The Shore Interview #50: Jaiden Geolingo

Questions by Ella Flores, Interview Editor

EF: When I first read your poems, “Boyhood Requiem” and “Contrapuntal for My Dead Loves,” I found myself taken by how they lent themselves to being put in conversation with one another. In fact, they seem to compliment one another because of the different stakes they have. What can you tell us about the way you see these two pieces working together and perhaps in a larger project of yours?

JD: Thank you so much for having me! Both of these pieces emerged from the notion of displacement. “Contrapuntal for My Dead Love” was a letter to the South and how it affected the things in my life, both through personal growth and through the accompanying environment. “Boyhood Requiem” resulted from an observation in the South: I noticed that the people around me categorized masculinity through interests: what cologne you wear, what songs you listen to, or what kind of life you lead in general. Both poems, to me, are intertwined in that theme of disorganization and alienation and they’re told by a speaker who is constantly in this space of disorder. I’m glad that you agree they compliment each other! While I don’t think they’re in direct conversation, I know they stemmed from the same corner.

EF: With the three readings of “Contrapuntal for My Dead Loves,” how do you see each “I” inhabiting each reading as distinct from one other? And what felt urgent about these three readings that you turned to this form?

JD: “Contrapuntal for My Dead Loves” came from a moment in my life where I wanted to communicate with the ground I step on. In this piece, my “dead love” is not a singular subject; it expands into a larger scale—into a geographical area like the South that has been a large part of my life. Before writing this, I already had the concept of writing a contrapuntal in mind; although, unraveling the intent behind this form is what stumped me during the first round of creation. Initially, I wanted to focus on a singular Southern experience—such as the floods and hurricanes—and then tie it into a larger symbol. However, I had an innate feeling that told me to derail from everything and erase the linearity; eventually, it became abstract and an amalgamation of the South and I, split into two perspectives.

I never grew up in the South. I lived in the Philippines my whole life until I migrated to the United States around three years ago—and due to that assimilation, discovering what the South was like from a foreign eye grew to be a more foreign feeling than the immigration process. This played a part in the “splitting” within the form: my identity in this region was never solidified. On the left hand side of the poem, I am talking to a phantom: someone to pour my thoughts into—and I exposed my want to them. The “I” in this section refers to me, the writer and the crescendoing emotions I wanted to express about this region.

And yet, on the right hand side, the “I” is the South itself. With each line, the South retaliates, aware of their roughness, told through lines like “enter & I, a dead love, will turn into wolves.” I intended to personify the South as well because I believed that the splitting of the contrapuntal would be redundant without a contrasting element—in this case, the subject of the poem. These two segments differed in the speaker and, ultimately, will contribute to the merging of the sections.

The unification of both voices was rough to say the least. Like I said earlier, both sections were told through me and through the South. However, combining those perspectives was both exasperating and fulfilling. Instead of turning into a singular reading with no meaning, it became more of a conversation between the South and I—a soft understanding of both perceptions that I wanted to depict through lines like “I autopsy your teeth & I find prayers made of alcohol / I want to confess my mouth outward.” There’s no animosity to the South to me. We’re cordial, as much as I want to leave and return to my home country. I still love it. It’s still a home.

EF: In “Boyhood Requiem,” there are four single word, alliterative lines: “cologne,” “carmine,” “cliché” and “circuiting.” With the form of the poem clearly emphasizing these words, can you speak to what your drafting process that brought you to this current form, and in particular, these aligned words?

JD: Boyhood Requiem was a thrilling piece to write. It arose from being surrounded in an environment where people tend to notate “masculinity” through their interests and niches. Therefore, I structured the poem to be sporadic, stretching across the page to symbolize the rupture from societal expectations. I wanted these four words to radiate in a way that reflects the theme of the poem, so thank you for noticing that!

