“Art Has the Power to Generate the Change We Seek”: An Interview with Thea Matthews

Thea Matthews is a Brooklyn-based poet. Born and raised in San Francisco, California, she is a first-year MFA candidate at NYU. She likes poems and playing with words. 

WSR:  How would you describe your experience as an MFA student in NYU’s program so far?

TM:  So far, so good. I really balked at applying to MFA programs. I had a lot of fear, apprehension, and trepidation regarding this whole experience. As a Black poet, coming from the “wrong side of the tracks” with different experiences, I was concerned about being a part of this. I thought, “No, I don’t want to institutionalize my craft, my experience as an artist. Will I be forced to read a plethora of old dead white people—many of whom are racists—and study them as if they’re gods, and then be deemed a poet afterwards?” There was also this fear of not being good enough. 

I come from a spoken word background. I immersed myself in the San Francisco Bay area literary arts world. In time, I critically engaged with the craft, and then also confronted the fears I had regarding the MFA experience—the horror stories that I heard. I asked myself: What is my purpose and intention for doing this? I was already in workshops, but I wanted to garner the legitimacy of being a poet, of being an author, as well as having the ability to teach.  

This is a whole new world. There are tiers of artistry, of art, of arts. Being in San Francisco, I was in an isolated bubble. I wanted to immerse myself in an environment, to solely focus on the craft, to write, meet new people, and to travel. 

Right now, working with Deborah Landau and Rachel Zucker, I have been met with so much respect and reverence for the craft. I was really struck by the degree of humility that we all exhibit. I’m not in a room full of egos. Workshops have a nurturing vibe—the focus is on ensuring the effectiveness of the poem. 

WSR:  What do you resist in your writing? And are you afraid of anything as a writer?

TM: I think resistance is rooted more so in fear and lack of practice rather than outright resistance. I resist sestinas and iambic pentameter. For the most part, everything’s fair game.

Prior to the MFA, I was on track to becoming a sociologist. So, I earned my BA in sociology at UC Berkeley. Solmaz Sharif got her BA in sociology then got her MFA at NYU, so I guess I’m trailing behind Solmaz. Having that scientific background, working as a qualitative researcher and believing strongly in the power of narrative—there isn’t a topic I am afraid of. In fact, I think I might be overly ambitious. Whether that's talking about child sexual abuse, violence in the home, systemic violence in this country or gentrification, I am strongly interested in vast social problems and then how to amend them. I do believe in the power of poetry, in the power of art. Art has the power to generate the change we seek. 

Regarding topics, I’m fearless. In terms of form, I’m afraid of the potential for translation or on relying on form as a container for the content. I definitely experiment with form, whether it's writing a duplex to honor Jericho Brown or looking at the trimeric form and playing with that for this longform piece I'm working on in Rachel Zucker’s class. I’m afraid of finding that alignment and relationship between form and content. I don't think that will ever go away. I think it’s a kind of practice, making sure the shoe fits.

WSR:  What projects are you working on now?

TM:  I’m working on a series of poems with one title. It’s like an anti-long poem. Would we say Terrance Hayes’ American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin is a long poem?

WSR:  I took a long poem seminar in my undergrad where we read Terrance Hayes’ American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin as a long poem. But I wondered, is it an anti-long poem? I feel like it's in that gray area.

TM:  I think it might be an anti-long poem. There’s no table of contents. It’s not this traditional, cohesive narration; each page is very fresh. 

Currently, I’m working on an anti-long poem titled “Americana.” In the poem, the American Flag is this symbolic centerpiece that serves as the entryway. It’s a commentary, an interrogation, a protest. What does it mean to be an American from the Black, indigenous perspective? What does it mean to have a flag when we know the history of this country? Where do we go from here? What is needed for reparations? 

I wanted a form that matched the flag. I used the trimeric form, which is 13 lines. The poem has 13 rows, red and white, as originally there were 13 stars for 13 colonies. The trimeric form uses repetition to build momentum in the piece, which can create multiple directions for the poem to go while keeping it contained within a block of text. I’m hoping to have a total of 50 to match the 50 stars. 13 line poetic form, 50 in terms of total blocks of texts. That was my original intent. I almost want to call it an anti-love poem too. But it’s an anti-long poem.

I’m also working on this other manuscript I started before my MFA experience called (GRIM)E. The manuscript looks at Metropolitan dissonance, grappling with the loss of a city to gentrification, loss of friends and lovers to overdoses, suicide. It provides a series of snapshots on the grim grime of urban life.

WSR:  What does literary success look like to you?

TM:  For me, people reading and studying my work is a form of literary success. Developing a new form or relying on a traditional one but then still making it my own and having that be of interest to others is success. Releasing bodies of work that are diverse in craft, experience, and content. It's easy to focus on the shiny: “Award X” or New York Times bestseller. I think we need to be asking: Does my work contribute to the evolving literary landscape? Am I writing something that’s timely, something that can be used to help someone? Am I fulfilling my duty to be of service to the people as a poet? 

I think it’s looking beyond monetary satisfaction. In this era of social media, you see these anti-poets or writers labeled “poets,” who have millions of followers, work that caters to self-help and is highly marketable. Whereas many others, whose work is prolific and profound, are not getting that degree of attention. It’s lopsided, in many ways. You come out with a highly marketable book, strong product, it’s trending. Now you’re successful. Is that enough?

It’s interesting to see, being here, among so many brilliant poets, what truly matters. As a poet, who am I writing for? Who do I hope sees this? And where does it matter most? I may not have won an award for the first book I wrote, but I received a message from a survivor of sexual violence, who told me my work resonated with her. That, to me, indicates I’m on the right path. Does it change the world? Does it change a person’s life? These are my barometers for success as a poet.