Ruoyu: Anoushka, your poem has a beautiful motion to it! Whether shifting seamlessly between images or invoking a literal movement---spring, running, climbing the fountain---it also makes me think of position and how we orient ourselves toward the world: "the night--against everything." This choice of the word "against," what is the speaker in opposition of? What are they trying to escape, and what is its catalyst? What demands such urgency?

Anoushka: Movement is definitely the central focus of this piece! I think my biggest challenge was having all these really great, individually gorgeous images that all somehow originate from memory and arranging them in such a way that the resulting orientation would make sense and elicit the kind of reaction from the reader that I wanted, right from the beginning. I think in a lot of my poems, there is this sense of escape. I’m very intrigued by the concept of escapism in art and literature, especially because so much of art is about worldbuilding - what constitutes this other world? This is a question that I wanted to zero in on for the duration of this piece. 

Ruoyu: On a similar note, I want to touch upon the phrasing of the "dead fountain" which is striking to me because no immediate image is evoked for me, but I'm imagining a fountain that is no longer functional and that has lost all its motion. I'm thinking also of the acutely self-conscious, almost mechanical detachedness of "we used our limbs to climb," like movement is a deliberate effort, rather than something that occurs to us naturally. What is the fountain's purpose after the water stops running? What intimacy and desires will the speaker be forced to confront when they are still, no longer in motion?

Anoushka: The fountain in this poem is actually a real one! The poem as a whole is sort of a living homage to the building I used to live in. It has a fountain that is no longer functioning. Since then, it’s mainly been used by the children and the teenagers of the society as a thing to climb - it’s sort of a competition, seeing who can get to the top in the least amount of time possible. I think I also take it largely as a symbol of rebellion - it’s obviously not something their parents want them to be doing, and it’s done in confidence. It’s also, I think, a rite of passage, a way of saying you’ve done it, you’ve finally come to the other side, you’re one of us now. The reason I used the phrase “we used our limbs to climb” despite its obviousness, was firstly, because the act in itself is one that is physically laborious, sort of an induction ritual. Secondly, I really wanted to linger on the action that’s pictured, I wanted to emphasize it. The fountain, then, at least to me, is an artifact, it’s a museum of time passing. Finally, I think things really come to a head when the speaker scales the fountain, they survey everything that’s before them, everything they’ve overcome, the very person they’ve become. 

Ai Li: Could you tell me about one piece of art—this could be anything from other poems to TV show scripts—that has been deeply formative in creating the spaces your work exists in? In what ways does it continue to compel you towards new understandings?

Anoushka: I don’t know if this counts, but recently I’ve been obsessed with the particular art form that is the Substack essay. It’s a form that’s been criticized for being commercial, for being something that exists solely as “content” for an awaiting audience, but I couldn’t disagree with this interpretation more. It’s unfair, at least in my opinion, to compare the platform to something like Twitter - which depends solely on audience engagement and acknowledges itself as a site for what can only be termed “content”. I think it exists in a unique, often polarizing space - a space that holds both an audience and the art itself, the audience, in a sense, makes the art as much as the artist does. The essay form is also inherently poetic - so many great poets are also accomplished essayists in their own right. I love how the Substack essay plays with form, often venturing into the fields of prose poetry and lyric. I like to think I’ve taken some of this into my own work - I'm actually hoping to launch my own newsletter soon, once my ideas have a little more vision and substance. I adore cultural criticism and am itching to get back into writing longform essays. 

Ai Li: No matter how seemingly common or unusual, what is your favorite part about your own writing process? Even if this varies from one piece to the next, what continues to surprise or delight you? What about writing, or delving into that headspace, allows you to appreciate it?

Anoushka: Maybe this is a cliche, but my favorite part is definitely how full of surprises the entire process is. Practically no aspect is predictable. It’s almost like the work is the thing that is leading me by the hand, and I am walking out into the sun, blindfolded and trusting. HEATWAVE POEM was initially drafted entirely by hand, not a thing I do very often, but I feel like that was possibly the best way in which the sentiment of that piece could have come to life. It’s very visual, almost cinematic, and there’s a lot of movement involved, and I really wanted to encapsulate all of that right from the first draft. Revision is also something that I adore! I remember I had a poetry mentor once who showed me this article about revision strategies that I use to this day.