Özge Lena is an Istanbul-based poet. Her poems have appeared in the UK, USA, Canada, Iceland, Serbia, France, and beyond She was nominated twice and shortlisted four times by international poetry prizes.
AP: What are you working on currently?
OL: Thank you for inviting me to your series, Alan. Currently, I’m working on an ecopoetry collection, which excites me quite a lot.
AP: What inspired you to start your current project, and what message or impact do you hope it will have on your readers?
OL: Ecopoetics, with its strong emphasis on a more-than-human perspective, has been an enchanting field for me from the beginning because, in this epoch of collapse, I believe human beings need to understand that the world does not revolve around us; we are not apart from anything or any being on earth, we are just a part, but a perilous bit, and that not everything has to be anthropomorphised.
AP: Can you describe the journey of bringing your latest work to life? What were some of the key challenges and triumphs along the way?
I have written fiction in my mother tongue for many years; I even have a published novella titled Otopsi (Can Yayınları, 4th edition) in Turkish. However, after a speech in which I had the privilege of accompanying Marina Warner to a writing festival in Istanbul, along with her precious heartening, I decided to write poetry in English in 2020. Although I’m an English language teacher, I have had to teach myself the language of poetry from scratch by reading, writing, taking courses, joining workshops, and studying day and night like crazy. English is my second language, but I’ve never seen that as a setback but as a unique feature. So, here I am, as a poet with more than a hundred poems published across seven countries, as a poet nominated twice and shortlisted four times for international poetry prizes. And now, I’m dying to touch a book of poetry with my name on it.
AP: How do you approach the process of developing a poem from initial idea to final draft?
OL: With excitement that makes my heart beat in my mouth and with passion that makes my bones tremble. When I catch a good poem, I hold it like it is the most treasured thing in the whole world, because it no doubt is.
AP: What themes or topics are you most passionate about exploring in your poetry, and why?
OL: Language, ecology, catastrophes, myths and fairy tales, paradoxes and dilemmas, and seeking the self through art are the areas I’m truly passionate about because I believe that these are the things that really matter in life.
AP: How do you see your work contributing to the larger literary community?
OL: My poetry, hopefully, is opening new windows to the world and new mirrors to the self.
AP: What role does feedback from peers or editors play in shaping your poetry?
OL: I haven’t received much feedback so far, but when it happens, I take it very seriously. My poetic instincts always come first, but if it fits into my heart and mind, I use the feedback as a tool to improve my poetry.
AP: Can you share an experience where a piece of feedback significantly altered the direction of one of your poems?
OL: I can’t remember one.
AP: What do you believe are the most important qualities a press or editor should have when working with poets?
OL: A press and/or an editor working with poets should certainly have a wide hinterland of art in a broad sense, along with an obsession with details, especially the small ones. I also expect them to be timely, and completely honest about the work with a supportive attitude.
AP: How can presses like The Broken Spine better support poets and their creative processes?
OL: By giving poets a voice just like you do at the moment, Alan! This is my first interview as a poet, and I’m absolutely happy to be here.
AP: In what ways do you feel the writing community is currently lacking, and what changes would you like to see to address these gaps?
OL: Oh, I can’t think of any lacking parts of the community; everyone I know is quite kind and supportive.
AP: What do you most appreciate about the current writing community, and how do you think we can build on these strengths?
OL: I do love that one poet’s happiness on a finished poem, for example, or an inspiration, an acceptance, an award, etc. quickly spreads to the others, and the same goes for sorrow. Being there for others in good and bad times is very significant, as far as I’ve observed.
AP: Can you discuss a particular poet or literary figure who has significantly influenced your work?
OL: It is very hard to name only one poet… Then, I’ll say Joy Harjo. Like her, I have some horses I love and some horses I hate, and these are mostly the “same horses” written by me, line by line, by my poet self, stripping the psyche completely.
AP: How do you balance the artistic and practical aspects of being a poet, such as creative expression and the need for promotion?
OL: I use social media to promote my work and to keep in touch with the poetry community. However, every poet knows that, at the end of the day, writing comes first. The stellar joy of making a poem I like is always above anything that belongs to the outer world.
AP: What advice would you give to emerging poets who are looking to find their voice and audience?
OL: Write. Write your poems like life on earth depends on them, because someone’s life does, probably yours. Follow other poets’ footprints in the dark forest of poetry; read like their words are made of water, read thirstily. Then follow your instincts, follow your nose, and follow your true self. We are fragile creatures, and the blank page is a silent beast holding the charm of other worlds. Go to your beast every day and fall in love with it; sleep with it, wake up with it—whatever you do, do not ever give up writing.
Now, an original poem from Özge
Tongue-Eating Parasite
The sun is a pus-globe in the sepia sky,
the air is coming down to puncture the lungs.
The army is in the streets distributing plastic gas
masks, the townspeople are silent because they’ve run
out of their tongue for this fall of weather as every attempt
to name a disaster falls back into rust and dust, as every word
to utter about a catastrophe rejects its meaning by transmorphing
into an uncanny familiarity, then the language morphs into a parasite
that they have fed for years, that creeps into a fish through its gills,
crawls up past the throat to the mouth, and clamps its sharp legs
on the fish’s tongue, savouring it by cutting blood vessels first,
until the tongue withers away, soon it falls off. Yet the fish
doesn’t die when the parasite replaces itself as the new
tongue, it simply uses it like a shiny prosthetic organ.
