Interview by The Woolf

But seriously, folks, it’s quite something for me to be chosen as “a poet from Switzerland” for an interview by JJ Marsh at The Woolf, Ranging the Cultural Landscape. The visuals offered by the link are much more interesting than this copy-paste version of the article: 

In this issue of The Woolf we launch our Poetry Competition, which is why we wanted to interview a poet from Switzerland. June’s theme is ‘High and Mighty’ and that has a certain relevance. Poetry seems to be considered a higher and more rarefied art form than prose. Do you see it that way?

Perhaps it’s in the eye of the beholder; any writing that grabs me and makes me dread the last word—whether it be poetry or prose—is what I’d classify as rarefied art. Sometimes poetry, however, suffers from its ‘high and mighty’ or aloof reputation. Perhaps this is due more to poor teaching methods, rather than to poetry itself. In my case, I loved poetry as a child, thanks to my mother who read fun poems to me, wrote poems herself, and got me writing them for pleasure. When I was presented to old-school poetry in high school, however, poetry and I shunned each other. It transformed into an impossible code to crack and my own poetry suddenly looked silly; I put it back in the play box with my other childish things.

On a more positive note, ‘high and mighty’ could refer to the mysterious source of poetry. In my case, I have no idea where it comes from, or when it ‘might’ show up. I imagine it floating around up ‘high’ somewhere, looking for a safe place to land. My role, as a poet, is to remain aware and available, ready to write should it choose to come to me. 

My experience as a reader of/listener to poems was love, passion, cooling and renewed ardour, but I grew up in Wales, where verse is regarded as our birthright. How far was your youth influenced by the mighty American poets and a sense of pride in what our language can do?

My experience with poetry as a youth was playful. As mentioned, my mother introduced me to poetry when I was very little. We had fun with Silverstein, Sandburg, A.A. Milne, Stevenson, and Seuss. The greatest honor in the family was, as soon as you were able to read well enough, tp be asked to read “The Night Before Christmas” to the entire extended family on Christmas eve. Of course, everyone older knew the poem by heart and chimed right in without the slightest hesitation, so we all were very keen and proud to read.

After I went off to school as a teenager, communication with my mother was primarily by letter; in many of hers, she’d transcribe bits of Bishop, Rilke, Sarton, Rumi, e.e. cummings, Moore, Rich, or Dickinson, among others. I’m ashamed to say that I remember rolling my teenaged eyes at some of those passages—but thank goodness she sent them! The only other poetry I remember being exposed to at the time was an endless version of “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight”. If that wasn’t rough enough, it was followed by Chaucer’s “The Wife of Bath’s Tale.” Talk about high and mighty! I still have the textbook and when I look at my desperate notes in the margins, I cringe. 

How did that sense of identity and ownership of language change after your move to the French-speaking part of Switzerland? Can you enjoy Francophone poetry to the same degree?

I haven’t lived in an English-speaking country since 1988. Ever since then, English has been my refuge. At times, as far as communication goes, living daily life in another language (French, Spanish and Cantonese) has been a bit like having my shoes tied—to each other. Sometimes I stumble and shuffle along. With determination, and a good smile, I eventually get where I need to go. But it can be frustrating, and I often long for an easy carefree run in the woods. Writing in English—expressing myself clearly—with words that I own and that aren’t borrowed, feels like a good run, even now, after living in French-speaking Switzerland for 22 years.

I thoroughly enjoy reading novels in French, and wish I could enjoy Francophone poetry to the same degree. I’m incapable of doing so. Even though I hold an MA in French, and am supposedly fluent, French can still get a bit ‘high and mighty’ when it gets around me—or when I step into the thick of it. However, I’ve learned not to fight with French anymore and can even laugh at my spectacular failures—more on that in my essay, Mastering French, which was recently published in Tales from a Small Planet.

Your blog contains a wonderful image of the huge, sprawling oak of ideas whittled down to its essence, an acorn. How do you go about reducing an amorphous set of thoughts to a few hard-hitting lines?

