Meet Poet and Illustrator Jen Kindbom

Introducing Jen Kindbom

We’re thrilled to introduce poet and illustrator Jen Kindbom, whose upcoming illustrated poetry book, Even Then, Even Now: Poems of Persistence, is coming soon from Unencumbered Press.

Jen is also the author of Cadabra: Poems (Cascadia Publishing House, 2015) and A Note on the Door (Finishing Line Press, 2011). Her work has appeared in Adroit, Connotations Press, About Place, and other journals. She lives in northeast Ohio with her family and runs JKindDesign, where she makes art, accessories, and more.

In this thoughtful Q&A, Jen opens up about the creative process behind Even Then, Even Now, the inspiration that fuels her work, and how persistence shows up—in art, in everyday life, and in the quiet act of making something meaningful.

Q&A

UP: We’ve got to start with the go-to question—who were your early literary influences? What books or voices first lit the spark?

JK: I memorized the important parts of Kermit’s Garden of Verses by Jack Prelutsky and Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein, the brilliant songwriting of Sesame Street, and many parts of the Catholic mass. I was the only 2nd grader I knew of who knew all of Magical Mystery Tour. It makes sense that my poetic inclinations tend toward the juxtaposition of whimsy and weirdness and a kind of holiness, for better or worse.

In high school, I read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard, and if there’s a book that made me want to write, this is the one. Dillard’s observation of the natural world—and the science of it all—was captivating. In Chapter 4 of Tinker Creek—and this has been cemented in my memory since the first time I read it in the late ’90s—Dillard writes about a moth crawling out of a jar after emerging from its cocoon, but the wings never had room to unfurl. She imagines the moth crawling away forever. Rereading that passage just now gives me goosebumps.

I had a handful of daring, exceptional, compassionate teachers in high school, and in their ways, they encouraged me to write—and to keep writing.

UP: There’s a spiritual undercurrent in a lot of your poems—what’s the story behind that?

JK: An awareness of spirituality has always been part of my life. It’s hard to overstate the influence my first eight years of Catholic school had on my soul. The things my mostly lay teachers taught me about Christian mythology and theology—and the things they left out, surely not on purpose—burrowed into my imagination and stayed there. For me, and maybe others can relate, this kind of spotty curriculum combined with the fearsome imagery of church is a recipe for a very specific kind of turmoil. Spiritual trauma is tough to shake.

And I’m not by any means pinning that kind of pain all on one tradition—this is just my personal experience in a particular place during a particular time.

I’m a member of a Mennonite church near our home now. I found something I needed in that church when we were undergrads in the 2000s. Grace was a huge part of that—what grace is, what it means. I’d say that religion is made by people, for people, and is inherently flawed. But for me, church has been an important way to connect with the divine, to understand the world, and to be in community with a really wonderful little group of humans. Also, the food. My goodness, the food. I could go on and on.

UP: We’re so excited to be bringing Even Then, Even Now into the world. What’s the story behind how this book came to be? 

JK: Building this little book was mostly an exercise in ordering. What I wanted was coherence in the collection, and it morphed—from being 20-some pages to 50 or 60—and then down to whatever it is now: ten poems’ worth of pages. I didn’t want poems that felt like they were repeating other poems, and I didn’t want any that stuck out from the collection like a little lost sheep.

What guided it, ultimately, was the theme of rebuilding—resilience. Like Annie Dillard’s moth: there’s something chaotic or unforgiving, and there’s beauty in looking closely at it, knowing it mattered and it formed part of you, and carrying on.

The illustrations came long after the writing of Even Then, Even Now was complete. I used Adobe Illustrator and Fresco to make them. They share a limited color palette, and I kept the shapes and patterns simple to echo a phrase from each poem. Then I added hand lettering. I love hand lettering—as an art form and as a pastime!

UP: When you first submitted the manuscript, it was titled This Is How, after one of the poems in the collection. The title has changed since then, but that poem still carries a lot of emotional weight. Can you share the story behind it and what it means to you?

JK: We live adjacent to a college campus, and I wrote this poem while witnessing the demolition of a century-old home the college had acquired—it used to sit at the end of our street. The demolition was really something to behold. You don’t often see a curved staircase sprawled out on a lawn. (Apparently, many pieces of that house—including the staircase—are in storage now.)

