Patrick Lawler has published three collections of poetry: A Drowning Man is Never Tall Enough by the University of Georgia Press (1990), (reading a burning book) by Basfal Books (1994), and Feeding the Fear of the Earth (2006) winner of the Many Mountains Moving Poetry Competition. He has also been awarded fellowships by the New York State Foundation for the Arts (1989 & 1999), the National Endowment of the Arts (1991), and the Constance Saltonstall Foundation for the Arts (2001).
Patrick Lawler (pat-rik law-ler) [Insert diacritical marks] n. 1. Patrick [from Latin patricius] Noble. 2. Lawler [from Gaelic] Mumbler. 3. Noble Mumbler.
In addition, he has had poetry and fiction appear in over one hundred journals including American Letters & Commentary, American Poetry Review, Central Park, The Iowa Review, Ironwood, Many Mountains Moving, Minnesota Review, Shenandoah, Nimrod, Northwest Review, Southern Humanities Review, Sou'wester, and Turnrow.His poetry has been translated into Russian and Dutch, and his most recent publications include DIAGRAM, Slope, Melic Review, Fringe, The Bitter Oleander, Black Clock, McSweeney's and Court Green.
Various occupations include family eulogist, hammerer of nails, collector of bright objects. In addition, he has been an eater of flame and a careful sipper of luminosity.
An Associate Professor at SUNY College of Environmental Science and Forestry, he is Director of the Writing Program and teaches Environmental Writing and Nature Literature. In addition, he teaches playwriting, scriptwriting, fiction, and poetry at LeMoyne College. Last year he was the Ecopoetry Editor for Many Mountains Moving, and this year he is the Drama Editor.
As a hagiologist, he has found it impossible to distinguish between pain and light. Thus, he found it agonizing to look too long at the stars--though it was always impossible for him to look away, even for a moment. At some point, as one of his major achievements, he intends to nail all the Patrick Lawlers together.
He has been working on a variety of projects from experiments in poetry to performance art, from art collaborations with a variety of artists to playwriting. He has completed a novel, various collections of poetry, a book of essays, and a manuscript of short stories. Eventually he expects to have a collection of dust.
In the future, he will no doubt try out various names. And a variety of professions surely await him: shamanic skydiver, eco-alchemist, transvestite magician, Patrick Lawler impersonator. He has dedicated himself to searching through all the mundane truths for the most illuminating lies.
As a young man he rode a horse. He rode a horse until he became the horse he was riding. This Patrick Lawler doesn't have a lot to say. Still, this is the moment toward which he is traveling.
PBR: Maybe you could start us off by addressing those earlier influences that have led you to the kind of poetry and fiction you're writing today.
PL: I could pretend that I had many rich literary influences at a young age--ones that permanently inspired me, goaded me, stained me. But there are other influences that I can never shake, that I will always wear, and that will always wear me--like a dusty coat.
As a child I lived in a cellar for seven years. We had intended to live in a house like everyone else, but my father broke his back and only the cellar was finished. So for seven years we lived inside an unfinished life with a tarpaper roof and small rectangles for windows. We lived inside the shadow of a house. When I talk to people about the cellar no one understands. The cellar is not a metaphor. The cellar is dirt turned into a beautiful scar. My fundamental connection to the earth is far more resonant than most. You see the world differently when you look out a cellar window. I cannot help it--in everything I write there is a cellar.
I rarely believe in the above, but I adamantly cling to my faith in the beneath.
In those days, I wanted to be something, but my destiny was to be a root. Because my father told me not to eat, so my siblings would have more to eat, I substituted writing for food. Writing was my house.
There was an animal that lived with us, and it was scary and it was hope.
Because we didn't have any books, we didn't have any words, and because we didn't have any words, I started writing my own dictionary. Everything that I have ever written has come from a box of words I wrote when I was young--even what I am writing now was waiting for me in the box.
The following poem was selected from his feature:
The Psychiatrist's Mother
Because my mother is having some problems with care, I bring her to work. At first it makes my patients feel uncomfortable when she lies on the couch with them. But then they have this overwhelming desire to be unburdened. "Last night I had a dream," one says. "So did I," says my mother.
Eventually the point comes when she announces, "Hey, I had a chance to live my life and I botched it up pretty good. Now I think that's earned me the right to tell you how to live your life."
Sometimes she says things that resemble wisdom, "What good is a hammer in a world without nails?" The patients always seem relieved. Eventually they grow used to her being there and look forward to what she has to say.
Sometimes I offer a suggestion, and they ask, "What do you think, Mrs. Abbott?" She always replies, "I think all three of us know that won't work."
When they call her mom, I start sobbing.
