Interview with Doug Holder
Recently, I caught up with Somerville poet Mila Cuda. A recent graduate of Wellesley College, she has weaved her poetry into film, slam performance, and other venues.
You are from L.A. -- how has Somerville been for you as an artist, compared to the environs of California?
Somerville offers weather and walkability that Los Angeles simply cannot match. While I love Los Angeles, and am grateful to have been raised in the city of angels, it was time for a change. I was tired of planning my days around traffic — tired of the sparse landscape and (if you can believe it) the sunshine. As a poet who is inspired by nature and time, I love that Somerville allows me to experience the shifting of the seasons. I did not know the true meaning of winter until I moved to the East Coast. I did not know the shades of autumn or the joys of spring. The poetry scene in Los Angeles is vibrant and expansive, but I love how the city of Somerville encourages creativity within a closer community. I can attend The Moth, develop film, pick up fresh produce, return my library books and take a dance class all within a few blocks!
You were lead poetry editor for the film Summertime -- Tell us--how is it for a poet working in film?
The film Summertime was an exciting collaboration unlike anything I had ever done. I worked with 25+ young poets to edit and weave our writing into a cohesive, cinematic narrative. The film was directed by Carlos López Estrada and premiered at Sundance 2020 before releasing in theaters nationwide the summer of 2021. I found that poetry and film are surprisingly alike; they have the ability to distill experiences and immense emotion down to their most essential images. While I have not continued to work in film, I hold this project close to my heart — primarily because I cherish the collaborative creative efforts that went into the making of Summertime, but also in part because it revealed to me the many ways poetry can evolve off the page.
You studied at Wellesley College. Who were your mentors; who inspired you?
Yes! I was lucky enough to study under three wonderful poets: Frank Bidart, Dan Chiasson, and Octavio R. González. Each mentor offered a distinct and valuable insight. Bidart (whose poems I had memorized by heart, long before I knew he was a professor at Wellesley) taught me how a title can make or break a poem. Chiasson taught me to consider the shape of a poem—how enjambment can inform rhythm and setting. González taught me how to balance whimsy and rage. Other inspirations I hold close to my creative heart include Mary Oliver (of course), Hanif Abdurraqib, Jamaal May, Naomi Shihab Nye, Imani Davis, Paul Tran, Tarik Dobbs, Richard Siken, Franny Choi…the list goes on and on and on…
I noticed that you have been described as a Sapphic Slam poet. How would you describe that label?
As a poet who came up in the spoken word scene, and whose queer identity is the heartbeat behind many poems—I have no qualms with the label, though I do feel I have evolved past ‘slam poet’ as a descriptor. I don’t perform often, let alone compete in poetry slams anymore. While that subculture is still alive—beautiful and thriving—it has grown harder for me to find joy in performing. I say performing to distinguish from reading. I don’t think I will ever tire of reading poems for an audience—letting the words speak for themselves without the added pressure and theatrics of slam poetry. Maybe one day I will find my way back…but for now I want to focus on cultivating a relationship between word and reader, experimenting with new forms and methods of expression.
It seems you like all things spiders. Are you spinning a sort of web with your poems in order to capture the reader?
I love this question, and I certainly do hope to capture the reader (in a non-threatening way—haha). The poem I have included below is titled “Wordum Wrixlan,” which is an expression that was used to describe the making of poetry in Old English; it means to weave together words. I learned this phrase in a class called ‘The History of the English language’ — a class I admittedly dropped out of as I struggled to find my footing — my sole takeaway being this concept of weaving words. “Wordum Wrixlan” reflects on my first year at Wellesley College, a time when my writing was heavy with sadness—a teenager struggling to find her place on this cold coast. Back then, I wrote out of necessity. Now, I write out of habit. Some weaver spiders eat their webs at dawn and construct new ones at night. I think of this action as a metaphor for my own writing. It is okay to write at night and delete it all at dawn—to remake and reinvent your art in the name of efficiency, practice and joy.
Tell us about your recent project with the Somerville Arts Council.
Earlier this year, I was awarded a Literature Artist Fellowship from the Somerville Arts Council. For my community benefit project, I created mason jars full of poems (some my own, some by authors I admire) in honor of National Poetry Month and placed them throughout Somerville, encouraging passersby to take a poem to keep with them. I wanted to find a way for folks to celebrate and engage with poetry—especially folks who maybe don’t have the time to attend a workshop or read an entire collection. These jars can be found along the community path, by the new green line extension, on the Somerville library shelves…My hope is that people take a moment to pause and pocket a poem, carrying the words with them as encouragement or inspiration.
Wordum Wrixlan
At eighteen,
impulse and daydream
divided by silkscreen.
The commute to Cheever
is two miles of blind spots,
rounded up.
Each walk,
I want the wind
in the road to make ice
out of me—
stutter into
stained glass.
I write to keep
from spiraling, spinning, drifting,
dancing into traffic.
At twenty-two,
the urge to disappear
disappears
& Oma asks
where the poems have gone.
