Interview by Marvel Nimurungi
“I write from everything. From what I see and what I wish to see, from my own experiences and the experiences of others, from the questions I have, even from emotions of love and fear. I’ve heard it often that everything is material to a writer. But I also write from a place of not knowing, not feeling, not wanting to.”
Tryphena Yeboah
Tryphena Yeboah is a Ghanaian writer and the author of the poetry chapbook, A Mouthful of Home (Akashic, 2020). Her fiction and essays have appeared in Narrative Magazine, Commonwealth Writers, and Lit Hub, among others. She is a PhD student at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, studying English and specialising in Creative Writing. Yeboah shared some of her process and journey with me. Her composure and elegance can be sensed even without direct communication. She highlights writing as a way to find clarity and motion and the influence of other artists’ works on her creative journey.
MARVEL
Hello Tryphena. So honoured to get to know you more through this interview. Could you tell us about yourself particularly as it pertains to how you got exposed to the craft of poetry, and how long you’ve been writing?
TRYPHENA
Thank you for speaking with me, Marvel. My earliest recollection of writing is probably around primary school where I kept a journal and would write about things that happened in school, how I was feeling, what was happening in my friendships, and just about everything and nothing at all. I didn’t think much of it at that time because it simply was (and still is) my way of being in the world, which involved paying attention and reflecting on what I saw. Now with writing poetry, that began when I started reading poets like Alison Malee, Safia Elhillo, and Nayira Waheed on Instagram. There were so many of them sharing poems online and I just read as many of them as I could find. I was amazed by how they were writing about the body, home, grief, trauma, and love. Noticing how they all used language so differently and the vulnerability they brought to their work made reading a delightful experience for me. The more I read their work – which were often very short poems – the more I wrote. I didn’t know about writing techniques and had no idea about the formal approaches to the craft (I still frankly know so little about it). All I knew was that I’d seen something cool and meaningful, and wanted to try it too. I don’t think there was a defining moment when I decided to write poems. I just started to play with the form because I had filled my life with so much poetry that it seemed almost like a natural response to write poems. Reading, playfulness, and perhaps some risk—that’s how this started.
MARVEL
How do these pieces come to you? Do you write from a place of experience and emotion? Do you imagine scenarios? Write from observation? Walk us through the connection between your own life and your work (or the lack of it thereof).
TRYPHENA
I write from everything. From what I see and what I wish to see, from my own experiences and the experiences of others, from the questions I have, even from emotions of love and fear. I’ve heard it often that everything is material to a writer. But I also write from a place of not knowing, not feeling, not wanting to. Kwame Dawes has talked about how he doesn’t believe in writer’s block, about how he regards writing as a craft, the same way a carpenter might relate to carpentry. You never hear a carpenter complaining about carpenter’s block. You show up and do the work, regardless of the conditions. I’ll admit I haven’t always thought of writing this way, and that’s likely because of how my sense of self is so deeply enmeshed in the work I do. But you see, there’s a danger in that, too. The writer as the constant subject that is gazed upon and every life detail picked apart. This reluctance to separate one from their work. I don’t know. I’m still learning about this. It’s hard for me because, for a long time, writing was a private endeavor for me. Journaling and letter writing is a private thing. You sit in the quietness of your room and reveal so much, and then you put the diary away or mail the letter to a friend you trust. You know your words are safe and hidden. It is all so intimate. But writing creatively and sharing my work publicly have presented another dimension to this process that I haven’t quite figured out. Lately though, I have been thinking about something Ada Limon said in an interview about what it means to be a writer that decenters the self, to excuse oneself from being the hero of their poems. And to find peace in that. I want to do more of that, having an outward gaze. Hopefully, there’s space for both—to reflect on my life and its desires, and to also observe the world, its obsessions, and the radical and subtle way it changes.
MARVEL
Your pieces are absolutely stunning and all the more so because of the themes they tackle. Love and loss; so fundamental and inevitable in our human experience. What for you is the role of poetry in dealing with things like that?
TRYPHENA
Oh that’s very kind of you to say. Thank you, Marvel. This is a bit tricky to answer because rarely do I turn to the page hoping for some relief, or with a specific goal in mind, other than to write. I am not suddenly at ease after writing a poem (I am relieved to have written something and not have to wrestle anymore with the urge). I think what poetry, and even journaling, does for me is to give me a way to be with what I’m feeling or what I’ve done and seen. It is not the only way, of course. If I’m sad after receiving difficult news or beating myself up for something awful I did, I can call a friend, I can take a walk, I can stand in my bathroom and cry, I can take a nap. Or I can write. Each of these options affords me something: comfort, reassurance, quiet, relief. I suppose writing in particular gives me language for clarity and a posture of stillness. I don’t think I’ve heard much said about the latter but to be honest, there’s something very interesting about feeling like my heart’s going to sink into my stomach and still, somehow, approaching my desk, grabbing a book and a pencil, and then sitting down to write the very thing that is causing me fear or frustration. I can put myself together. I can name the thing. I can interrogate it. I can pin it down on a page, make it more tangible. It is, I suppose, a tiny attempt at control when everything feels very much out of control. I would say that writing helps me think and see clearly and gives me an intentional way of being in the world.
