An Interview with Extraordinary Poet – Victor Ross II
I hope that
my poetry has weight as
well as an airiness.
the balance between
gravity and floating.
it is my attempt to enter the world.
it is my attempt to introduce myself.
it is my intent.
it is my curiosity. it is my asking.
it is my entrance.
Tell me, who are you?
My name is Victor Ross II and I live in Los Angeles, California. I work as an actor and as an editorial and fashion model. I am a single father, a poet, an artist, a son, a friend. I’m just a dude passing through this crazy place.
When did you first write?
I started writing; journaling, making lists and scratching out poems when I was about 14 years old. When my parents fought, I sought refuge in writing. Poems kept falling out of me and my notebooks provided a safe haven.
What is it, to be a poet in this age, in this time?
I try my best to not wrap myself in the world. I don’t watch the news because it feels thick and full of hate. It doesn’t feel like love. I am not in denial about the world’s state but I don’t think there is a huge difference between what is happening now in the world and what’s happened in previous years, decades and even millenniums ago. I am trying to discover what my part is in this world. We could all use something soft to lean into, especially as the overall consciousness feels fast and rough and full of short fused bombs of anger, racism, fire and war. Nobody’s listening, nobody’s being heard.
I am trying to create soft little pockets in the world. Soft corners to rest in; little spaces for your mind and heart to take a break from the day and relax into a poem. These spaces are like mental park benches, places to ponder a thought and places to take a breath in between the madness of the day.
Who is your muse?
I look for poems everywhere, in everything and in anybody. I search in mountains, clouds, shadows, the sun, skin, scents, my son, misinterpreted song lyrics, other poets, in my sleep, in soft moments, in anger and in falling in love and inside kisses. I look for poems in all the different forms and shapes that love can be…
I find it both painful and liberating to write. Is this a similar experience for you?
I write when I am surging inside. I don’t like to attack writing or to sit for too long, I don’t want it to become a chore. Sometimes, I feel the writing process reveals too much to me and I’m discovering too much of myself that I’m not ready to uncover. Writing is a relief and yet at the same time, I have to figure out what to do with the pain.
Do you use emotion for inspiration?
I definitely draw from emotion. I draw from what is daunting or living inside me. My inspiration is this little voice inside, telling me I have to write. Being a poet, means I can create spaces where I can be nothing, where I can sit in active silence. I can create my world where I play with memories, tweak thoughts and remake, reshape and remould my reality. I use my imagination, reach my hand into the future, and play with it and I write about what is beautiful to me.
Where in your mind do you go to write?
I go to past relationships, sunrises, sunsets, the sound of the ocean, guilt and hurtful moments. My son also inspires me with his eyes, his character and his humour. My friends, family, nature, calm and stillness, all these inspire me. My life and the lessons I’ve learnt and have still to learn, drive my writing. I am still growing and discovering.
My poems are my questions to the world. They are my wanderings, my understandings, my reaching. There is nothing I know for certain and I am constantly shifting.
I wanted to be your blood, drunk inside of you.
Could I be the reason for the shape of your lips?
Half tilted, crooked and wild.
I felt them far before my lips met them.
I saw myself in your stories, your life, the world you shaped.
Though you cannot make me feel anything,
I felt and I am willing to feel.
This infatuation sure felt like love.
At least that’s what your wild smile told me so boldly across the table,
Then you got up, stumbled, crashed and fell against my lips.
The wine, the lips, the love.
It’s hard to say what I was drunk upon.