Luke Rolfes: Justin Hamm, poet extraordinaire from the middle of America, is out with a couple new books from Spartan Press: O Death and Drinking Guinness with the Dead. Congrats on the new books, Justin. And thanks so much for taking some time with us today to talk about your work and Midwest poetry.
Justin Hamm: Luke, it’s a pleasure!
LR: What can you tell us about the genesis of these books? Were you working on O Death simultaneously with Drinking Guinness with the Dead?
JH: There really wasn’t much, if any, overlap—DGWTD was a pandemic project. I took some of the endless “free” time to reconsider how my earlier books and poems fit together. I cut poems I no longer loved and aimed to create a strong representation of my work so far—on a single press and under one cover. From a touring perspective, having a single book to promote and a single publisher to work with made practical sense, but more importantly, the book let me illustrate an important period for me as a poet and a person.
After putting out that book, I felt really free to try new things. With the poems that became O Death, I took approaches I wouldn’t have considered before. The work was/is still very much me, still rooted in all my obsessions, with plenty of thematic continuity, but my thinking shifted. Folk music, folk tales, and the folk process shaped my direction more explicitly. I’d never tried erasures before, so I gave those a shot. I abandoned lineation, opting for a longer, somewhat breathless style that changed the sound and feel of the work. And performing so often made me write with a live audience in mind for the first time, rather than solely a page reader.
LR: Drinking Guinness with the Dead is a selection of poems from a 13-year span. Can you take us through the process of selecting and revisiting some of your work from the last decade plus? Was it easier than you expected? More difficult?
JH: Most of the work in “assembling” that book came down to making cuts. There were poems I no longer felt strongly about. If not for the pandemic, I doubt I’d have even considered putting together a book like this, but with so much time to get restless, I eventually found myself rereading my old books—once I’d exhausted flipping through family photos and revisiting every record I own five or six times. And you know, I was surprised by how much still resonated, yet I also felt a really strong urge to rethink the work through my then-current understanding.
First cuts were easy. I went through the physical books and put a big X over any poem that no longer felt right. (And for some reason, that process felt really good.) Once I got a clear idea of what needed to go, I spent a weekend in a hotel room with my laptop and a billion Coke Zeros, physically re-assembling the manuscript for Spartan Press from old files. Using sticky notes, I mapped the poems across collections on the walls, looking for where they reinforced each other, overlapped, or simply repeated. This led to more cuts. It was time-consuming but not especially difficult—I already had a fairly strong sense of where I wanted the book to land from all those pandemic rereads.
LR: When putting together selected poems, what did you learn about yourself as a writer? Did you pick up on any ways your poetry has evolved over the years?
JH: I already knew this, but working on DGWTD made it apparent in a new way—I am obsessed with ghosts in all forms. Memories, decay, dreams, regrets, DNA inheritances, history, lost mothers, childhood. Almost nothing I’ve written isn’t haunted in some way. Even my funny poems contain a ghost of regret. Often, that’s intentional, but there are also many poems that don’t seem haunted at first glance. Looking back, though, I found the ghosts hidden in their stanzas as well.
That hasn’t changed with O Death, either, by the way.
LR: As I mentioned, much of your work centers around the Midwest. I also think of myself as a Midwest writer, and I often ponder things that are unique to this area of the world. Wide open spaces yet relatively few players occupying the stage. A strong connection between the people and the land. Agriculture as far as the eye can see. Clusters of towns hugging rivers. What do you think makes this area of the country unique and worth writing about?
JH: I love that question. When I was studying writing in the 2000s, regionalism was a bit of a slur—almost a way to diminish a writer’s ambition or scope. But there were whispers among the writers I studied with, hints of a Midwestern Gothic aesthetic that always intrigued me. The big leap forward for me, both in terms of writing and publishing, came when I stopped resisting that pull and decided to lean into place—to look closely, to notice, and to write about what’s right here.
It’s not so much that the Midwest is unique—though of course, it is in some ways—as it is that it’s universal. All the most pressing struggles in the world today are mirrored here on a smaller, more intimate scale. The collision of rural and urban, tradition and change. Economic hardship. Deep cultural roots that sometimes nurture and sometimes strangle. And there’s a proud, complicated history running through it all. There’s beauty here, too—subtle, weathered, expansive. You just have to slow down enough to see it. That’s what I try to do in my work.
LR: The poetry in O Death has no punctuation, and much of it is presented in justified margins. What about that particular style appeals to you?
JH: I’ve performed a lot over the last few years, so I’ve been thinking more about how poems on a page will come across out loud. Touring with Guinness has sharpened my ability to deliver to an audience. But with those poems, I became so highly aware of how the audience would react I sometimes checked out emotionally in readings. Which defeats the purpose of standing up with your poems in the first place.
So I started composing without lineation and punctuation to make sure I tuned in to rhythm and emotion as I read. Without that attention, I’d get lost and butcher my words right in front of the audience. The form also allows for some improvisation in pacing and emphasis, which adds a unique dynamic. I might not read a poem the same way twice.
