Geoffrey Gatza is an award-winning editor, publisher, and poet. He is the driving force behind BlazeVOX, a small press located in Buffalo, NY and was named by the Huffington Post as one of the Top 200 Advocates for American Poetry. He is the author of many books, most recently, A Dog Lost in the Brick City of Outlawed Trees, (Mute Canary 2018). He lives in Kenmore, New York with his wife and several beloved cats.
Self Geofferential is a collection of poetry side-by-site with collages filled with dreams of wandering, tenderness, and mystery. It is part Aesop’s fable and frame tale narrative, and as deeply rooted in Kenmore, New York as in “this most unusual manor house.” The collages vary in style but emphasize the form of the object being displayed, be it banana, apple/ potato, wolf, or butterfly in a field of flowers with a whiff of subversion. At its core, the collection investigates the timeless question of beauty and artmaking.
Tiffany Troy: Self Geofferential’s cover is a somewhat ripe and spotted banana hung upside down in a silver background, almost draping the title. That is followed by the mixed collages “Library Books” and “Boogie Woogie.” Can you speak a bit about these collages set up the reader/viewer’s expectations about the poems/art that is to follow?
Geoffrey Gatza: Great question, thanks for asking. The cover of Self Geofferential—with its ripe, spotted banana hanging upside down against a silver background—immediately sets a tone of playful subversion, a mix of the familiar and the unexpected. The banana, often a symbol of humor, decay, or even pop art, hints at themes of transformation, time, and perception, which echo throughout the book.
The collages ‘Library Books’ and ‘Boogie Woogie’ continue this conversation visually. ‘Library Books’ speaks to the accumulation of knowledge, the layering of ideas, and the way texts interact over time—just as the poems do. ‘Boogie Woogie’ takes a different approach, engaging rhythm, movement, and spontaneity, much like poetry in its liveliest forms. Both pieces establish a visual language that invites readers to navigate the book with a sense of openness, curiosity, and an awareness that meaning is often constructed from unexpected juxtapositions.
TT: I love the distinct visual styles and traditions at play here, and how the book fulfills the reader’s expectations and delights them in other ways. Your work falls within the tradition of illuminated manuscripts, graphic literature, and children’s book but also feels different. Could you speak to your influences in the conception of Self Geofferential as an artists’ book/ poetry collection/ something else? There are resonances I feel between your work (focusing on the apple, for instance) that is deceptively simple but focuses on how the sound/ appearance/ the characteristics of a thing are the form of the thing (apple v. potato, in cooking, creating collages, writing poems).
GG: I love that you picked up on the interplay between simplicity and form—how something as basic as an apple or a potato isn’t just a thing but a structure, a sound, a texture that shapes experience. That’s at the heart of Self Geofferential.
In terms of influences, I’m definitely in conversation with illuminated manuscripts and graphic literature, where text and image aren’t just coexisting but actively shaping one another. The way medieval scribes wove marginalia into the reading experience, or how contemporary artists like Joe Brainard or Anne Carson use image-text relationships, has always fascinated me. Children’s books, too, offer this distilled visual language that carries enormous weight in its simplicity—think of Eric Carle or Tana Hoban, where shape and color do as much storytelling as words.
But I also see Self Geofferential as an artist’s book in the sense that the form itself is an argument—it’s not just a collection of poems with illustrations; it’s a conversation between mediums. The apple, for instance, isn’t just an image or a word but a tactile presence. It’s about how we process meaning through layering—whether that’s in cooking, collage, or writing. By setting up these visual and linguistic contrasts—apple versus potato, banana versus time—I’m playing with how recognition and expectation inform our sense of what something ‘is.’
TT: How does your artistic process influence your writing process and vice versa?
GG:My artistic process and my writing process are really two sides of the same coin. When I create a collage—working with watercolor-painted paper, gluing pieces onto matte boards, or even lettering on flat surfaces—I’m engaging with a very tactile, intuitive form of storytelling. Each element, whether it’s a brushstroke, a carefully selected fragment of paper, or a handwritten word, becomes a building block for a larger narrative.
This process naturally informs my poetry. The spontaneity of collage encourages me to explore similar layers in my writing. Just as a collage is about finding meaning in contrast and in the merging of elements, my poems are crafted to highlight the subtle interplay between image and word, sound and silence, form and content.
