JB Life March 2017

ARTS
34
By ANJEE DISANTO
JB Life Co-Editor
Can you write a book without being a
writer? This may sound like one of
those “if a tree falls in a forest” questions,
but it makes sense in the context of the
Zen-infused world of writer (or not writer?) Ash
Dean.
In fact, Dean, an American-born poet and teacher
currently living in Jeonju, does not consider
himself a writer, despite having just published a
poetry collection.
“I was giving advice to a writing friend recently
and I said I deliberately try not to write,” Dean
explains. “I try to be as quiet as possible. … So
much of what we say and write comes from a
kind of diseased organ. The brain, but to make it
clearer, I will call it the mind.”
Dean thinks that these days we have a sort of
“word sickness,” which functions as a symptom
to “mind sickness.” His poetry and teaching of
poetry, he hopes, can be a sort of medicine to this
disease, even for himself.
“As a poet, I only write a poem when it is word
medicine. So I deliberately try not to write poems.
… It is not possible for me to be silent, but it
is possible to only use word medicine. Of course,
I fail, as some treatments inevitably do. But, in
being aware that I am providing word medicine
and only word medicine I am in the best position
to help and to do no harm.”
Dean’s recently published poetry collection,
Cardiography, is meant to be a large dose of this
treatment, and, in this case, seems to have enough
heart not to fail. Cardiography offers up a varied
roster of more than 20 works “for everyone with
a heart” (as its dedication states). Published by
Finishing Line Press, the volume shares themes
that reflect personal moments, find beauty in simple
relatable journeys (like a bus to Gwangju),
and use well-thought forms to capture the essence
of events.
Dean, born in Ferguson, Missouri, has himself
been formed by his upbringing. His American
life involved stints as a working-class carpenter
and day laborer, one who was (and partially still
is) unaccepting of the academic world. Yet he
ended up with six years teaching in and studying
from Suzhou, China, topped off by coming here,
to Korea, as a local literature teacher.
About that anti-academic sentiment, Dean,
though very much an artist at heart, still struggles
with the concept of poetry being an academic
or professional field – at least for himself
personally. He received his MFA in Creative
Writing from the International Writing Program
at City University Hong Kong, but says he did
so more to join a dialogue than to become a
professional writer or an academic.
“Not everything of value needs to be professionalized,”
Dean explains. “I’ve always been
uncomfortable with the idea that you professionalize
joy, horror, sadness. This is the stuff
of poetry.”
His own book, he says, happened more organically
than professionally. Many of the poems
were collected during the time when his wife
(a Gwangju native) was having open-heart surgery.
This theme becomes evident in the reading
of several of the compilation’s pieces. The
transportation theme pops up periodically, too,
reflecting the many journeys between cities in
this time period. And the rest, with notes of
spaces and events in China, Korea, and beyond,
perhaps connects the dots between these and
the writer’s own frame of mind.
“Really what I’m doing is a record of my
heart,” Dean says.
As for the content, one of the points of distinction
for Dean’s poetry is that it often embraces
meaning through both its words and its
physical shape. His forms are carefully contemplated.
Each subconsciously directs the
reader to envision or read in a certain manner.
“Lag,” his book’s second selection, offers up
lines split with uneven spacing between words,
altering one’s internal reading as well as giving
an intended aesthetic effect. The overall poem’s
form represents an airplane’s cabin, with
spaces for aisles and room between passengers.
“This is an important part of the meditation
that is taking place,” Dean explains, “and each
line is part of the meditation because of the lim-
g
包
four tiny
incisions
in the
pericardium
::
a bento box
prepared
by mom
at 4am
::
they never
reveal everything
about the contents
of a dumpling
::
some things
once open
are more than
we can say
Jeonbuk Life 35