If you separate these words into a unified concept, they actually begin to converge into a list that recurs to the theme of toxic masculinity. Firstly, cologne as a symbol originated from the ideology that fragrance is the makeup counterpart to men, and that the scent you bore placed you in a hierarchy (which isn’t entirely true; I watched a video about this topic a few months ago, but I can’t remember the title for the life of me). Furthermore, I wanted carmine to mimic the hue of blood. I often think back to Ocean Vuong’s interview on Late Night with Seth Meyers, where he discusses the usage of a lexicon of violence in regards to masculinity. Harnessing that idea, I aimed to emphasize the violence that comes with masculinity through the word carmine.

Cliché and circuiting became more contradictory in terms of word choice. When the former set discussed the elements that come with masculinity, the latter discussed the elements involved in evading that standard—in simpler terms, cliché and circuiting became an outlet to criticize the Masculine-Complex. There’s a reason why people associate masculinity with toxicity (i.e., the term toxic masculinity); as I mentioned earlier, people categorize masculine behavior with superficiality: the things they possess, the things they wear, what music they listen to, etc. It’s cliché. Circuiting had a similar message: I wanted to convey the need most men possess in rewiring their personality and circuitry to conform with social trends; however, I also wanted to convey how they rewire themselves to step out of these trends.

Masculinity isn’t shameful. Individuality isn’t shameful. There’s still a delicate tenderness in not caring about what others think. That’s what I want people to gain from Boyhood Requiem. We’re all “still men / and still animals.”

EF: Are there any journals or magazines you’re currently enjoying?

JD: Yes! Currently, my favorite journal to read through is The Adroit Journal. Each piece in their issues deviates from the conventional literary magazine poem; instead of flowering imagery and an elegant undertone to rhythm, these pieces are more conversational and aggressive. They feel like car crashes or meteor strikes, or the feeling when your breath hitches once you run out of stamina. Ultimately, it feels hypnotic. When I first began writing poetry about a year ago, I always told myself that poetry is made up of verbose and metaphor-threaded words; however, reading more and more allowed me to unravel that poetry came down to the emotional invocation. The Adroit Journal became a reminder to me that beauty through words can come from simplicity.

A few honorable mentions are Rust + Moth, diode, Tinderbox Poetry Journal and POETRY!

EF: Please speak to how two poems in this issue of The Shore (not including your own) are in conversation with each other.

JD: I love this question so much! To me, two poems that converse the best with each other are Beth Oast William’s “What Wood We’ve Become” and Le Wang’s “Hunting Season.” This is completely up to my interpretation, so take my insight with a grain of salt.

These poems address the intimacy of survival and violence, both thematically and stylistically. William’s poem involves her metaphorical transformation into instability in the aftermath of survival (the wood as a metaphor for something immobile, or something numb). This piece is littered with the diction of recovery, like the line “whatever it is we do / mid-dream to reset the clock”—which I interpreted as the stage of denial. In this poem, we are shown a constant aftermath after a significant event.

“Hunting Season” became more of the antithesis of “What Wood We’ve Become.” Instead of the yearning for survival, we are shown the theme of violence, told through the eyes of hunters in a paternal space. However, in a way, the speaker in “Hunting Season” inevitably learns what survival is through the violence. The father in this poem converses with his child, informing them about the delicacy of violence, how they “make a fortune off / dying things”. At first read, I didn’t see a connection between Wang’s and William’s poems; however, as I kept thinking about the violence that lingered between them—and the desperation of life (whether that be your own or another’s) seeping between each line, a linear string threaded them together. Additionally, aside from thematics, I noticed a similarity in both poet’s styles. Implementing mirroring images of brutality and nature, a link formed once I realized how each poet’s flow remained the same; as opposed to the standardized, abrupt flow that tends to come with violent poems, both of these pieces remained slow and unnerving. With each read, they grew to be more confessional than I realized and that is what I believe was the first connection that led me to these two becoming my pick. I loved reading all the poems in this issue so much! And, once again, thank you so much for having me. I’m truly honored.

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Jaiden Geolingo is a Pinoy writer based in Georgia, United States. He has been publicly recognized by The National YoungArts Foundation, The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Young Poets Network, among others. Additionally, his work can be found published or forthcoming in Dishsoap Quarterly, The Poetry Society, eunoia and other journals. Someday, he will be good at math.