We spoke to poet Rodney Blatchweaver, a writer who describes himself as “leading the tortured existence of a recluse who unfortunately is too popular to enjoy a sheltered life.”
Q: Tell us what drives you as an artist.
RB: I love that question.
Q: (After a minute or two) is that your answer?
RB: Is that your question?
Q: Is THAT your answer?
RB: That’s up to you.
Q: Thank you.
RB: Don’t mention it. The point is not to apply your own meanings to your work, after all, poetry is subjective and meaningless beyond what the reader applies. I often ask street sweepers and prostitutes to read my work so that they can reveal to me what the true meaning of the piece is.
Q: Have you ever performed your work?
RB: No, I’m rubbish at reading.
Q: What did your new work Barracuda Phosphorous* mean?
Jim jam baloney
Tastes like that new flavour of marmite
RB: According to bricklayer Tom Ludd it was, (making quote marks) “shit.”
Q: How do you respond to that?
RB: He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
Rodney’s numerous publications include Bravo the Heimlich manoeuvre,Eyebrow Catastrophe, Holding Only One Ball, Things I Imagined while Sleeping with You.