others have to say: reading, listening to new music, going to art exhibits, watching film, etc. Although, honestly, the time I have for these activities has been greatly protracted since having children…

Desire Museum was seven years in the making. This is the slowest I’ve ever written a book. This is due in part to the emotional and temporal dedication that parenthood requires. But beyond that, these years have been a time of profound change. In part, I’m referring to the events and revelations that have affected people on a national/global scale: the climate crisis, the U.S.-Mexico border crisis, the opioid crisis, the fight for racial justice, the fight for women’s rights, the pandemic, and the moral insanity of our politicians. On a personal level, I’m referring to the births of my children, the deaths of five loved ones, and striding into my forties with a deep sense of regret—not for my actions but for my inaction—for what I hadn’t accomplished and who I didn’t love better. 

I don’t process things quickly. In real life, I’m absurdly incompetent in moments of great emotional weight—overreacting or underreacting—because I often don’t know how I feel until long after. It took a long time to understand how to unravel these experiences from discrete moments of grief or rage or joy into the larger narrative of my life, and then it took still longer to understand how to write them for an audience. That’s my aim, anyway: to find something useful to say about the experience of living, to build a connection to other humans. With so much shifting under my feet, I’m hesitant to claim, in retrospect, any particular practice that sustained me, except this: sitting with my own silence and listening to the voices of others. I know that might seem counterintuitive to work that draws from autobiographical material. But I take solace in the fact that mine isn’t the only voice, so I don’t have to have all the answers. When the world feels confusing or overwhelming, I incubate in an attentive silence. I listen and wait.


Leslie Sainz is the author of the debut poetry collection Have You Been Long Enough at Table, forthcoming from Tin House in September 2023. The daughter of Cuban exiles, she is the recipient of a 2021 National Endowment for the Arts Poetry Fellowship. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Academy of American Poets’ Poem-a-Day, the Yale Review, New England Review, Kenyon Review, Narrative, and elsewhere. A three-time National Poetry Series finalist, she’s received scholarships, fellowships, and honors from CantoMundo, The Miami Writers Institute, The Adroit Journal, and The Stadler Center for Poetry & Literary Arts at Bucknell University. She is the managing editor of the New England Review.

Danielle Cadena Deulen is an author, professor, and podcast host. Her latest poetry collection, Desire Museum, is forthcoming from BOA Editions in fall 2023. Her previous books include two poetry collections, Lovely Asunder (University of Arkansas Press, 2011) and Our Emotions Get Carried Away Beyond Us (Barrow Street, 2015), and a memoir, The Riots (University of Georgia Press, 2011). She is co-creator and host of Lit from the Basement, a poetry podcast, and teaches for the graduate creative writing program at Georgia State University in Atlanta.

Filed Under: Featured, News & Notes Tagged With: Danielle Cadena Deulen, Leslie Sainz

NER Interns: Where are they now?

Kaylen Baker

April 7, 2023

Image: Kaylen Baker

Editorial intern Jordan Kramarsky ’23 talks with former NER intern Kaylen Baker ’12 about the pliability of language, translation as method acting, and the importance of literary community.


Jordan Kramarsky: Where are you now, geographically and professionally?

Kaylen Baker: I live in Paris and work as a translator—by day. By night, I’m working on the manuscript of what I hope will become my first book of stories. I should add (because I know my college self would have wondered how I got here) that my path has been quite meandering. In France alone I’ve worked in several public schools as an English teacher, at a natural wine bar, at an independent French publishing company, and for my own translation micro-business.  

JK: You’ve studied and worked as a translator and a creative writer; how do these disciplines inform each other?

KB: Intricately! I came to translation through creative writing, by taking a creative translation workshop with Susan Bernofsky during my M.F.A. I loved Susan’s idea that anyone who writes can try their hand at translation, so long as they have a rudimentary knowledge of another language and the writing skills to reconstruct the author’s voice in their own language. Creative writing teaches you to be daring. To mimic and borrow and bend. You learn how pliable language is by writing. In those ways, it gives you all the skills you need to disguise yourself as the foreign doppelgänger of another writer. Creative writing informs the last editing round of translation in particular, when you need to unpin the work from the original and see if it stands on its own. In a way, translation is the reverse of writing, and very mathematical—the sum (or story) is already laid out, you just need to reconstruct it through another formula. Translation relies more on rules rather than rhythm and intuition. It has informed my writing by making me more consistent and detail-oriented. Maybe too rigid—I’ve become an inadvertent fan of the oxford comma. But discovering new writing techniques by translating French writers has been rewarding.

