Nearly every line of “Fireflower” participates in some kind of alliteration, which begs it to be read aloud. I noticed that, for many of your poems, you provide live recordings. In your opinion, is a poem’s sound an integral component to its makeup? How does a poem’s sound affect our understanding of it?

I do think sound is integral to the meaning and feeling of a poem. (Also I just love playing with elements of sound.) Rhythm and devices like alliteration or assonance can bring images to life. In the first stanza of “Fireflower,” I use alliteration to suggest the sudden appearance of the sun as it comes up over a mountain. My hope is that the sounds reinforce the sense of the words and thus draw readers in, helping them follow the logic of the poem.

“Fireflower” is among your many poems that make use of space. How does this form of silence inform this poem’s meaning?

I think of the smaller spaces between words as short pauses and the wider spaces between lines or stanzas as longer intervals, like rest symbols in a music score. By spreading out the words and lines I want to create a certain rhythm, leaving room for silence. In “Fireflower,” the sun and the light are silent, though the explosion of brightness and color may be “stormwind wild.” Even the “splash” in the third stanza is not sound but light reflected in water.

You describe yourself as a practitioner of water method Taoist meditation and Tai Chi. Where do you see a relationship between your meditative practice and your artistic practice?

I was drawn to studying Tai Chi and Taoist meditation because of the quietness in this practice. By quietness I mean being immersed in the moment, which is where I want to be in order to work on a poem. A person may become more focused during Tai Chi practice and in the same way can gain concentration through the act of writing or revising. Each day is different, though. Some days I’m in the moment and some days I’m not.

The natural world is a major subject of your visual art and poetry. What about nature inspires you to create?

I have always felt a connection with the natural world. I grew up in the country and now live much of the year in a rural area of the Catskill Mountains in New York. Earlier in life, I thought of nature as a beautiful background, a place where I could think, feel, and find myself. These days I am more inclined to pay attention to the natural world in and of itself — or ki-self, to use Robin Wall Kimmerer’s term. I feel that Earth — and the spirit of Earth — could teach us much if we would listen. So I am trying to listen.

What are some unexpected muses and/or subjects you’ve been drawn to recently?

The last couple of years I have been writing poems that reimagine a few characters from Shakespeare’s The Tempest. I had meant to write about the island — the setting of the play — but ended up writing about Ariel, Caliban, and Caliban’s mother, Sycorax. I’ve had great fun lifting phrases and lines from Shakespeare and writing in iambic pentameter. I don’t think these poems will make it into a book, but it’s been a worthwhile experiment.

According to your website, you shifted from dance, choreography, and performance art into poetry. What about poetry felt like the home for your creative energy? Does your poetic process ever remind you of a dance?

Poetry felt like a natural progression from choreography. Both poetry and dance say things indirectly, maybe spiral around a subject to come to meaning, to become a work of art. Writing a poem and making up a dance are similar for me. When I choreographed I would start by improvising and see where the movement took me. Likewise I often start a poem with a phrase or image that I’m drawn to. In both forms, for me, the creative act is one of unfolding, becoming.

Read Katrinka’s poem, “FireFlower” in dulcet Literary magazine, vol. One, Issue No. 2, coming this february.