Conversely, the precision and intentionality in my written work rebounds back into my visual art. The way I think about rhythm, cadence, and narrative structure in poetry helps me plan the layout and flow of a visual piece. In both mediums, I’m driven by a desire to capture fleeting moments of beauty and insight, using both words and images to invite the viewer or reader into a deeper, layered experience.
TT: What was your approach in sequencing the poems and art work?
GG: The sequencing of poems and artwork in Self Geofferential wasn’t a strict, pre-planned process but more of a discovery—an intuitive act of finding resonances between pieces that were often created years apart. I made the collages separately from the writing, and rather than illustrating the poems directly, I selected the strongest visual pieces I had and placed them into the book.
From there, I started looking for happy coincidences—moments where an image and a poem, despite being created independently, seemed to speak to each other. Sometimes it was a shared mood, a contrast in texture, or even just an unexpected conversation between forms. I added poems into the mix, letting the relationships emerge organically.
This process mirrors how I think about collage itself—juxtaposition, layering, and discovery. Just as a torn edge or a brushstroke can shift the meaning of a visual piece, placing a poem next to an image changes the way both are read. I wanted the book to feel fluid, where meaning comes as much from the spaces between elements as from the elements themselves.
TT: In “Drawing Daffodils,” like many other poems in Self Geofferential, the child is being told a re-telling of a story and discover something new at the end with the adult.
In it, the female character tells the male speaker that:
“I told you before,” she said. “You are drawing the plant
And not the joy that a daffodil brings to the universe.”
At the same time it’s also true that the whole world is a poem.
What inspires you to write?
GG: What inspires me to write is the inherent tension between perception and representation, between what is seen and what is understood. Drawing Daffodils interrogates this gap, illustrating the speaker’s struggle not merely to render the flower’s form, but to capture its essence—its vitality, its resonance within the broader poetic and mythological landscape. The speaker’s failure to transcribe the daffodil’s “joy” underscores the limitations of both visual and linguistic representation, suggesting that meaning is not intrinsic to the object but emerges through the interplay of perception, memory, and interpretation.
This is, in many ways, the central preoccupation of my work: the realization that both poetry and visual art exist in a space of approximation, where signifiers—whether lines on a page or strokes of graphite—gesture toward, but never fully encapsulate, the ineffable. Yet, paradoxically, it is in this very act of approximation that something new is created. Much like the myth of Narcissus, where beauty is not an inherent quality but a relational phenomenon, poetry exists in the liminal space between the known and the unknowable, between the sign and what it attempts to signify.
My writing is driven by the pursuit of this threshold—where what seems familiar fractures into something previously unconsidered, and where language, in its inevitable failure to fully capture reality, generates meaning precisely through that failure.
TT: As an experienced editor and publisher, do you have any advice for aspiring poets?
GG: As an editor and publisher, my primary advice to aspiring poets is to stay deeply engaged with both your inner voice and the external world around you. Poetry is at its most vital when it resonates with the community and speaks to the human experience in ways that feel relevant and meaningful.
Innovation is critical, but relevance is equally important. Don’t be afraid to experiment with language, form, and structure, but always consider your audience and the broader context in which your work exists. Poetry is an act of communication, and it’s vital to think about how your words will speak to readers—not just in terms of their intellectual engagement, but also in terms of their emotional and cultural resonance.
Engaging with the poetry community is equally crucial. Build relationships with other writers, attend readings, and contribute to discussions. The poetry world, especially in the independent press scene, thrives on collaboration and mutual support. Independent presses, like BlazeVOX, are constantly looking for work that challenges norms while still speaking to the concerns of the present moment. The poetry community is a space for growth, exchange, and discovery, and your work should actively participate in that dynamic conversation.
TT: Do you have any closing thoughts for your readers?
GG: In Self Geofferential, I explore the delicate relationship between transformation, memory, and connection—both with the natural world and within ourselves. The poems reflect on how time, change, and interaction shape the world around us, as well as our understanding of it. The themes of connection, loss, and renewal resonate deeply in my work, inviting readers to reflect on the cycles of life they themselves encounter.
The world, like a poem, is constantly shifting, filled with both quiet moments of introspection and powerful shifts that transform us. I hope readers take from these poems a sense of the complexity and beauty of the world’s interconnectedness—how even in loss or separation, there is a continuity, a rhythm that sustains us. As we move through the world, like the black tupelo drifting down the stream, we’re constantly influenced by the environments and relationships that shape us, even when we may not fully understand it. Hurray and thank you!