Thank you! Sometimes, the constraints of haiku and senryū help me get to the essential of what I’m trying to say. Limited lines and syllables make word choice especially dear. Some of my haiku come from pages and pages of notes. The title of my blog, Oaks to Acorns, reflects that thought process; when I write poetry, it’s an attempt to reduce an oak (something huge and unwieldly) to a simple acorn (something manageable that anybody could hold in their hand). To get to the essential, and put a vast and complex thought into a nice neat shell, is one way I reconcile my worlds.

Old-school poets have a pretty romantic/tragic image as solitary figures expressing a personal reaction to the world. Geneva Writers’ Group offers plenty of opportunities to learn the craft and meet other writers working in all forms. You also took part in NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month). What do you gain from these writerly connections?

The Geneva Writers’ Group (GWG) pulled my poetry out of the old play box and onto the dance floor. While swirling around with all sorts of writers, I mustered up the courage to tap on the shoulder of The Frost Place. After a few shots at publishing, I headed over to Middlebury College’s Bread Loaf in Sicily Conference. My dance card filled right up when NaPoWriMo featured one of my poems in 2015, again in 2017 and, just recently in 2018. It’s incredible to be in contact with poets from all over the world who also ‘play’ poetry. Who knew? By the way, most writers I know are party animals—they may prefer solitude when they write, but when they gather together, well, let’s just say, anything goes.

Thanks to the GWG, and the Pernessy Poets in Lausanne, I’m constantly gaining not only confidence, knowledge, advice, feedback, and the joy that comes with a sense of kinship—but also, since the writers I know like to nibble and sip deliciousness when we gather, a lot of weight.

Much of your work comes from a personal perspective. Do you think poetry encourages a more subjective take on experience, inviting the reader to identify, rather than an overt attempt to entertain?

I suppose so; I’ve never fact-checked my poetry and it is entirely from my perspective. Just as some people do needlepoint, or play rugby or video games to entertain themselves, I play poetry. In short, it’s one way I entertain myself. If others find my writing entertaining, then it makes me even happier.

Let’s talk about the haiku. An impressive woman once told me it is the best way to condense an experience. But this quote from Chris Harris is a criticism of teaching children poetry through haiku: “If we can help kids think of poetry as expansive rather than constrictive, they can discover just how many directions there are to explore.” What’s your take?

I agree with Chris Harris that children should be encouraged to ‘play poetry’ without limits—unless the child finds this overwhelming and then, why not provide haiku as an option? I don’t believe there is any one form that could suit every age universally, but I do believe there is a form (which may be form-less) out there, somewhere, for everybody.

Harris’ poems are of the sort I enjoy best—they’re the bubbles in the bath. They make me kick back, relax and let the child inside have good giggle, along the lines of Silverstein or Sandburg. On that note, if there are any adults out there who were forced to write or swallow unwanted poetry in some academic institution, like I was, may I suggest you try again, at least once, with just one poem, An Introduction to Poetry, by Billy Collins?

All writers tinker and twiddle before they are ready to send a piece of work out into the world. Surely poetry is much harder? You are crafting a delicate piece of jewellery, weaving precious stones and metals into something beautiful. When your only materials are words and your tools your imagination, when do you know when to stop?

Good question! I don’t know if poetry is any harder to work with than prose; my first novel was a six-year revisionary disaster. I never did manage to form anything resembling a delicate piece of jewellery, draft after draft. Pity my poor writing group at the time!

Here’s the thing: I don’t know when to stop. If anyone out there does, please let me know. I have beaten many poems—and one sorry novel—to death with endless drafts. Maybe a reasonable stopping point would be when I start swearing at Word’s pop-up, ‘Welcome back!’ I take it personally and wonder, How dare Word get snarky with me, working so hard to get things right. It might as well say, ‘You? AGAIN?!’

Finally, The Woolf special question: Which work of fiction, including poetry, means most to you, and why?

