Joemario Umana is one of the rising voices in contemporary Nigerian poetry. Hailing from Maiduguri, Umana’s work explores the intricacies of identity, vulnerability, and the interaction between the physical and the emotive poetic realms. Umana is a SprinNG fellow, member of The Writers Manger Network and Poetic Nest, and author of the poetry gazelle A Flower Is Not The Only Thing That’s Fragile published by Konya Shamsrumi. His works have found homes in esteemed journals such as Akpata Magazine, Brittle Paper, Strange Horizons, and Isele Magazine, among others. In this interview, Umana delves into his creative process, discussing the influences that shape his writing, the importance of sensory experience, and his exploration of masculinity beyond traditional confines. He offers a compelling glimpse into the mind of a poet dedicated to crafting work that is both deeply personal and universally resonant.
What poets or writers have most influenced your style, and how have they shaped your approach to themes like grief, love, and identity?
When it comes to writers that have influenced my writing style, the list is quite endless and ever-updated. I am one that doesn’t really limit myself to a certain writer(s) and works. But for the sake of giving a list, I will say writers like Divine Inyang Titus, Michael Imossan, Inua Ellams, Rudy Francisco, Shane Koyczan, Ocean Vuong, and Jericho Brown have a great influence over me. Lately, Safia Elhillo, Theresa Lola, Caleb Femi, and Warsan Shire are joining that list. Vuong’s focus on the body, Rudy’s on masculinity, especially in his collection and Brown’s blending of vulnerability and masculinity resonate with me. Divine is also very great at employing vulnerability in his work, expression, and everything, and it’s something I’ve very much tried to emulate in my own style. These writers have shown me to speak openly about grief, love and identity in ways that feel both raw and
poetic. I recommend you read Michael Imossan’s “For the love of country and memory.”
There’s a strong presence of religious guilt in “How I Tell My Body I Love You,” as well as the poems in your poetry gazelle. How does your experience with religion shape your writing, particularly when addressing topics like sexuality?
My relationship with religion is complex. I don’t really love engaging in topics about it. But with reference to my poem in Akpata Magazine, the guilt mirrors my own experiences, grappling with my faith and the messages I receive about sexuality. Writing about this allows me to process and interrogate those feelings, using poetry as a way to navigate between reverence and self-acceptance.
How important is sensory experience to your creative process, and do you consciously weave it into your work to evoke deeper emotion?
Sensory experience is crucial; I believe poetry should be felt as much as understood. I consciously embed tactile and sensory details—like “crawls across my skin” or “slippery like okra’s draw”—to ground abstract emotions in the physical world, making them more visceral for the reader.
The metaphors of “a flesh quake” and “an exodus of self” in How I Tell My Body I Love You suggest an intense emotional and physical release. How important is the connection between body and emotion in your poetry?
Can I start out by asking, What is poetry without emotions? For me, emotions are often inseparable from physical sensations. The body’s reactions—“a flesh quake” or “an exodus of self”—are central because they convey the intensity of emotion in a way words alone might not. I try to capture that unity of physical and emotional release to explore vulnerability.
What is your usual starting point when writing a poem—do you begin with an image, a feeling, or a specific line?
It varies depending on the subject I’m exploring or how the poem comes to me. But basically, I start with a feeling, an image, and a specific line to open up the poem. In that order
How do you know when a poem is finished?
Is a poem ever finished? I don’t think so. You may reach a point where you feel there’s nothing more to say, like the end of a conversation. But sometimes, revisiting a poem sparks a new surge of inspiration.
Do you ever experience writer’s block? If so, how do you overcome it, and what advice would you give to others struggling with it?
I have a friend who said that writer’s block doesn’t exist. It’s just a writer’s excuse not to create bad works or to be lazy about creating. I agreed with him on this to a certain level. Personally, now, I’ll say, writer’s block happens. But I’ve found that taking breaks, reading other poets, or shifting to other forms of art helps, like seeing a movie, listening to music, engaging in conversations, observing, etc. Sometimes the best way through it is to give myself permission to write badly, letting go of
perfectionism to rediscover flow.
What poets or writers do you turn to for inspiration when you’re stuck or looking to refine your craft?
When I’m stuck, I read poets. The works of the poets I mentioned earlier remind me of the different ways poetry can stretch language and emotion, and sometimes reading them sparks new ideas or rekindles my passion for the craft.
How do you approach the editing process—do you work on a poem for long periods or prefer quick, instinctive revisions?
My editing process is a mix. I might sit with a poem for days or weeks, gradually refining it, but I also believe in instinctive revisions. Sometimes the first draft holds an energy that I don’t want to lose, so I try not to overedit.
Much of your work, particularly in your poetry pamphlet, A Flower is Not the Only Thing That’s Fragile, explores themes of masculinity. How do you use poetry to challenge or express traditional notions of masculinity in your writing?
Masculinity in my writing is about confronting expectations and stereotypes. I use poetry to challenge traditional notions and to show that masculinity can include softness, vulnerability, and fear. I hope my work encourages readers to consider masculinity as a complex and evolving experience rather than a fixed identity.
Great Work!We love ur works 🥰