by Jennifer Elise Foerster | Senior Editor
I met Cedar Sigo in New York City in the spring of 2013. We were attending a conference at Poets House called Native Innovations: Indigenous American Poetry in the 21st Century. Listening to his poetry and craft talk, I was immediately enamored by his acuity and elegance. His poems were diamond-cut and his insight into craft was as prismatic as the poemsâ refracted light. He and I both lived in San Francisco, so I was able to continue my marveling through lavish hours of poetry-gab. Over the years, talking with Cedar about art, poetry, and poetics while listening to jazz or walking the streets of the Mission, I have come to believe he is one of the most brilliant and dedicated poets writing today. Iâm grateful to be able to share a splice of our conversation through this second edition of the Native Poets Spotlight Series.
Jennifer: I remember when we read together at Poets House in New York. In your craft talk, which you titled, âBecoming Visible,â you spoke of poetry as a âbroad element at playâ in your culture, and compared it to basket making. Here is that beautiful passage, which was recorded at Poets House on March 23, 2013:
We are still known for our basket making. They are woven mostly from cedar bark, and within their bold, precise patterning, we often pay homage to the plants and animals of the Puget Sound. The bark goes through several stages of soaking and drying in order to become pliable. Itâs hard to think of a process that could ever rejoin you closer to the earth. When people ask me that horrifying and somewhat common questionâwhat is your poetry about?âI now think of the baskets, how they are about the material, and how the purity of the process imbues them with spirit. The poetry is also about its materialâwordsâand the gaps that occur between them at the apex of composition. Hopefully the reader is left with an intensity with which they can link these several parts.
Do you still think of your poetry this wayâthat itâs about its material and the gaps between words?
Cedar:Â I wanted to address what itâs like to be a Native artist from a Native American point of view. Basket-making is a long process and involves a courtship with the materials. You have to gather the cedar at the right time, and sing before you do that. You soak the cedar and dry it so it can become pliable. I wanted to equate poetry to something formal, something that relies on edges, like a totem pole or carving, like the bent wood boxes from the Pacific Northwest. People often think of poetry as a dalliance or as a form of expression without the architecture that is required by some of the other Native arts, like carving, painting, or weaving. Ceremonial objects have this physical weight and grandeur, and the techniques explored in making those types of Native art are very honored. My intention in equating basket form to poetry is to honor that there is also a mastery to poetic form. In poetry, there are these luminous edges and techniques that need to be absorbed in order to become that master. When people look at a basket, they see structure and symmetry. But with poetry, thereâs too often the assumption that thereâs no structure because you canât see it.

Basket maker Tennessee at her home on Bainbridge Island (Photo courtesy of the Suquamish Museum Archives)
Jennifer: True. I wish more people could allow themselves to see a poem for its form and colors instead of closing their eyes to these dimensions. I think the making of a poem, and the way poets learn their craft, is as serious and meticulous a commitment as that of a master basketmaker. I like how you talk about the courtship in working with materials, whether this is language or water or wood. It reminds me of something you wrote in one of your blogs for Poetry Foundationâs Harriet in October 2010. This excerpt is from “Process Notes”:
Poetry has always been a matter of courtship for me. I have often felt as if I were waiting for it to appear, hoping for something epic (in structure if not always in length) or impressive I should say, vaulted ceilings, knowing you are on your way to build a monument of sorts.
Iâve been thinking a lot about invisible architectures in the making of a poem. You canât see the making or feel the weight of its material, but there is a structure that is created, with windows of sorts, and vaulted ceilings, as you say. As the poet, youâre making something out of invisible materials.
Cedar: Yes, and you have to articulate your belief that thatâs happening. The combination of vision and craft is so necessary for this belief.
Jennifer:Â Speaking of vision, I sense the âapex of compositionâ as a kind of visionary moment in the making of the poem. Is this what you mean by the âapex of compositionâ and the gaps that occur between the words at that point?
Cedar: That thing about being in the space of the apex, where the fragments, or gaps, could possibly join, thatâs really talking about the dream of suspension in poetryâthe physical idea that when youâre reading something, you leave a word spinning in the air that is dependent on the word you last took off from. I think thatâs actually the impossible dream, because the fragments never quite get joined, like the negative space within the weave of a basket.
I think the most exalted form of writing is the editing. Thatâs where a lot of the magic takes place. Thatâs suspension. You get a lead of one line, then a lead of another line, and then you wonderâenvisionâhow these two lines might belong together in this poem. My only indication that itâs going well or getting close to that initial vision is the transfiguration of time, which occurs most often during that shaping period. Time becomes dysmorphic; it behaves of its own accord. To lose oneâs sense of time during the editing is my indication that Iâve gone somewhere, that the vision suits what I may have wanted. Itâs almost like having a dream, and then making a portrait based on the dream. The dream state is so flexible.