I was thinking about how you sometimes have to redeem places, and how one might do that.

In the poem, the speaker gives a tour of all the work she’s done to renovate—to make new again—the place she inhabits. There are dramatic transformations: the speaker removes the floors and fixtures with her hands. She changes the windows and the stairs. The line is “This is how I continue to live here.” It’s a true sentiment. Stuff happens, and we have to figure out a way to carry on.

UP: What led to the new title, Even Then, Even Now? How does it reflect what the collection became?

JK: Even Then, Even Now was a suggestion from Unencumbered Press, and I loved it the moment I read it. As I think about the collection and its various dichotomies–like unbuilding and rebuilding, like burning it down and building it back up again, like despair and a glimpse of hope–I feel like this title really fits the poems nicely, and I am so thankful for the brilliant suggestion. 

UP: Do you have a creative routine or rhythm you try to stick to—or is it more of a go-with-the-flow process?

JK: I wish I could say I had more structure around that. I do try to work in something creative every day, though—whether it’s visual art, music practice, journaling, or lettering something. I think reading is also an important part of writing: you learn whose paths you want to make part of your path, and whose you’d rather observe and then move on from.

I do pretty well with a “__ a day” type of challenge. This summer, for about three weeks, I painted some flowers every day. I’m not a painter, so it was all learning. I was really interested in what trusting the brush could do, and I was pleased with the results.

I recently returned to full-time work outside the home, so in some ways I’m still figuring out the rhythm of that schedule—regular life stuff, plus doing creative things. I know it’s possible!

UP: Do you have any favorite memories from your time teaching poetry?

JK: Actually, just this fall I got to visit my daughter’s school and lead a session on “verbless poetry.” The little group I had included kids who wrote all the time and kids who had never tried writing poetry before. I had prepared several YouTube video clips for the class to enjoy and invited the students to try to capture something about the clips—without using any verbs.

Poets.org has a few words about this form of poetry, how it can create little snapshots and make things feel like motion. The kids took the activity very seriously, and by the end, nearly all of them had shared something they’d written. I am so inspired by that kind of courage—verbless or not! It was an absolute delight.

Someone asked me if my previous book was all verbless poetry, and I had to laugh, because I’m pretty sure I have only one move when it comes to verbless poetry! But it’s a fun exercise, and it really makes you think intentionally about language.

One of my favorite activities from when I had my own classroom full-time was making broadsides. We workshopped the students’ poetry, and then the kids made illustrations and designed the lettering to complement one of the poems they created during the unit. They were so beautiful. I had them displayed in the room for as long as I could. I hope I communicated how much I loved those projects.

UP: What advice do you give to young or emerging writers?

JK: Be kind to your baby drafts. I said this to my creative writing students once, and one of them misheard me say “baby giraffes.” The metaphor works really well, though!

There’s this inclination for young writers to be self-deprecating when presenting new work to a workshop—to say things like, “I’m sorry you have to read this.” And it’s not just young writers! I think each of us could stand to extend a little compassion toward our baby giraffes.

Look at them—all damp and wobbly. They’ve barely taken five steps on this earth, and we want to say they’re not very good at walking? It’s nonsense when you frame it that way, isn’t it?

So be kind to your baby drafts. They’re a draft, but they’re also an important step. They are a start and a foundation, whether the final version resembles them or not.

This whole idea is similar to something an undergrad professor once said to me about “intellectual compost.” Nothing is wasted. Keep on writing.

UP: The idea of persistence runs through this collection, and it feels especially timely given everything happening in the world right now. What has writing poetry taught you about enduring hard times—or creating through them?

JK: I was a senior undergrad in the fall of 2001. I was preparing to do student teaching and writing my senior thesis—a series of essays and poems. The semester had barely gotten underway, and then 9/11 happened.

We all remember exactly where we were when we heard the news, and we spent that day glued to the coverage, frantically calling home, trying to decide where to physically be. Class resumed on September 12, and I met with my thesis advisor.

