Conversation on July 2, 2025 with Susan Smith Nash
Susan Smith Nash: With the advent of COVID and devastating global events, Rochelle Owens produced new poetry with deep philosophical insights that connect with her body of work, and also forges new directions and connections.
Her books during that time include The Aardvark Venus: New and Selected Poems (1961 – 2020) published in 2020 and Patterns of Animus: Poetry, with Accompanying Essays and Reviews (2022).
I had the opportunity to have a conversation with Rochelle Owens on July 2. Here is a transcript of her words. I am deeply grateful – her insights are so illuminating!
Rochelle Owens: I have been aware for several years now that my body is not what it was, that my energy and everything is changing because I'm old. In this period of understanding and acknowledging the transformation of my body, I find myself identifying with certain parts of Simone de Beauvoir's vast literary work in ways I never could before.
Simone remembered that her father told her she had the brain of a man because she was so intelligent and different from other little girls of that period—very curious and scholarly, wanting to know everything, an exceptional child who always knew she wanted to write books. She said something that I find quite pertinent: "When I was a child, when I was an adolescent, books saved me from despair. That convinced me that culture was the highest of values."
I identified with that completely. Books saved me too when I was a child. I walked to the library and read all the time, and it saved me. This corresponds with her father's observation about her having "the brain of a man"—because that is part of the destiny projected onto us women. Men are supposed to invent and create, while women are meant to listen, to be cheerleaders.
Simone also said something that strikes me deeply now: "To lose confidence in one's body is to lose confidence in oneself." When she was getting older, she felt her body changing and admitted she lost confidence. I can identify with that profound connection between physical and spiritual confidence.
This leads me to think about René Descartes, the 17th-century philosopher and forerunner of very modern thinking about the body. He said something very pertinent: "The only thing we have power over in the universe is our own thoughts." Before Descartes, I used to think there was a God, some idea of a personal God, and that made me feel comfortable. But then the state of being an atheist also makes me feel quite comfortable.
I listen to Luc Ferry a lot, in French of course, and I relate to his thinking about this transition. Ferry helps me understand how we can move between these states of belief and disbelief without losing our sense of meaning or comfort. His work on how philosophy can provide consolation even in a secular age resonates with my own journey from theism to atheism.
And then there's Ludwig Wittgenstein, whose influence on modern thought is enormous. He captured something I've reflected in many of my poems: "Not how the world is, but that it is, is the mystery."
Everything that exists in the universe is made up of atoms, and when we leap to quantum mechanics—which in my brash and nonconformist manner I know very little about, yet feel I know enough to enrich my blood cells and brain—we're dealing with these minuscule particles and their bizarre interactions that make up the universe. Science has determined with advanced technology the reality of atoms, which are made up of even smaller particles that our eyes cannot see without instruments.
What fascinates me is this interaction we don't understand, this bizarre phenomenon that simply happens. It's a mystery—the fact that the universe and we exist is a mystery. There's a phenomenon called superposition in quantum mechanics, where particles seem to be not just in one determinate position at one time, but somewhere here and also there simultaneously. This radical view turns many common-sense metaphysical ideas on their head. Imagination does that too.
The brain, like other human organs, has this premise: survive. The body must survive. And yet I'm an old woman now, and I have lost confidence. This connects to whether we police our thoughts, whether physical caution starts applying to our mental and intellectual selves. That could be dangerous.
I remember when I was in Oklahoma with my Georgie, attending a concert by a famous African-American folk singer. Before that concert, the policeman in my mind was inhibiting me—I began to police myself. But after the concert, I got on the speeding roller coaster higher to inventiveness and creativity, thinking of how male philosophers, with their scrotums, have always been given the authority and privilege of wanting to outdo other male geniuses. Male geniuses want to rival each other and win, whereas women are trained differently.
Much of my later poetry is filled with the idea of the mammalian—the body and the organs—because that is everything. Without our brain, our sophisticated human categorizations, we wouldn't have this evolutionary strategy to survive. We developed all these functions anatomically: five fingers on each hand, everything in order.
I think of Ötzi, the Iceman, the oldest mummified human being from 5,000 years ago, found preserved in ice in the Alps between what we now call Italy and Austria. He had a fanny pack, arrows—he'd been walking and was pursued and killed, shot with arrows. His body was preserved by ice and climate, and we can still study him. We are the body—everything. My poems have always been concerned with the body because I am the body.
There are persistent ideas that run through my work like threads: the worm, the rot, the horror of consciousness. But I like to stand firmly on the edge of clarity and horror—the clarity and dispassionate awareness of what might be horrific description. My horrific descriptions are very concrete, but they're not disgusting because of juxtaposition. You'll have the worm or the rot or the skull, but then there's this incantatory repetition—"hot and black and hot my coffee"—that grounds the reader and makes them connect to their own lived experience.
The antidote to this diffuse horror is work. "Work is a binding obligation"—everyone can identify with that line. We all have to work. Whether it's domestic work or warrior work, work is what we're supposed to do. The Comanche women did both: all the domestic work—making teepees, feeding families—and they had powerful spiritual authority too. In Native American culture, women have spiritual authority. They were creators of artwork, beadwork, embroidery, the patterns that were spiritual and prescribed, meant to protect. They used traditional imagery: the four directions, the four winds, animals with their protective qualities.
I'm very glad they didn't practice female genital mutilation like some Egyptian and African tribes, or foot binding like the Chinese. The constant pain of bound feet, women hobbling around because they were crippled—it makes me angry to think about it.
This all comes back to the mystery Wittgenstein spoke of, the strange fact that anything exists at all. The atoms and particles, the consciousness and horror, the body aging and losing confidence, the work that binds us—all of it part of this inexplicable phenomenon of being. Whether we believe in God or consider ourselves atheists, whether we think the words of scripture were written by human beings with their brains or inspired by something beyond—the mystery remains. That it is, not how it is, but that it is at all.