Jennifer: Itâs encouraging to think we might achieve the vision we wanted for the poem by getting out of its way. Whatâs the most challenging part of editing for you?
Cedar: Editing is craft, because you can go too far until nothing remains. Thatâs always the threat to the poetic processâpoetry always wants to resolve and disappear again, and without our craft, we can go too far. If you donât learn the way to climb the mountain, where the footholds are, then youâre awash in randomness. Finding oneâs footing is a totally personal process, and it has to do with how you imagine the poem remains in the air, in your mind, after you close the book. Where does the line of sight change; where does it rest; where does it do a 360? What I mean to say is, it does come out of thin air. Itâs not something I have a preconceived notion about.
Jennifer: Thereâs buoyancy to your lines; they live in the air. But I also know they are precisely planted and intentionally textured. I can move around in your poetry as one moves freely among fragments, as if there are many windows and doors and no determinate pathway through the poemâs space.
Cedar:Â A friend once told me the poems are pretty touch and go. Itâs a good description; I do invite in the element of chance. I try to lose my own way. But at the same time, the poems demand presence. Their attention to the syllable and the layout on the page, all these things indicate permanence or a clinging of the poem to its own space. Sometimes I think Iâm writing in certain patterns without even realizing it. If I recognize anything that can be tracked, I want to clear the deal. For example, Iâm enslaved to the syllable. I think rhythmically but donât want the poem to sound like that. I want it to sound like something dislocatedâa limp rather than a grand walk. I want to disfigure my sense of rhythmic thinking. And if I feel Iâm setting myself up to resolve a line too easily, Iâll take out a syllable. Itâs the asymmetrical moment thatâs preserved, that gets stuck in oneâs head. Thereâs something charming about misremembering a line.
Jennifer: So if there is intentionality in the accident, how does your determination, as the craftsperson, the poet, engage with chance?
Cedar: Thereâs something in the poemâthat touch and go aspectâlines Iâm putting in randomly, inviting in that element of chanceâthat isnât of my making. Inviting in that element of chance, youâre also inviting in the element of not knowing. I donât know what Iâm doing exactly. I donât know how itâs going to play out. But I do think there are forces within that work that are beyond me, that will later âcome true.â

Annie Rodgers and Jennie Davis in a canoe. Indianola, WA (Photo courtesy of the Suquamish Museum Archives)
Jennifer: As the writer, thereâs quite a lot of suspension in not knowing where the poem is coming from or going. Do you think thereâs a similar quality of suspension in the reading of poetry?
Cedar: Poetry is demanding; it requires re-reading and different voices. You reading a Robert Duncan poem aloud to me will sound differently from the way I negotiate the suspensions, and thatâs whatâs interesting to me about poetryâthe way the voice rides the work. Thatâs the drama of it, to get the reading right. Poems are demanding to read not because of their content but because of their arrangementsâthe things they call into question about anyoneâs voice, about the limits of the voice, about the accuracy and free spontaneity of the voice. When I read, I go somewhere else. I wish it were possible to read with your eyes closed, just to enhance that possibility, but I also wouldnât want to get away from the page. Really my ideal would be to be a singer, jazz in particular; I try to sing through my work. For poetry, the drama is built in through words not gesture. The phrasing in my work I picked up from musicians like Billie Holiday, Pharoah Sanders, and Sarah Vaughan. The phrasing, the way things linger behind the beat, the modulationsâthese are things I obsess over.
Jennifer: You wrote about this in âFragments Of A Disordered Devotionââanother prose piece for Harriet:
Live recordings of jazz singers seem to be my favorite soundtrack, I have always felt that we are up to the same thing, renegotiating an established melody, and taking all the time you need to share the way it fits to your own voice.
Iâm interested in this idea of poems as renegotiated melodies.
Cedar: I think of my poetry like arrangements for the voice: the band follows the singer, not the other way around. Too few poets write arrangements that follow the voice. Most people just play a lot of melody. But poetry requires a lot of layeringâthere has a to be a background, and like the piano, a right hand and a left hand. If you donât have those layers you just have melody. As a poet, you have to be the arranger adding in the many sets of voices. Thatâs why I like working with chance, working with whateverâs in the atmosphere to bring additional voices to the arrangement.
Jennifer: Youâre a prolific writer, not just of poems but also of prose and lyric essays. Youâve been a featured writer for Poetry Foundationâs Harriet and for the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art Open Space blog, among others, and have written numerous articles and features on poetics and poets. Can you talk a little about your commitment to prose and how, or if, this merges with your identity as a poet?
Cedar: Poetry is a generative thing. It becomes a lifestyle, a cosmology. I think of that Charles Olson quote that I love, âArt does not seek to describe, but to enact.â I like to always be writing a prose piece. I love to write about poets and artists, and to write anything incidental, like intros or afterwards. I love to publish first books by poets, and getting students to start their own magazines where they can write and publish poetry and reviews. Thereâs a lot to be done, and I feel like we need to step up our game for the volume of the work weâre putting out there.
