Rodrigo Toscano Featured at Tupelo Quarterly

Henk Rossouw spends time with Rodrigo Toscano (and his poems) at Tupelo Quarterly. Toscano's latest collection is Explosion Rocks Springfield (Fence, 2016) but In Range is forthcoming from Counterpath. Rossouw foregrounds their lengthy interview, explaining that, "Originally, from San Diego, and after 16 years, in Brooklyn, NY, this will be [Toscano's] 4th year in New Orleans." More: 

Henk Rossouw: I’m curious about the form of the poems in your forthcoming book, In Range. The voice is, to use your own phrase, “aggressively vernacular.” Looking back at the process of writing this book, what was going on for you in the world at large—and your relation to the world—during its composition? Would Audre Lorde’s concept of self-preservation as an act of political warfare apply here, given the consequences of the 2016 election, or do you see the fierce domesticity of In Range in another light altogether?

Rodrigo Toscano: Ok! You’ve landed on the very nexus of the project. Let’s begin with the title of the book, In Range. What indeed is “in range”? What can be thought or felt to be out of range? In Bluetooth technology, for example, when an apparatus is too far from the signal producing instrument, a robotic voice reminds us, “out of range.” We can come up with dozens of ways to describe the concept of being “in range”, right? We can think of it as spatiality in general, or an inter-personal zone of consequence, or even something regarding social relations at large. Alright, so, the title actually references the genesis of the project. That is, what was truly “in range” for me at that time – what concerns, feelings, thoughts, speculations about life in general; what was the signal through the noise. Well, from the get go all of the poems were set in and around the perimeter of my actual house. This is rather strange coming from a writer whose political ideal is to be as global as possible. It seems like what spoke to me at that time were mainly actual tasks to do around the house. But also, The World is rendered sensible there — as a pressure from the Big Outside, as temptation to be jostled by it. One thing for sure: I was hell bent on being strictly In Range.

You see, for three years before this project, my pen had fallen completely silent. The relentless din of the political surround had worn me down. That, coupled with a spate of illnesses, I had all but sworn off what I deemed to be sheer indulgence of vanities. Anytime I would contemplate writing – for even a second, I’d psychically blurt out “bullshit!” “more refuse!” “more hysteria pumped into a wrecked world.” I was near the Zero Hour. But somewhere in the middle of that meandering fog, I picked up a book here in New Orleans by an author I wasn’t yet aware of. That was Everette Maddox.  The book cover alluded to Maddox’s legendary, albeit ghostly reputation here in New Orleans. Described as a kind of bum poet, who was at the same time, actually, quite erudite. Here was a poet who had embraced the lowest levels of existence, and from those regions managed to pen tiny poems that in no way would ever be lauded by any official, or sub-official poetry world. I paged through the book, and poem after poem really spoke to me in my bedraggled condition. Everything was so stripped down. I investigated on my own into his actual whereabouts. The nooks he slept in. The benches he’d sit at. And of course, the bar that he would haunt for the remainder of his life, The Maple Leaf Bar (they actually have his ashes buried in the outdoor back area, and a little plaque that reads “Everette Maddox – he was mess.”) This brief fixation with Maddox faded after about a month or so. Then on April 15th of last year, I woke up feeling really disoriented from a bad night of sleep, and as is my habit, I slinked into my warm bathtub (I usually read books in different languages for an hour each morning). Of a sudden, I reached for a pad and sketched out six teeny poems in a row, meant for my consumption alone. And from there, I kept writing every morning. By May 15th, I had 80 poems. When I reached the last poem, “Ants”, I absolutely knew without question that it was the last poem. It all felt as if I was writing my very last book. It was bare bones, existential, at times sad, at times funny. The poems are in plain speech and simple in form (mainly free verse tercets, with a few couplets thrown in). Every poem, without exception, tackles a paradox either about Living, Doing, or Thinking. But does the book hone to Lourde’s concept of “self-preservation as an act of political warfare?” I would have to honestly say, yes. But it also seems like a calm before a storm. I’m feeling very feisty again, ready to pounce.

Read on at Tupelo Quarterly.