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Interview with Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Allison Malecha




Ernest's pieces are JUXTAPOSED with Coleman Larkin's "Did I Mention My Predilection For Your Sly Heat?" and Matthew Salesses' "That Was When They Remembered Our Sweet Oblivion." You can find a link to Ernest's website here.



AM: You're a poet as well, right? Did you start writing or painting first? How did each develop as passions for you?

EW: Yes, I have been writing poetry since the age of ten and I began painting at the age of nineteen. Writing poetry has always been my first love; however, after a mental breakdown at the age of eighteen, I began composing classical music, drawing, and painting feverishly. Though I have never had any lessons for piano, drawing, or painting, I have managed to engage in such activities successfully and frequently.

AM: How does your writing and painting influence each other? Do you ever paint something inspired by a poem you've already written? Or vice versa?

EW: I have painted over a thousand works and written hundreds of poems and there have never been conscious elements of influence between my writings and paintings. However, unconsciously there very well may be nexuses among all of my creative endeavors.

AM: Where do you draw your inspiration from? Both in your writing and painting? 

EW: Inspiration involuntarily lures me to perform. When I feel the need to create something visually or poetically, I do it.


AM: Are any writers particularly influential on you? Who are your favorite active poets today?


EW: The following poets have deeply influenced me: Walt Whitman, Alan Ginsberg, E.E. Cummings, Robert Frost, Langston Hughes, Gordon Osing, William Wordsworth, Amiri Baraka, and Ysef Komunyakaa. My favorite active poet is me.








Allison Malecha is a Summer Associate at Cavalier Literary Couture. The above painting is titled "Sensual Attractions."

A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure. - Henry David Thoreau


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