The style also works alongside what’s happening inside the poems. There’s a natural sense of overwhelm in the stream-of-consciousness flow—just as there’s a sense of overwhelm from what the poems say. I want to push at the limits of what can be contained in neat justified boundaries, like the world itself is too much to hold.
LR: I love the erasures in O Death, some of which are from the works of Twain, Joyce, and even Edgar Allen Poe. What is your process when selecting a text for erasure? And could you walk us through your method of erasure? Do you go old-school with a marker and black out the text?
JH: I’ve always been intrigued by the folk process, and my friend John Dorsey’s book of erasures Pocatello Wildflower got me started down the road of erasure in that vein. The folk process is all about transformation—how stories, songs, and ideas evolve as they’re passed from person to person. I liked the idea of taking material from something I love—distilling it, reshaping it—because the raw materials belong to everybody. I picked texts that meant something to me, books and writers I’ve loved: Dubliners, Life on the Mississippi, Edgar Allan Poe’s works, folk & blues songs from Robert Johnson and Mississippi John Hurt. Sometimes we read a book or hear a song and connect with it on a deep frequency, but then wonder, What next? This was my way of reengaging, digging back in with a fresh approach to classics.
I always started with a physical book—usually the same copy I read the first time. I didn’t focus on specific sections, but I’d read them before so I always knew where I was in the book. I’d flip through, looking for some way in—an interesting phrase that caught my eye. Then I’d take a pencil and circle what I wanted to keep. Sometimes I’d have to erase and rethink a couple times before I got a good thread going. From there, I considered how words and phrases collided down the page, the story they told when placed alongside each other. I also thought about how a reader’s knowledge—or lack of knowledge—of the source text might shape their experience. Finally, I’d bring them to the computer, recreating the shape of the poem but in a condensed size that would fit the book.
LR: You intersperse public domain images throughout this book. Can you talk about your intentionality in doing this and how you see these images falling into conversation with the poems in this collection?
JH: This was another aspect of the folk process—taking what belongs to everybody and mixing it with something more personal. I guess I see these images the way a folk singer might see a traditional melody: a foundation to build on, to distort slightly, or to pair with new lyrics until it feels like it’s both an homage and a reinvention. I tried to pick images to echo the emotional atmosphere of the poems, sometimes in direct ways—visually reinforcing a moment or tone—and sometimes more subtly.
But also, the images are like little ghosts between the poems. They create the kind of haunted texture that keeps the reader grounded in the world I’m trying to make. The pictures don’t just accompany the poems—they help the book feel like a curated room you walk through, where language and image both play the same funeral dirge.
LR: The title poem “O Death” is tragic. In it you present a scene of a young child riding on a lawnmower with his grandfather. The mower accidently strikes a nest of bunnies, and the grandfather tries desperately to comfort the child. Since this is the title poem, that image—that realization of the world’s violence—seems to hang over the rest of the book. Can you tell us about that moment in the poem and what motivated you to end the piece on this note?
JH: You’ve zeroed in on a pivotal moment. There are other poems in O Death that explore that same transition from innocence into experience—as Blake would put it—but this one in the title poem is especially raw because it’s sudden. A kid sees the world as gentle, a storybook. Then something horrifying interrupts that belief. The death of the bunnies is senseless and small in the grand scheme, but it completely shatters the child’s understanding of the world.
That’s the central heartbreak of the whole book. The universe doesn’t pause to acknowledge our grief. What might mean everything to us—the ones we love, the memories that define us—can vanish without any consequence. It’s a truth we spend our whole lives trying to survive.
Ending there wasn’t something I planned. I discovered the ending as I followed the poem where it wanted to go. I was thinking about how tenderness exists right alongside violence, and how our only real power is in how we respond—with language and love.
LR: I like how you are able to jump from an image, memory, or moment to broader and more pointed topics, such as you do in “Banjo Frogs,” which moves from frogs to technology to society to politics. Can you take us through the inspiration for this poem?
JH: I was googling images of frogs playing banjos—the folk art trope—for a collage I wanted to make. That’s when I discovered there’s an actual frog called the banjo frog, named for the sound it makes. What started as something quirky and visual quickly expanded. The poem became a way to explore how symbols like frogs, banjos, or “folksiness” get commercialized—how America has a knack for flattening real, rooted culture into kitsch. It’s a meditation on authenticity, and how easily it’s hijacked and sold back to us stripped of context and meaning.
LR: Another favorite of mine is “He Slept in a One Room Cabin.” This poem addresses the anxiety of living in a post-Columbine and Sandy Hook world. An elementary teacher is haunted by dreams of the worst possible scenario. My sense is that fear is a powerful emotion to tap into. Can you talk about how you go about balancing the raw power of fear with the art you intend to create?
JH: This is something I’ve tried to write about before, and it took me a while because every vehicle that could transport that fear to the reader felt contrived or insubstantial. I needed what I finally got: a real event to unlock the fear. I spent a weekend in a small shed cabin in the woods, and these anxieties about being alone and unable to lock the door really did send me into a dream like this. I still chose to use a distancing technique in the point of view, as if fully inhabiting it rather than writing in the third person was too much to handle. Otherwise, what can I really say? I work a job where I’m expected to know what to do when someone wants to kill a lot of children. It seems unbelievable but it’s true.
