She Was the Fire

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Some fires are signal, some are shelter. This book—She Was the Fire—learned to be both.

Clara Wren

Welcome back everyone, you’re listening to The Writer’s Lantern. I’m Clara Wren, your sometimes overly poetic co-host—

D. Vincent Delorenzo

And I’m D. Vincent DeLorenzo. Today’s a bit special for me, Clara. We’re peeling back the curtain on She Was the Fire—where those poems came from, how the book finally figured itself out, and, if we’re lucky, what heat it might leave behind for listeners.

Clara Wren

We’re talking sparks, form, themes, a couple of readings, and maybe how we both survived line breaks and late-night edits. I have to start, Vincent—what was the very first thread? When did this actually tip from a long folder with “maybe” poems over into “oh no, this is a real book”?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

I wish it’d been a single lightning bolt and not weather that just wouldn’t pass. But honestly, two things kept repeating: grief kept showing up like a storm system, and the body—it kept remembering heat in all the wrong places. Once I started seeing those images circle back—like, not letting go—it felt like the work wanted to center itself around them rather than the other way around.

Clara Wren

You’ve got this almost physical way of talking about memory and loss—was that always in your mind, or did it sneak up through drafts?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

I think it snuck in sideways, honestly. Like, there’s this old courtyard in a town I lived in out in Southeast Asia—dusk would hit that stone, and it’d go from burning to cool in a matter of minutes, but I’d still find myself counting the stones beneath my feet even after the heat left. Kind of a strange ritual, counting footsteps after loss. It isn’t much, but it’s something you do so the night feels, I don’t know, countable?

Clara Wren

I love that—making the night smaller by naming it bit by bit. Was the title the same? Did it show up early for you or did you have to wrestle for it?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Late—definitely late. I had a dozen working titles, most of them were awful. It wasn’t until the whole book started owning its voice—that sort of slow, persistent burning—that “She Was the Fire” felt earned. Like the collection had to live its way into the title.

Clara Wren

Sometimes a book needs to find you first, right? Okay, from spark to the real heart—let’s dig into what keeps these poems smoldering underneath.

Clara Wren

Right, nuts and bolts time—give me three themes you hope readers cling to, especially if they're flipping pages at 3am with a mug of tea that’s gone cold.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

I suppose first is reclamation—but without spectacle. There’s a stubborn belief in digging something worthwhile out of loss, but quietly. Then, kindness as fuel. The poems keep leaning into gentleness: small gestures, mercy offered on an ordinary day, enough to get you through. Third, survival through objects. Matches, a kettle, even the act of making a bed—all those “useless” things become anchors for endurance.

Clara Wren

So, let’s talk forms. Was there a single poem shape you kept falling back on, or did the collection need a medley to breathe?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Mostly short lyric—quick images that pivot and, hopefully, punch. But you need those prose poems now and again—for breath, to stretch a little. And I got kind of obsessed with repeated lines. It’s like a tide coming in, then pulling back and giving the book that cyclical, tidal feel. At least, that’s what I tell myself on a good day.

Clara Wren

Let’s give that a voice. Want to read from “Flagstones at Midnight”?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Alright. This is “Flagstones at Midnight”—and fair warning, it owes everything to that habit of counting stones and not much to sleep. I counted the stones between the gate and the street, the way a child counts stars for luck. Every number made the night feel smaller, every breath put a little more air back in the world. A stray dog watched me from the alley, ears tilted like questions I could not answer. Somewhere a radio whispered an old song, thin as a thread pulled through the dark. I did not cry in the open, only in the mouth, salt held like a secret. When I reached the end of the path, I turned and counted back again, because sometimes the body needs walking more than it needs rest, and sometimes the soul needs proof that a person can leave and a person can return, even if it is only to the same door.

Clara Wren

Okay, you wouldn’t believe how many emails we get about this: People admitting, “I don’t get poetry. It intimidates me.” How do you even start if poems have always felt like code?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Yeah, that’s—first off, totally normal. Honestly, start with image and breath, not “meaning.” Look for what you can see and the places you want to breathe or pause. Meaning comes as an aftertaste. Nobody gets a poem all at once, least of all the person writing it.

Clara Wren

So, the big fear—how do you know when you’re actually finished? I imagine you, like, fussing with a comma at 3am.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

You’ve got me there. But, truly, a poem’s finished when the final image says what your secret “thesis sentence” tried so hard to say. And then, you delete the thesis. The rest is just trusting the object to carry the heat, to hold the weight you couldn’t say any other way.

Clara Wren

So even smoothing a pillow can be a real promise. I’m gonna try to remember that next time I overthink a metaphor. Alright, if we were to leave listeners with one takeaway—one thing they could carry back into the dark, what would it be?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Trust objects to carry heat. Protect the breath in your lines. And always leave one ember—a word, an image—for someone else to tend tomorrow.

Clara Wren

Next episode, we’re swapping hats and talking about how to sequence a poetry collection without flattening its pulse—so, writers, that one’s for you. We’ll link the book in today’s show notes for any night readers out there.