Written by Jessica Pregnolato | Photos by Nicholas Weissman

How do you write a poem? This is the first thing I ask Justin Andrew Johnson when he settles into my backyard. What’s the difference between a journal entry, a stream-of-consciousness rant, and a fully realized poem? Is it intention? Form and structure? Justin offers one theory.

“Time. It’s not a grocery list. I like to challenge myself to describe nature, describe what you’re looking at, or describe a feeling. Describe a person. If you’re trying to write a poem, try to describe where you are at and what that looks like.”

The day before I meet with Justin to discuss Calochortus, his new collection of poems, I sit in my yard and read each poem out loud till my voice becomes tired and scratchy.  

The way to truly experience a poem is to let it hit the air. Take the cork out and see what life it still has. How does it resonate in your body? Does it stir the emotions, boggle the brain, or kick at your heart? Reading Justin’s poetry is a sort of time travel. It stops the blurring thoughts and propels you into the present moment while dipping in and out of the memories and imagination of Justin’s life. Snapshots of wild youth and yearning. Of nostalgia and bonding. Like sitting in the back of your parent’s car, staring out the window at the scenery whizzing by. No phones or screens, no podcasts or “talkshows,” as Justin refers to them. Just the radio or the silent hum of the car and the landscape, yearning for the future while replaying and reimagining loops of the past.

Justin lets us get an intimate glimpse into his observations, stripped down and brutal in honesty, even if he might be making things up. He won’t totally disclose this when asked but laughs mightily and refers to some people in his poems as “characters.” He likens his writing lens to a periscope: angle it wherever you want, then pull it back, and no one knows you were there watching. 

Calochortus is presented as-is, scanned from the pages he typed up on his mechanical typewriter during Covid. No electricity and no browser window to get distracted. He found new typewriter ribbons on Etsy. He refers to the notebooks he fills in on the road to his full-time job as a wildland firefighter for Los Padres National Forest. He tried to stick to one page per poem. A blank canvas to let the words come through. This technical aspect influenced the whole book. With limited space on a page, you have “to think one step ahead — or else you’ll make a mess.” 

There is efficiency in this form, a concentrated distillation of a snapshot, a duality of gravel hardness and survival against softness and textures, tiny moments where levity strikes.

And when does one know that they’re done writing a poem?

“I don’t think they’re ever done.”

So far, he has five collections, and Calochortus is a stark contrast to his last book, Let’s Find Our Future. Those poems are filled with yearning, hope, light, and cosmic reflections. Calochortus throws us back down onto earth into analog and stark grounded views of the natural world.

Justin does not call himself a poet. He considered having a stand-in for this interview and teased about sending one for his book release party at Bart’s Books in Ojai on November 12, where he will also play music. His hesitancy to put himself in the spotlight is understandable, but his work, like himself, is magnetic and might be essential for these challenging times. 

So how do you write a poem? Justin says, “just start.”

Save on shipping costs and buy it at Bart’s!