"I Did Not Choose to Become a Poet" Nduka Otiono on Ghost Writing Love Letters, Negotiating with Poems, & More

DisPlace: The Poetry of Nduka Otiono (Wilfrid Laurier University Press, edited by Peter Midgley with an afterword by Chris Dunton) gathers powerhouse poems from one of Canada's most insightful and timely poets. 

Nduka Otiono is the author of two previously published collections (Voices in the Rainbow and Love in a Time of Nightmares), and has established himself as an essential voice in discussions of diasporic life and identity. 

Engaging with experiences of Canada and Nigeria, Otiono plays with movement and form, weaving together multiple poetic traditions to explore identity, trauma, language, and the nature—and limits—of poetry to uncover the self and the collective. Political, wise, and impactful, the poems both new and old are contextualized in an interview between Otiono and Chris Dunton.

We're proud to welcome Nduka to Open Book today, one of our final interviews of the year, to discuss his poetic journey and how his life has shaped his process and work. 

He tells us about the surprising inspiration he found in a timeless nursery rhyme, the poem his wife recited on their first date that hooked him, and how some poems are only children and others have siblings. 

Open Book:

Can you describe an experience that you believe contributed to your becoming a poet?

Nduka Otiono:

It’s difficult to pinpoint a specific experience that contributed to my becoming a poet. The idea of a specific incidence contributing to one “becoming a poet” presupposes that there was a trigger. I would rather see my calling as a poet as a natural progression of my sensibilities or sensitivities. I did not choose to become a poet. Poetry planted itself into my life as a creative artist, and I found myself writing short stories and then, poetry. As far back as my elementary school days, my fascination with Literature was obvious to family friends, and especially to an older cousin who often cornered me to write love letters for him using my cursive handwriting and my “poetic expressions.”

But if I must underscore an experience that etched poetic consciousness in me, I would ascribe it to my childhood memories which were defined by the dislocation and scars of the Nigerian-Biafran war. My poem “Grandma’s Pipe” depicts a flying bullet ricocheting on the wall of my grandfather’s house during the war. As such, it captures an exceptionally traumatic experience that nurtured the tortured sensibility that I believe defines my poetry.

OB:

What is the first poem you remember being affected by?

NO:

The nursery rhyme and lullaby, “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” The magic and the rhythm of the lines, and the seemingly supernatural universe of the poet still enchant me. It seemed to have been composed by the gods. It was much later in life that I learned that it was taken from “The Star,” a poem written by an English poet and novelist, Jane Taylor.  

OB:

What one poem—from any time period—do you wish you had been the one to write?

NO:

J.P Clark’s “Night Rain.” Coincidentally, it was one of the poems my wife recited in full on our first date. Among others, its painful theme, narrative vividness, sombre beauty, and lyricism captivate me: “What time of night it is/ I do not know/ Except that like some fish / Doped out of the deep / I have bobbed up belly wise / From stream of sleep...”

OB:

What has been your most unlikely source of inspiration?

NO:

Death!

OB:

Do you write poems individually and begin assembling collections from stand-alone pieces, or do you write with a view to putting together a collection from the beginning?

NO:

I adopt a mixture both approaches. Some poems come to me like an only child, others come in a chain of siblings. In the end, I negotiate with them to fit into a single family that is a collection of poems for me. Sometimes, I am intentional about the collection I am working on—with the theme directed by a lead poem that gradually beckons on related poems to join. At other times, stand-alone poems coalesce like voices in the rainbow.

OB:

What do you do with a poem that just isn't working?

NO:

I negotiate with a poem that just isn’t working. It’s like a stubborn child in the middle of a journey. You try not to leave them behind or use force but instead stretch to your wits end and turn on your best charm to get them to cooperate. Sometimes, I leave a poem that just isn’t working temporarily and return to it when there is a burst of afflatus or spark of idea or words from other sources to complete the poem. At other times, the poem is like an Ogbanje child that refuses to be born to stay. And I just let them be!

OB:

What's more important in your opinion: the way a poem opens or the way it ends?

NO:

Now, that’s a tough one. Both are important to me. The opening should be arresting enough to get the reader to go beyond the opening lines. The ending should be strong enough to bid farewell to the reader or listener in a memorable way. But if I may add, I have often agonized about opening lines that I have extended the practice to my short stories. Hence, I also endeavour to produce remarkable opening lines in my fictional works.

OB:

What was the last book of poetry you read that really knocked your socks off?

NO:

Nguyen Duy’s Selected Poems translated from the original Vietnamese by my friend Kevin Bowen and Nguyen Ba Chung.

OB:

How would you describe the poetry community in Canada? What strengths and weaknesses do you observe within the community?

NO:

I am not sure I know the poetry community in Canada well enough to describe it. Canada is a big country, and one runs the risk of describing the poetry community like the blind man and the elephant. As an immigrant, I first settled in Edmonton, where I fortunately blended with the local poetry scene. To date, this has been my most fulsome experience with a Canadian poetry community, and I learned from remarkable poets such as my professor Bert Almon, and the late Doug Barbour. However, I’d like to point out that I answer a related question in the Afterword of my new poetry collection, DisPlace: The Poetry of Nduka Otiono, published by Wilfrid Laurier University Press. In that excerpt, I venture into the kind of description I imagine is expected of me by this question.

OB:

What is the best thing about being a poet... and what is the worst?

NO:

Hmmm...

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Nduka Otiono is an Associate Professor of African Studies and English at Carleton University in Ottawa. Formerly a journalist and General Secretary of the Association of Nigerian Authors, his publications include two poetry books and a collection of short stories, The Night Hides with a Knife, winner of the ANA/Spectrum Prize for fiction.