LR: After reading O Death and Drinking Guinness with the Dead, I noticed that you often write about the experience of the “everyman.” Perhaps even the Midwest everyman? The everyman tries his best, works hard, knows tragedy, has loved and lost and still believes in love, has vices and demons, is flawed, etc. In your mind, is there such a thing as the “everyman”? Could you define, in your own words, what particular experience and identity your poetry seeks to represent?
JH: I think what you’re picking up on just reflects who I am and where I come from. Nearly always, I’m the speaker in my poems, even when the details are entirely fabricated. The voice, the values, the emotional weather—they’re either mine or, at the least, filtered heavily through my worldview. I’ve spent my life around people just like you describe. They’re hard-working, quietly grieving, deeply loving, flawed, and funny in the face of pain.
I try to honor their inner lives—not in a patronizing way, but in a way that honors the depth in what might otherwise seem dull and ordinary. There’s poetry in resilience and daily survival.
So you’re asking, Is there a universal “everyman?” I don’t think so. But there are common emotional truths. I write to combine those truths into something honest—something someone might read and say, This is how it really feels.
LR: You’ve been an ambassador for poetry in the Midwest. Are there any organizations, poets, groups you’d like to shout out that we should be paying attention to?
JH: More than I could possibly name here, honestly. There’s so much happening in these quiet corners of the Midwest if you know where to look. My friend Jason Ryberg is doing incredible work for Missouri and Kansas poets through Spartan Press. He’s not just a publisher—he’s a hell of a poet himself, and there’s real movement coming out of that press. I’m proud to be part of it.
John Dorsey is another name that deserves recognition. He’s an underground legend—prolific, full of heart, and wildly engaging on the page. Sandra Marchetti, Jessica Walsh, Abraham Smith, who is from Wisconsin and has deep ties there.
Who else? You’ve got Indiana Poet Laureate and friend Curtis Crisler, Angelique Zobitz, Sean Thomas Dougherty, poet and Laurel Review editor John Gallaher. W. Joe Hoppe is a Michigan-based poet doing great work, and Saddiq Dzukogi, who will soon be based in Nebraska, is just an unbelievable writer. The New Territory, edited by Tina Casagrand and based in Missouri, is an essential publication concerned with the lower Midwest.
And I’ve got to shout out some of the local institutions and scenes that keep things vibrant: the Gumbo Bottoms Still Pot Poetry Society in Jefferson City; Café Berlin’s reading series in Columbia; The Speakeasy at Swordfish Tom’s in Kansas City. I’ve left so many wonderful folks out—small communities doing the work, often unpaid, to keep poetry alive in real, grassroots ways.
LR: Finally, what’s next for you and your work? Any new projects on the horizon?
JH: I’ve got a split collection with Abraham Smith, John Dorsey, and Jason Ryberg coming out soon from Spartan Press—each of us contributed about 25–30 pages, and it’s a wild, heartfelt mix of voices. I’m proud to be part of it. I also have an experimental book on the way later this year, also from Spartan Press, though I’m keeping quiet about the details for the moment.
This summer I’ll be on the road for readings in Michigan, Ohio, and Indiana. I’d planned to be in Ireland, too, for a residency at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, but I decided not to go. Given the way our government has treated artists and immigrants at the border, it didn’t sit right with me to travel freely and enjoy that privilege while others are detained or denied due process. Instead, I’m staying home and donating my travel funds to support legal aid for immigrants. I’m a little heartbroken, to be honest. I love Ireland deeply and the Tyrone Guthrie Centre is a fabulous place to be accepted. But I just couldn’t meet my pillow peacefully if I traveled like nothing was out of the ordinary.
I’m also trying to build literary community in ways that feel personal and—hopefully—very inclusive. I’ll be expanding the roster of Poet Baseball Cards, a project where I design collectible cards featuring contemporary poets, and because StayWP—the free, virtual alternative to AWP I launched this year—seemed to go over really well, I’m organizing a follow-up event this fall called Leftovers Literary Fest. It’ll be another chance for writers to gather, share work, and support each other outside the usual gatekeeping structures.
LR: Thanks, Justin, for taking the time to talk with us! O Death and Drinking Guinness with the Dead are both available from Spartan Press. Please go check them out! https://spartanpresskc.com/author/justin-hamm/
JH: Thanks for the great questions, Luke.
---Justin Hamm is a poet, photographer, and editor from Missouri. He is the author of O Death, Drinking Guinness with the Dead, The Inheritance, and other collections. His work, rooted in Midwestern landscapes and folk traditions, has appeared in Verse Daily, The Laurel Review, Nimrod, River Styx, and New Poetry from the Midwest. He is the founding editor of the museum of americana and the creator of the Poet Baseball Cards series, as well as the organizer of the StayWP virtual literary conference.