Poetry as a Lifelong Journey of Self-Discovery: Maurice Riordan on Writing, Imagination, and Evolution
In a world where art often feels fleeting, Maurice Riordan’s poetry stands as a testament to the enduring power of creativity. But here’s where it gets controversial: does poetry truly transform the self, or is it merely a reflection of our inner chaos? This question lies at the heart of Riordan’s journey, as revealed in his candid conversation with contributing editor Peter Mishler. Celebrating the 50th installment of this long-running series, Literary Hub and Faber bring us an intimate look into Riordan’s life, from his roots in Lisgoold, Co. Cork, to his distinguished career as a poet, editor, and professor.
Born in 1953, Riordan’s poetic trajectory is marked by accolades, including nominations for the T. S. Eliot Prize and the Michael Hartnett Award. His Selected Poems (2025), spanning four decades, offer a unique glimpse into his evolution. But this is the part most people miss: Riordan’s work defies linear progression. Edited by Jack Underwood, the collection begins with a 2019 piece and ends with a millennial poem, challenging chronological expectations. Riordan admits, “There is more unity of voice and theme over the years than I was prepared for.” Yet, he wonders if this consistency is a strength or a sign of stagnation. “Have I lost the early romanticism?” he asks. “I’ve retained a sense of my poems as exploratory, as a process of self-discovery.”
Riordan’s early influences—Hart Crane, Roethke, and Ted Hughes—shaped his belief in poetry’s transformative power. But as life intervened, his approach shifted. Parenthood, personal experiences, and the passage of time layered his work, turning it into a “jumble of folded and fractured strata the imagination tries to make sense of.” This evolution raises a bold question: Can a poet ever truly reinvent themselves, or do they merely uncover new facets of their existing voice?
Riordan’s writing rituals are as intriguing as his poetry. He transitioned from notebooks to a laptop, finding flexibility in the screen’s ability to “consign countless changes to oblivion.” He describes himself as a “binge poet,” writing obsessively for weeks after long periods of silence. This erratic process mirrors his belief in the “unconscious intervention” necessary for each book, likening his poems to a “serial dream” of his life.
Music, Riordan’s second passion, offers a counterpoint to his poetic journey. “Music is the greatest art form,” he declares, “the language of heaven if there were one.” Yet, a childhood teacher’s criticism silenced his musical aspirations, leaving poetry as a “poor consolation.” Would he trade his poems for a life as a classical tenor? “Possibly,” he admits, highlighting the collaborative glory of performance.
Riordan’s reflections on Ireland’s literary traditions add another layer to his story. Growing up in Anglophone Ireland, he grapples with the colonial legacy of poets like Spenser, whose genocidal views shaped his relationship with “canonical” English literature. Meanwhile, the native Gaelic tradition haunts his work as a “porous fabric of linear time,” influencing his artisanal respect for poetic craft.
As Riordan looks to the future, he questions the absence of a “public voice” in his poems. “Experience has to sink into memory,” he explains, “as if it needs to decompose before becoming available as material.” This disjunction between life and art is both disconcerting and liberating, a limitation he’s learned to accept.
Currently, Riordan is working on Rope, a prose work described as a “contemporary commonplace book,” and a new poetry collection titled Islands. But here’s the thought-provoking question: In an age of instant gratification, does the slow, introspective nature of poetry still hold relevance? And if so, what role does it play in a world desperate for meaning?
Riordan’s journey invites us to ponder these questions. His poetry isn’t just a collection of words; it’s a lifelong dialogue with the self, the past, and the ever-elusive future. Whether you’re a seasoned poet or a curious reader, his story challenges us to embrace the messy, beautiful process of creation. So, what’s your take? Is poetry a transformative force, or a mirror reflecting our inner chaos? Let the discussion begin.