My Annie Dillard– and William Carlos Williams–inspired nature poetry—about bugs and leaves and roadkill—suddenly felt terribly, terribly self-indulgent and unimportant. I said as much to my advisor.

While I don’t remember his exact words, the sentiment has stuck with me and resurfaced over and over: this is the time when making poems is the most important. Do not stop.

Making poems—making any art—is an affirmation of life. I feel like that advice was relevant then, and it still is now.

UP: We’ve got to ask another classic—what have you been reading lately? Any books or voices that are sticking with you right now?

JK: I just received a copy of How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope edited by James Crews. It’s a sweet, life-affirming anthology, and I feel like it’s a really timely read as many of us face anxieties related to the general state of things right now. It’s okay to take a breath and remember to hope.

I love Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s World of Wonders and her poetry collection Lucky Fish. I’ve read a lot of Louise Erdrich’s fiction in the last year. Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt is one I couldn’t put down.

Know My Name by Chanel Miller is a difficult read, but such an important book—one I’m grateful for. I loved Flora and Ulysses (and I’ve seen the play, but not the movie). Actually, everything I’ve read by Kate DiCamillo I’ve enjoyed deeply.

I’m also in and out of Every Moment Holy.

UP: Who do you imagine holding this book in their hands? What do you hope they feel or carry with them after reading it?

JK: The dedication at the start of the book says it’s for anyone who’s ever had to rebuild something—and I mean that. I’ve been there. Starting over doesn’t always feel brave or beautiful in the moment. Sometimes it’s exhausting. Sometimes it’s just necessary. But there is life on the other side. I hope that comes through for readers. Whether they’re in the thick of it or looking back, I want them to feel seen—and reminded that rebuilding is a kind of strength.

UP: Family shows up in subtle ways in your work—can you share a bit about the people closest to you?

JK: They’re delightful, creative people. Our home is pretty quiet most of the time, with four introverts living here—my husband Kyle and our two teenage kids.

Kyle is super handy around the house. For my birthday this year, he repaired our attic stairs so that they no longer squeak at all! Everywhere I look in our home, I can see a project he did for me—or one we did together. That’s something people who’ve lived in an old place can really appreciate.

Our kids both chose a trip to take recently. Our youngest chose to visit New York City so that she and I could see The Great Gatsby. We loved it! And the four of us celebrated our eldest child’s graduation last summer with a trip to the destination of his choice, which was Japan. We spent time in Kyoto, Tokyo, and Narita. It was the first international trip we’ve taken, and we all had a brilliant time.

UP: JKindDesign is your creative small business—can you tell us more about what you make and why it matters to you?

JK: You can read all about that here! I make little purses and stickers, mainly. The tagline I use is “slow fashion and soul.”

Slow fashion is all about making things that last—using materials that are gentler on the environment and created in ways that are fair to the people involved. This philosophy is the opposite of fast fashion, which prioritizes turning out new things as quickly as possible, often with little regard for environmental or social impact.

In my tiny operation, that looks like using organic cotton, thrifted and reclaimed fabrics, and materials that really last. Many of the fabrics I use are designs I drew myself, and they’re printed on-demand on organic cotton. The stickers I make are printed on waterproof paper—not vinyl.

What brings me joy in JKindDesign? I love knowing that when I make a little bag, it’s going to be something its owner will enjoy for years. It’s been a dream come true to design my own fabrics. And honestly, it’s such an affirmation when someone says yes to your art—whether that’s a poem, a purse, or a little sticker.

I have a sweet little space in our home where all the sewing happens, and on its good days, it’s an oasis of creativity.

UP: When you’re not writing or creating, what do you love to do?

JK: We have a couple of cats whom I adore. Grover is a big fluffy orange boy, and Graham is a little tortie girl.

I’ve been teaching myself violin for about ten years, and for Christmas this past year, I got my very own cello.

I have a 530-day streak on Duolingo as of right now—mostly French, enough Japanese to dream about it constantly, and a bit of Spanish.

Every year for my birthday, we take a trip to the Cleveland Museum of Art.

I love bread, but I’m not a baker.

Someday I’d like to have a dog again.

For a grown adult, I have an absurdly huge collection of plush.

I have an aloe plant I’ve kept alive for like three years, which is huge for me.