JK: What do you read for pleasure? Have you read anything good lately?

KB: Mostly fiction, though last year, in the throes of climate despair, I read Being a Human by Charles Foster. It’s an odd, mystic, maybe controversial take on our species’ history. Yet it allowed me to imagine what it was like to live 40,000 years ago as a hunter-gatherer and made me rethink how integral stories and metaphors are to our state of existence. Somehow, it gave me some closure on my fears of impending doom. Otherwise, some splendid reads have included Trust Exercise by Susan Choi, When I Sing, Mountains Dance, by Irene Solà, and Mona by Pola Oloixarac.

JK: What do you love about the translation process? What does your process look like?


Kaylen during her time as a Literary Studies major at Middlebury College.

KB: Well, I admit I don’t love the first draft! It’s stiff and slow-going, almost forensic. My text ends up covered in red markings and highlights and bracketed comments as I look up definitions and synonyms and try out various combinations of words. In the subsequent drafts I start making choices, giving myself the freedom to select what I like, what I believe works. The draft I love comes next, when I use more of the creative writing brain, approaching the text as if it’s my own, and focusing more on how it sounds out loud. I’ve heard at this stage some translators will go into method-acting mode, swiping on lipstick to get in the mind of, say, Clarice Lispector . . .

JK: When were you an intern at NER, and what do you remember about it? Did your experience influence your current field? 

KB: I have some nice memories from reading submissions. There’s something really tender about that experience, being the first set of eyes on a stranger’s story. I remember microwaving mugs of water for tea, and trying to understand how my co-interns were already so worldly and eloquent! I think it’s important for anyone interested in literature to be around people who work in it and care for it with a fierce passion. Finding people who protect a space where fictive worlds can thrive becomes more rare after college, so knowing back then that this space can exist and matters to others was very influential.

JK: Any advice for readers looking to pursue creative writing professionally?

KB: Read, read, read! And write. As much as possible—that’s when it becomes easier to jump back inside the story/book/manuscript without needing to mentally resurrect all the scaffolding. Don’t be afraid of rejection. Notice what’s working and which ideas get you into a groove. Have some friends who write. None of this is particularly related to the professional world of writing, I suppose. But I think it remains true for even the most established writers. At every stage, the writing life is an intimate one.

Filed Under: Featured, Interns, News & Notes, Where Are They Now Tagged With: Jordan Kramarsky, Kaylen Baker

New Books by NER Authors

March 2023 (Part 2)

March 31, 2023

Say farewell to March with part two of our author book roundup! We’re closing out the month with five new poetry titles, and a collection of climate-oriented speculative fiction. Be sure to shop these and other books by NER authors on our Bookshop.org page.

Tanya, Brenda Shaughnessy’s sixth collection of poetry, is out now from Knopf. Dwelling in the memories of the women who set her on her artistic path, Tanya is intimacy embodied. Shaughnessy is the recipient of a 2018 Literature Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Her poem “A Mix Tape: The Hit Singularities” appeared in NER 36.4.

Ina Cariño’s sensorial debut poetry collection, Feast, released earlier this month from Alice James Books. Described as “a whole literary event” by fellow NER author Aimee Nezhukumatathil, Feast won the 2021 Alice James Award and Cariño a 2022 Whiting Award in Poetry. Their poem “Bitter Melon,” which appeared in NER 40.3, was accompanied by a “Behind the Byline” interview.

Hot off the press from Vintage is Allegra Hyde’s highly anticipated short story collection, The Last Catastrophe. These hopeful, speculative narratives wrestle with with a world transformed by climate change and “global weirding.” Hyde’s short story “Shark Fishing” appeared in issue 35.4 and was discussed in a “Behind the Byline” interview with the author.

I Feel Fine by Olivia Muenz—winner of the 2022 Gatewood Prize—is out now courtesy of Switchback Books. Prize judge Julie Carr called the work “shockingly original, haunting and strange . . . At once novelistic and radically fragmented, achingly confessional and austerely technical.” Muenz’s work is forthcoming in New England Review.