For fiction, John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany for its honest physical and spiritual portrayal of my New Hampshire roots; I’ve reread it at ‘the worst of times’ for comfort and it always gets me where I want to go. As for poetry, I could never choose just one; my bottomless play box holds poetry collections by Vievee Francis, Elizabeth Bishop, Sharon Olds, Kay Ryan, Charles Simic, Naomi Shihab Nye, Rilke, Susan Hylen, Ross Gay, Carol Ann Duffy, Robert Frost, Aracelis Girmay, Sarah Browning, Carmen Bugan, Laura Kasischke and, of course, my mother, Eve Hamblett Cassatt … to name just a few.

Mastering French

Published  by Talesmag in Tales From a Small Planet, February 2018

I’m thinking of giving up. It would be a kindness to myself; I’ve been trying to master French for 40 years now. But how do you give up a foreign language when you live in one of its foreign lands, like Lausanne, Switzerland? And your family, friends and neighbors speak that way to you  ̶  not to mention your dentist, plumber, mechanic, mailman, kids’ teachers …? Maybe I could go on strike for a day: just stay home and Skype English-speaking friends, read untranslatable poetry, binge-watch American series and take a stand with those telemarketers. I’m sorry? What’s that? I. Cannot. Un-der-stand. Yooo-uuu!

It all started in earnest in 1979, at the Northfield Mount Hermon School, which offered a term abroad in Arcachon, France. The program required the completion of French III which, in my 16-year-old mind, meant three years of French. Even though I was only in French II, I figured that the five years it took me to get there (counting middle school) would surely balance things out, and I applied. And I was rejected.

At the last minute, some better-French-speaking student dropped out of the program for reasons I never bothered to explore; unless sudden death was involved, the idea of turning down a trip to France was unfathomable to me. I was in! I was going to France! I was going to live with a real French famille in a maison  ̶  just like in my textbook ̶  with a cuisine and a salon and a salle de bains, and go to a lycée with étudiants in a country full of amour! Not to mention, it was legal to drink vin there and one of my best friends, Joanne, was going, too. PLUS this meant I didn’t have to take chemistry. Vive la France!

We flew from Boston to Luxembourg and, after a series of trains, arrived in Arcachon. My French father, Monsieur Carrière, was waiting for me at the gare in his Citroën Déesse (DS).

 Bonjour Monsieur!

 I would write his response but I have no idea what he said. Whatever it was, it sounded lovely and he was smiling under his bushy moustache. He put my bags in the car, chatting all the while, and started the engine as I stood smiling and nodding. I reached to open the door and the car levitated. Yes, it levitated. And I froze. A never-never list unfurled in my brain: I’d never seen a car that looked anything like a DS – much less one that levitated, and I had never imagined jumping into such a strange vehicle with a strange man saying strange words in a strange land.  It was, well, very strange!

Monsieur reached across, rolled down the passenger’s window and waved me in.

Vous avez faim?

Ohmygoodness. I’ve got this. I understand him! Yessssss! I’ve got this! I can speak! And I’m hungry. I got in the car.

 Oui, Monsieur. J’ai faim. Et vous?

 I would write his response here but I have no idea what he said. It was cheerful enough to make me relax, however, and we arrived à la maison which held his wife, Madame Carrière, and his three daughters, Flo-Flo (Florence), Co-Co (Corine) and Mi-Mi (Miriam). Flo-Flo showed me the cuisine and the salon and took me upstairs, to my chambre with a little sink in it. I’d never seen a sink in a bedroom, so I pointed and asked,

Salle de bains? [Bathroom?]

 I would write Flo-Flo’s response but she laughed way too hard for me to be able to understand what she said. She motioned for me to wash my hands. So, I washed my hands. She watched. We looked at each other in silence for a moment.

Among many words, Flo-Flo motioned me to follow her. I did understand one word  ̶  manger [eat]  ̶  but she kindly mimed it anyway. Flo-Flo was on to me. Maybe they all knew I was only a French II graduate? We headed downstairs to the salle à manger where the others were seated before lovely plates of thinly sliced tomatoes arranged just so, and all sorts of fresh looking salads. Bon appétit!