I show her the steady weaver,
yanking sunlight from inside,
scribbling threads
to swallow at dawn.
Patient as an ocean
brought to boil.
Still still.
Somerville offers weather and walkability that Los Angeles simply cannot match. While I love Los Angeles, and am grateful to have been raised in the city of angels, it was time for a change. I was tired of planning my days around traffic — tired of the sparse landscape and (if you can believe it) the sunshine. As a poet who is inspired by nature and time, I love that Somerville allows me to experience the shifting of the seasons. I did not know the true meaning of winter until I moved to the East Coast. I did not know the shades of autumn or the joys of spring. The poetry scene in Los Angeles is vibrant and expansive, but I love how the city of Somerville encourages creativity within a closer community. I can attend The Moth, develop film, pick up fresh produce, return my library books and take a dance class all within a few blocks!
You were lead poetry editor for the film Summertime -- Tell us--how is it for a poet working in film?
The film Summertime was an exciting collaboration unlike anything I had ever done. I worked with 25+ young poets to edit and weave our writing into a cohesive, cinematic narrative. The film was directed by Carlos López Estrada and premiered at Sundance 2020 before releasing in theaters nationwide the summer of 2021. I found that poetry and film are surprisingly alike; they have the ability to distill experiences and immense emotion down to their most essential images. While I have not continued to work in film, I hold this project close to my heart — primarily because I cherish the collaborative creative efforts that went into the making of Summertime, but also in part because it revealed to me the many ways poetry can evolve off the page.
You studied at Wellesley College. Who were your mentors; who inspired you?
Yes! I was lucky enough to study under three wonderful poets: Frank Bidart, Dan Chiasson, and Octavio R. González. Each mentor offered a distinct and valuable insight. Bidart (whose poems I had memorized by heart, long before I knew he was a professor at Wellesley) taught me how a title can make or break a poem. Chiasson taught me to consider the shape of a poem—how enjambment can inform rhythm and setting. González taught me how to balance whimsy and rage. Other inspirations I hold close to my creative heart include Mary Oliver (of course), Hanif Abdurraqib, Jamaal May, Naomi Shihab Nye, Imani Davis, Paul Tran, Tarik Dobbs, Richard Siken, Franny Choi…the list goes on and on and on…
I noticed that you have been described as a Sapphic Slam poet. How would you describe that label?
As a poet who came up in the spoken word scene, and whose queer identity is the heartbeat behind many poems—I have no qualms with the label, though I do feel I have evolved past ‘slam poet’ as a descriptor. I don’t perform often, let alone compete in poetry slams anymore. While that subculture is still alive—beautiful and thriving—it has grown harder for me to find joy in performing. I say performing to distinguish from reading. I don’t think I will ever tire of reading poems for an audience—letting the words speak for themselves without the added pressure and theatrics of slam poetry. Maybe one day I will find my way back…but for now I want to focus on cultivating a relationship between word and reader, experimenting with new forms and methods of expression.
It seems you like all things spiders. Are you spinning a sort of web with your poems in order to capture the reader?
I love this question, and I certainly do hope to capture the reader (in a non-threatening way—haha). The poem I have included below is titled “Wordum Wrixlan,” which is an expression that was used to describe the making of poetry in Old English; it means to weave together words. I learned this phrase in a class called ‘The History of the English language’ — a class I admittedly dropped out of as I struggled to find my footing — my sole takeaway being this concept of weaving words. “Wordum Wrixlan” reflects on my first year at Wellesley College, a time when my writing was heavy with sadness—a teenager struggling to find her place on this cold coast. Back then, I wrote out of necessity. Now, I write out of habit. Some weaver spiders eat their webs at dawn and construct new ones at night. I think of this action as a metaphor for my own writing. It is okay to write at night and delete it all at dawn—to remake and reinvent your art in the name of efficiency, practice and joy.
Tell us about your recent project with the Somerville Arts Council.
Earlier this year, I was awarded a Literature Artist Fellowship from the Somerville Arts Council. For my community benefit project, I created mason jars full of poems (some my own, some by authors I admire) in honor of National Poetry Month and placed them throughout Somerville, encouraging passersby to take a poem to keep with them. I wanted to find a way for folks to celebrate and engage with poetry—especially folks who maybe don’t have the time to attend a workshop or read an entire collection. These jars can be found along the community path, by the new green line extension, on the Somerville library shelves…My hope is that people take a moment to pause and pocket a poem, carrying the words with them as encouragement or inspiration.
Wordum Wrixlan
At eighteen,
impulse and daydream
divided by silkscreen.
The commute to Cheever
is two miles of blind spots,
rounded up.
Each walk,
I want the wind
in the road to make ice
out of me—
stutter into
stained glass.
I write to keep
from spiraling, spinning, drifting,
dancing into traffic.
At twenty-two,
the urge to disappear
disappears
& Oma asks
where the poems have gone.
I show her the steady weaver,
yanking sunlight from inside,
scribbling threads
to swallow at dawn.
Patient as an ocean
brought to boil.
Still still.
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