Jennifer:Â Yes, I think doing this kind of work, writing prose responses, reviews, etc., is a generative way to support the poetry coming out in the world. Part of enacting art is to interact with it in various ways, to help it reach a wider audience. We especially need to do this as Native writersâto write about one another, to enact our own literary criticism.
Cedar: Prose is very inclusive and exact. I want to be clear, and I donât want to exclude anyone. Especially as a Native American writer, I donât want to exclude my own people from my writing. But itâs a quandary. The only way you have a voice as a prose writer or art critic is to be an academic, which is exclusive. I mean, Iâm an exception to that rule, but itâs not been without some perilous living.
Jennifer: Would you say one of your goals in writing prose, then, is to invite people into your poems?
Cedar:Â Yes, absolutely, but that doesnât mean itâs understandable. It doesnât mean itâs narrative. I think of myself more as an experimental filmmaker. If you watch a 12-minute movie by Stan Brakhage, Kenneth Anger, or Maya Deren, when the lights come up, youâre not going to be pressing for meaning. The meaning is just that the experience is an assault on the senses, and the meaning may not be present at the end of the performance. If youâre searching for narrative, youâre just like waves lapping at a rock trying to change its shape.
Jennifer: I often feel like youâre writing about poetry when youâre writing about a painting or a film. You offer, as a poet, a unique perspective for seeing and thinking through art.
Cedar:Â Thereâs a symbiosis between painters and poets. John Wieners was asked, âYouâve collaborated with a lot of painters,â and he responded, âYes, I found them better company.â âBetter company than other poets?â âYes,â he said, âthey were always too vampiric.â I always felt that way. Painters and poets, we live in different countries. And thereâs a romance that occurs just as between two people from very different countries who donât speak the same language. You just know and accept there are some things you wonât be able to understand about each other.
What we need to do with prose, and also through the forms we choose for our poetry, is to ignite poetry for people. The audience should want to write a poem. Thatâs where prose about poetry should be going, encouraging new writers and readers. Our challenge is to introduce the work of poetry with an allure, with light, with glamour. And itâs important, too, to bring people into the lives of the poets weâre reading or writing about, to let people recognize themselves and their humanity in other poets.

Muckleshoot girl in cedar bark cape and skirt, late 1800âs (Photo courtesy of the Suquamish Museum Archives)
Jennifer: You just published two books almost simultaneously this fall: Royals, from Wave Press, was released in September, and you edited a collection of interviews and journals from the poet Joanne Kyger, There You Are: Interviews, Journals and Ephemera, also from Wave Press. Do you feel like youâre in a different phase of your work now from when you were writing Royals? What are you interested in now?
Cedar:Â Iâm starting to take up more of the discontinuous narrative. Iâm interested in the poem that doesnât have to have a beginning, middle, or end. A poem can be a medallion within a longer piece. Longer pieces are just evidence of what gets you through being a poetâreceived texts that make you feel like the antenna is still functional. Thank god thereâs no pressure to connect it all in the end. In fact I like making a long work from fragments, and just leaving it. Thatâs one of the essences of my workâI donât feel the need to contextualize. Instead of a building up to an ending, Iâd rather have something emblematic of an ending that haunts you. The ârejection of closure,â thatâs totally me. If you have the base notes, you donât need the âthey lived happily ever afterâ ending. That last note is in the pocket. Itâs there, for you to end on.
—
This interview and the following poems are the second in a regular series guest-edited by Jennifer Elise Foerster.
Cedar Sigo was raised on the Suquamish reservation near Seattle, Washington. He studied writing and poetics at the Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado and has lived in San Francisco since 1999. He is the author of eight books and pamphlets of poetry, including Royals (Wave Books, 2017), Language Arts (Wave Books, 2014), Stranger in Town (City Lights, 2010), Expensive Magic (House Press, 2008), and two editions of Selected Writings (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2003 and 2005). He is the editor of There You Are: Interviews, Journals, and Ephemera, on Joanne Kyger (Wave Books, 2017). He has taught workshops at St. Maryâs College, Naropa University, and University Press Books. He just moved back to Washington with his partner, where he continues to write and teach.
Jennifer Elise Foerster is an alumna of the Institute of American Indian Arts, received her MFA from the Vermont College of the Fine Arts, and is completing a PhD at the University of Denver. A member of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation of Oklahoma, her first book of poems, Leaving Tulsa, was published by the University of Arizona Press in 2013. Her second book, Bright Raft in the Afterweather, is forthcoming in 2018. She is the recipient of a 2017 NEA Creative Writing Fellowship, a Lannan Foundation Writing Residency Fellowship, and was a Wallace Stegner Fellow in Poetry at Stanford University. Her poems have recently appeared in Colorado Review, Eleven Eleven, The Brooklyn Rail, and Kenyon Review Online.