I would tell you what Madame said to welcome me through that sweet smile of hers but I have no idea. Whatever it was, she said it so slowly it reminded me of when I used to play with the speed on my tape recorder. Monsieur stopped her by waving, turned to me, and I’d tell you what he said but I have no idea. In my silence, I crafted a sentence to express my delight at the delicious food in front of me and my gratitude for their warm welcome. I aimed to explain how, after more than 24 hours of train and airplane food full of preservatives, it was a real treat to sit down to a fresh homemade meal with such a kind and welcoming family. I managed,

Je mange trop préservatifs. C’est bon frais avec gens gentils. Merci. Merci beaucoup…

 Preservatives = conservateurs 

Condoms = préservatifs

Translation: “I eat too much condoms. It’s good fresh with nice people. Thank you. Thank you very much…”

And here I sit, 40 years later, with an MA in French from Middlebury College, having spent the last 21 years living in French-speaking Switzerland, ready to wave a white flag. I can read anything in French, and my writing is fine. If you give me blanks to fill in, my grammar is top notch. But as soon as I open my mouth, I’m pegged. Where does that charming accent come from? And I can even live with my obvious accent. What I can no longer take is my persistent and spectacular failure to apply the correct vocabulary spontaneously. A recent example:

I know perfectly well, for example, that many nouns are formed by adding –ment and –age to verbs:

To change / a change = changer -> un changement

To pass / a passage = passer -> un passage

My car needed a really good scrub. Off I went to the local car wash to have it deep cleaned. Let me tell you something: It does not take a master’s degree in French to accomplish this.  Au contraire. I know that “deep” involves the word profond and “to clean” is some form of laver. I know these things. I don’t think about them. I just speak. With good grammar.

Bonjour, Monsieur. Je voudrais un lavement  ̶  mais profond, comme il le faut, s’il vous plaît!

To wash / a washing = laver -> un lavage

Enema = un lavement

Translation: “Hello, Sir. I’d like an enema – a deep one, done properly, please!”

 I’m thinking of asking Middlebury for a refund.

I know I’m not the only one to struggle with mastering French. Such mistakes are understandable for someone who has just moved to a French-speaking country, such as myself back in 1979, or such as a man I’ll call Earnest Eric.

I call this person Earnest Eric because a) I don’t know his full name, as we only met in passing at the salon of my esthetician, Marisabelle, in Lausanne. And b) because of the way he thanked the salon’s owner, Marisa, who does not speak English, so earnestly and profusely in the most elegant British accent I’d ever heard used in French.

Once I was all set up for a wax with Marisa, she confided that Earnest Eric had recently moved himself, and his lovely hot-potato-in-the-mouth British accent, to Lausanne on a generous package which afforded him a home with a yard. For him, no home could be considered complete without a dog. A properly trained dog. Not knowing how dogs were trained in Switzerland, Eric figured he’d get a puppy and train the dog himself. Any race would do. His only requirement was that the puppy be female.

He had prepared his call to the local animal shelter by reviewing a few key words and polite phrases. Dog = le chien. Female = femelle.  Would you have = Auriez-vous He remembered, vaguely, that some words for animals change completely, depending on the age and the sex of the animal.  He googled a chart that looked something like this:

Animal Male Female Baby
Sheep un mouton une brebis un agneau
Lion un lion une lionne un lionceau
Dog un chien une chienne un chiot

 It was disconcerting that only the masculine, un chiot, was given for puppy, since he really wanted a female puppy. If he were to say,

Bonjour, Madame/Monsieur. Auriez-vous un chiot disponible, s’il vous plaît?

Hello Madam/Sir. Would you have a puppy available, please?”

the person answering the phone would have no way of knowing that the puppy had to be female. Eric googled some more and found a chart somewhat like this:

How to make a word ending in  -ot feminine           

idiot idiote
sot sotte
viellot viellotte

At this point in the story, I was to remain, shall we say, splayed. Marisa smeared hot wax on me and told me not to move as the wax hardened. On she went, imitating Eric’s accent,

Aha! I get it! ‘un chien’ must become ‘une chiotte’!  our Earnest Eric said to himself. He duly corrected his question and called the animal shelter.

Bonjour, Madame. Auriez-vous une chiotte disponible, s’il vous plaît?

