Mureall Hebert lives near Seattle. Her work can be found in Carve, Hobart, [PANK], among others. She’s been nominated for Best New Poets, a Pushcart Prize, and was a finalist in Split Rock Press’s 2020 chapbook contest. She holds an MFA from NILA.

Mureall’s poem “Thirty-Two Miles West of the Edge of the Sea” appears in the Spring 2021 issue of Carve. Order print here or download here to read.

I am so happy "Thirty-Two Miles West of the Edge of the Sea" has a home with Carve. I have to say, the final line of your poem gave me quite the punch—and I loved it. What do you like about poetry and what is a successful poem to you?

I’m thrilled to have my poem in Carve. 

Poetry fascinates me because of its intensity. There’s such complexity in these rich-but-compact offerings that you can’t help but savor them. It’s like the most sublime bite of dark chocolate, a shot of espresso, a walk through the woods at dusk, or a sip of ruby port. Poetry is an immersive experience in a way that longer pieces of work sometimes struggle to maintain. There’s the visual aspect of the poem, the way the words feel in the mouth when spoken, and the layers of meaning, all within a brief selection of words.

When writing, I don’t feel satisfied with a poem until it hits the mark on all these levels, even if that means giving the work distance before coming back to reimagine it. As a reader, I love that moment when the poet has woven their words together in such a way that it stops me in my tracks. It’s like opening up a tiny giftbox to find you’ve unleashed a dragon. I’ve oftentimes spent days marveling over a particular phrasing I’ve read, returning to it again and again. The idea that someone might feel that way about something I’ve written is the most delightful gift I could be given.

The final line of your poem is powerful and authoritative, contrasting themes of fate, death, and presence. I'm really interested to hear what you have to say about authority or power-shifts in poetry. How do you build it as a writer, and how does it affect you as a reader?

I love how you reference fate, death, and presence in relationship to power and authority. There’s such strength in all three of those concepts, as well as the possibility of cataclysmic power-shifts. It begs the questions: What is power? Do we have ultimate authority, or is that an illusion and a destructive, unnecessary construct?

I’m constantly questioning my place in the world and what it means to have control, or even why any of us feel the need to claim it. Power is something that absolutely should be held up to the light and questioned. There’s impact in everything we do, in our ability to be present, our mindset, and our actions. A kind word, empathy, or forgiveness all hold significant potency.

My most successful writing (and my most enjoyable reading) comes when space is given to question the world we live in and our surrounding beliefs. Who has more power, the cicada ringing out its song in the trees or the humans listening to its chorus? Or perhaps it’s the connection between the two that holds the real strength. It often comes down to a matter of perspective, which is where the power-shifts come in. In my writing, I try to develop insight into contrasting themes, not from a position of wisdom, but as an encouragement towards viewing the world through alternate lenses. 

Personally, I love poetry because of how many different forms and structures it can take. Do you work in other genres besides poetry? What influences the structure of your work?

Like you, I appreciate that poetry allows for such a variety of structure and form. When I took my first poetry class, I found it overwhelming. Terms like metrical feet, caesura, and enjambment were new to me. My teacher was marvelous, though, and helped me understand the fundamentals of poetry and the ways in which form and structure inform meaning. After that, I was hooked.

Usually, I let the poem follow the path it wants to go. But if I find myself forcing the poem, I give myself permission to reapproach my perspective, experiment, and run wild. It’s a marvelous, freeing experience. I may end up reining myself back in, or I may not. In addition to poetry, I write short fiction and novels. I have a finished manuscript ready for editing. Reading and writing poetry has helped me tighten my fiction tremendously. I break my work into smaller pieces and examine them, not just for plot, but for essence. There must be meaning in every word, and each word/sentence/scene/chapter has to inform and add to the greater whole. As a reminder, I keep a framed copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s words on the bookshelf across from my desk: “Every sentence must do one of two things: reveal character or advance action.” 

As a writer, I can share that a lot of my work is informed by personal experience, some of it being very direct and literal. Do you mind sharing the inspiration for this poem? Have you ever poked a cicada belly, or declared that it lay its belly on your stick?

Like you, a lot of my work comes from personal experiences. My husband and I took a trip to Maryland a few years back. He’d spent a fair bit of time on the east coast and was familiar with cicadas, but I’d never heard them before. The sound was both magnificent and terrifying. The trees that lined the road roared with noise. It was quite a humbling experience and one that made me acutely aware of nature. Later in the day, I came across a cicada lying belly-up on the ground, and, yes, I crouched down and used a stick to get a closer look. It struck me at that moment how interconnected we are with the natural world and yet how distant we can sometimes feel from it. Not just the cicada, but the sight of our shadows on the ground, the feel of the sun, or the taste of sea air. It’s all part of our experiences if only we take the time to pay attention. All too often, we see the world from an egocentric perspective. While this makes sense on a fundamental level, it’s much more exciting and satisfying to take the time to consider a worldcentric or even a kosmocentric view.