New from Yale University Press comes Mary-Alice Daniel’s Mass for Shut-Ins, the 117th volume of Yale Series of Younger Poets. Drawing on African and Western systems of myth and ritual, Daniel confronts tricontinental culture shock and her curious placement within many worlds in this strikingly original debut. Her poem “A Southern Way of Talking About Love” was published in issue 33.4.

Matthew Thorburn’s book-length sequence of poems, String, is out now from LSU Press. String tells the story of a teenage boy’s experiences in war time and its aftermath. Poet Michael Dumanis called the work “a stirring bravura performance, a love song and a song of war, a chronicle of damage, a testament to our capacity for perseverance.” Thorburn’s work has appeared in several issues of NER, most recently issue 38.1.

Find more books by NER authors on our Bookshop.org page.

Filed Under: Featured, NER Authors' Books, News & Notes Tagged With: Allegra Hyde, Brenda Shaughnessy, Ina Cariño, Mary-Alice Daniel, Matthew Thorburn, Olivia Muenz

New Books by NER Authors

March 2023 (Part 1)

March 29, 2023

March has been a busy month for New England Review authors! Part one of our author book roundup includes a collection of sonnets, a gut-wrenching account of the American healthcare system, and much more. Don’t forget to shop these and other titles on our Bookshop.org page.

Sophie Klahr’s collection of sonnets, Two Open Doors in a Field, is out now from Backwaters Press. Poet Mark Doty calls the collection “exhilarating and restless, as scrupulous in its attention to our little roads and highways as it is to our longings.” Klahr’s poem “Tree of Life” recently appeared in NER 43.3.

Celadon Books just released Laura Spence-Ash’s highly-anticipated debut novel Beyond That, the Sea. Author Meg Wolitzer writes, “Beyond That, the Sea is a shimmering dive into a lost past. With deft, beautiful prose, Laura Spence-Ash brings us into the worlds—both inner and outer—of two families in wartime, and over the years that follow. This novel is as haunting as it is accomplished.” Spence-Ash‘s short story “Desire Lines” appeared in NER 38.2.

From From by celebrated poet Monica Youn is out now from Graywolf Press. From From has been praised as “intimate yet expansive, [bringing] remarkable depth, candor, and intensity to personal and social history” (Publishers Weekly). Youn’s work has appeared in multiple issues of NER, most recently issue 37.1. Her poem “25th & Dolores” was an online selection from NER 22.3.

Catherine Gammon’s latest novel, The Martyrs, the Lovers, released on March 12 from 55 Fathoms Publishing. Loosely based on the life and death of the German Green Party founder and activist Petra Kelly with her partner Gert Bastian, the book’s poetic language is as beautiful as it is provoking. Gammon’s short story “Invocation” was featured in NER 39.1 and discussed by the author in a “Behind the Byline” interview. 

Hot off the press from Tin House Books is Charif Shanahan‘s Trace Evidence. An affecting follow-up to his award-winning debut Into Each Room We Enter without Knowing, Shanahan continues his piercing meditations on the intricacies of mixed-race identity, queer desire, time, mortality, and the legacies of anti-Blackness in the US and abroad. Shanahan’s poem “Worthiness” appeared in NER 42.1 and was discussed by the poet in a “Behind the Byline” interview.

Ricardo Nuila’s debut novel, The People’s Hospital: Hope and Peril in American Medicine, is now out from Scribner. Fellow NER author Javier Zamora noted, “Ricardo Nuila has achieved the impossible: writing a comprehensive, personal, and gut-wrenching account of the American healthcare system.” Nuila was the inaugural winner of the New England Review Award for Emerging Writers, and his short story “At the Bedside,” published in issue 35.1, was featured in Best American Short Stories 2015. 

Find more books by NER authors on our Bookshop.org page.

Filed Under: Featured, NER Authors' Books, News & Notes Tagged With: Catherine Gammon, Charif Shanahan, Laura Spence-Ash, Monica Youn, Ricardo Nuila, Sophie Klahr

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Vol. 44, No. 1

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“On the other hand, Polish society—under cultural pressure from the ‘rotten West’ (as Putin puts it)—is rapidly becoming increasingly tolerant. In short: the Church is losing the battle to Netflix.”

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