Un chien = dog. Une chienne = female dog. Un chiot = a puppy.

Chier = to shit. Une chiotte = a shithole/toilet.

Translation: “Hello Madam. Would you happen to have a shithole available, please?”

I tried to keep it together and not to move. Really, I did. But this sent me into a laughing fit so severe that I became unsplayed  ̶  meaning I crossed my legs on reflex. In fact, the only thing that held together was the wax. Hard and fast.

Come to think of it, maybe I should stick with the French and give up waxing.

©2018 by Elizabeth Boquet. All rights reserved.

French II graduate backpacked and heading out the door to France 




Necessary Fiction

These two flashes were published on Necessary Fiction where I was the writer in residence 24 September 2012.


Good Neighbor

Only in our daily phone routine do my neighbor and I punctuate strict silence.

“What?!” he barks, after the fifth ring of my third try.

“Never mind!” I say.

We hang up.

He’s still alive.


Pillow Fight

“Oh come on, Mom! What difference does it make if he spends the night? You think I’m still a virgin? At eighteen?”

“It’s my house.”

“I live there.”

“Under my roof, my rules.”

“My body, my rules.”

“Your body, your baby.”

“I know how to protect myself.”

As we glide into the mountain tunnel, lane-lines pound out their familiar beat into our headlights. She doesn’t think to remove her Ray Bans.







Backpacks and mammograms

I wrote this piece in 2006 for an expat-immigrant mag called Swissnews. All rights reverted to me upon publication.

Annual doctor’s check-ups are never fun … especially in a foreign country, when you just aren’t sure what to expect. And having to deal with the entire ordeal while topless? Well, that’s another story altogether…

Last week, I dutifully went for my annual mammogram at Lausanne’s university hospital – known as the CHUV. Now, I wouldn’t call this a pleasant experience, but I’d prepared myself psychologically: I’d arrived early, so I wouldn’t stress about parking and would still have time to treat myself to an English magazine in the coffee shop.

On the dot for my appointment, I was directed to a small closet. No, not a room, but a closet. In the closet – which held one metal chair, a mirror and two doors facing opposite each other – I was supposed to remove all clothing from the waist up, and wait. So I did. I turned and faced the door opposite the one I’d entered, waiting as instructed, until a friendly lady opened it and escorted me directly to the mammogram machine. Leave it to the efficient Swiss, I thought. This will be over as quickly and discreetly as possible.

Yet, a slight awkwardness began creeping over me. Let’s face it, it is rather weird to have a stranger, male or female, manipulating your breasts – where does one look? Does one smile politely? Does one make small talk?

Anyway, the friendly lady and I got through it, with a bit of light chatter. The awkwardness dissipated, as the relief spread that it was over. She escorted me back to the little closet, and again told me to wait … as I was.

Taking stock

To avoid imagining things, I decided to sort my purse; however, with no trashcan available, I just inventoried its contents for future reference. (I am always surprised at what I find in its depths, since I’m not one of those ladies who changes her purse to match her outfits: chestnuts from last fall that my son made me promise to keep, my Swiss Army Knife, bits of sticky watermelon-flavoured sugar free candy, expired coupons, and pen caps without pens, etc.) This helped pass the time until the friendly lady came and asked me to follow her … just as I was: nothing on from the waist up.

Okay, I can handle a topless stroll, I tried to convince myself. Who cares about my breasts? This is medical! Get on with it! But then came the matter of my purse …

I considered leaving it in the closet room because, just how does one carry a purse with any sense of dignity whatsoever when one is topless? Casually over the shoulder? Neatly, with two hands? Across the chest meter-maid style just didn’t seem reasonable.

Mine is a backpack model, but I just couldn’t picture the backpack method naked either. So, I opted for the ladylike, two-handed method and headed out the door determined, with my chin up, down the little hall into a room where a tiny, rather tense-looking man stood up with his hand extended to introduce himself. I stuck out my hand and, red faced, laughed out my name mumbling an apology that I wasn’t used to introducing my half-naked self to men. He said he did it all the time, to which my response was an awkward and undignified silence.