MARVEL
Are there other things you write about? Tell us a bit more about that.
TRYPHENA
I’m unsure if you mean other themes or genres, but I suppose I can speak to both. In my poems, I also enjoy writing about the mundane, you know, the ordinariness of living. It’s like what sits on the other side of the hard stuff—what are we doing when we’re not writing about cancer and trauma, when we’re not grieving or talking about the long, painful years? We wake up, we take walks, we work, we clean our kitchens and look out the window, we cook for ourselves or for family, we make little choices of what we want and don’t want, whether to laugh or cry, speak or hold our tongues, how to love and receive love. You know, we live. I like writing about the unsurprising stuff of living. It may come across as familiar, predictable, unserious (and perhaps they are all those things and more), but there’s a sense that the poem is capable of taking a simple moment and paying attention to it in a way that we’re often too busy to notice. Take Raymond Carver’s “Rain” for example, it’s a short and sweet poem about “the terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read” on a rainy morning, but it also a poem about decisions. Or Carl Adamshick’s poem “Everything That Happens Can Be Called Aging” about love and all our incessant needs as humans. I am quite drawn to poems on this nature; they offer me a more exciting way to look at normalcy. As for writing in other genres, I write short stories too. The truth is, I have grown more comfortable writing those than poems because I’m able to easily hide within its vast world and multiple characters, even when I’m writing about topics that are deeply personal. With the constraints of the poetry genre, there’s the temptation to write the personal and there’s very little room for me to hide in the lines. But that’s probably just me though, and also recognizing that much of my poetry writing began as confessional poetry so I keep returning to the self if I’m not mindful about turning an outward gaze. In my short stories, I tend to explore the dynamics of mother-daughter relationships, generational trauma, and the complexities of childhood experiences.
MARVEL
Any inspirations of yours within the craft? Poets you admire and such.
TRYPHENA
I keep talking about Kwame Dawes’ Sturge Town because that’s the last collection I read that left such a strong impression on me. There’s a care and tenderness with which he writes about family that I appreciate. I’m a big fan of Mary Oliver and “Wild Geese” is one of my favorite poems—I have it framed and sitting on a shelf in my office. Ocean Vuong’s Nightsky with Exist Wounds was one of the first poetry collections I read that shaped my ideas about writing vulnerably. From Vuong’s writings, I also slowly began to understand how language can be stretched, how it holds so many possibilities for expression. Other poets I admire are Warsan Shire, Mahtem Shifferaw, Lucille Clifton, and Ada Limón. Of course, every year, you’ll find me reading the New-Generation Africa chapbook series from the African Poetry Book Fund—this project is radically changing the landscape of poetry in Africa, and it’s been so exciting to discover the new writers they publish and the daring themes they engage with. Last year’s chapbook boxset (Tisa) was incredible, and I was especially moved by the poems in Hazem Fahmy’s chapbook, At the Gates.
MARVEL
Do you have any advice for young writers out there?
TRYPHENA
Oh dear. Perhaps I’ll share what I’ve been telling myself lately which is that I should remember to have fun with it, to not lose my playfulness. That excitement and faith are good things to cultivate as a writer. I was so curious about writing when I started, and I did not mind taking a risk even if what I wrote stayed as a draft and nothing more. The stakes felt lower. I was less worried about the what ifs. I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. I just had to write and keep writing. But I think I started to get fearful a few years ago. I realized people were reading my work, and the awareness that I had people’s attention scared me, raised the stakes much higher than I was used to. I immediately felt everything I wrote had to be perfect. I could not mess it up now. I could not afford to fail. So, what happened was that I wasn’t writing simply because I didn’t feel I had something good to offer, and I was not ready to deal with anything less than good, or perfect, if I’m being honest. Or that I quickly gave up on a draft without bothering to sit with it for a moment and see what was working and what wasn’t. It all felt, well, hopeless. Here’s the thing: there is the temptation to be utterly serious about yourself, to be so caught up with everything outside of your writing that you shut the door to your own creativity. So much of it is noise, and for me, some of the noises are lies I’ve told to myself for a while about my capabilities and the world’s expectations, about my fears and failures. I fear I may have shared too much but I’ll just say to anyone starting out that it’s crucial to remember why you write, to remain faithful to your craft no matter what, don’t be afraid to take risks, and have fun doing what you love! This, and of course, reading the work of others.
THE END