Picture captured during her performance at the LMNT POETRY SERIES: A Poetry Night for the Voiceless
Poet Caiti Quatmann's work is a tapestry of personal experience, creative exploration, and an intimate connection to the natural world. Growing up in a culturally diverse household in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with family ties to St. Louis, her upbringing shaped her approach to identity and belonging, themes that resonate throughout her writing. Quatmann’s poetic voice, marked by its vivid imagery and profound reflections, speaks to the intersection of time, nature, grief, and human frailty.
Q&A with Caiti Quatmann:
Q: Can you describe your childhood, including where you grew up and the schools you attended?
A: I grew up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, attending public school before moving on to a small Catholic high school. My family was non-practicing when it came to religion, but there was always an interesting dynamic between my parents—my mom grew up Catholic, and my dad grew up Jewish. So, while neither tradition was strictly enforced, I was exposed to both. That contrast in religious upbringing, along with the broader experience of navigating multiple cultural backgrounds, has definitely influenced how I think about identity and belonging in my work.
Despite growing up in Milwaukee, I always felt a stronger connection to St. Louis, where both of my parents are from. We spent every school holiday and summer visiting, and those trips played a big part in shaping my sense of place. I vividly remember staying with my aunt and her wife on Shaw, walking to the Botanical Gardens, and getting World’s Fair Donuts. St. Louis has always felt like home to me because of those deep family ties, and it still plays a huge role in my writing today.
Q: How did your family influence your upbringing and early development?
A: My family was incredibly supportive of all my creative interests growing up, and that support shaped so much of who I am as a writer today. My father, in particular, was always a storyteller and endlessly creative. He’s probably the smartest person I’ve ever known—he’s an engineer at Carnegie Mellon now—but beyond that, he was always coming up with new ways to spark my imagination. As a kid, we would make up stories together constantly. We’d play games in the car where we created characters and backstories for people in passing cars or invented fake bands from the names of streets we needed to remember. In middle school, we even attempted to write a parody of West Side Story based on the rivalry between the two middle schools in our town.
That kind of creativity was always present in our home, and while my family found it challenging at times to navigate all of my interests—I tended to excel at most things I tried, from theater to sports to writing—they never stopped encouraging me to pursue whatever caught my attention. That early exposure to storytelling and creative problem-solving has deeply influenced my approach to writing, particularly in how I think about character, world-building, and the joy of invention.
Q: Reading your poem The Wild seems to be about the timelessness and mystery of nature, and the smallness of human existence within its vastness. How does the imagery of nature in The Wild contribute to the poem's exploration of time and its connection to memory and mystery?
A: In The Wild, nature serves as a bridge between memory and mystery, acting as a reminder that while time is cyclical in nature, human existence is linear and fleeting. I wanted to use the vastness of landscapes—the wind, the trees, the stars—as a way to show how little we truly understand or control in the grand scheme of things. Through these images, the poem grapples with the idea that our perceptions of time and memory are incomplete, filtered through our limited, human perspectives. In contrast, nature holds onto its secrets, carrying a wisdom that spans eons and leaves us in awe.
The Wild was originally featured in my debut chapbook, Yoke, which is an autobiographical exploration of grief, specifically following the tragic and graphic deaths of two friends in my early adulthood. Narratively, I used nature as a way to contemplate grief, memory, and mystery while also giving myself enough distance to approach these incredibly painful subjects. Sometimes it feels easier to think about sadness while looking at a misty valley, rather than directly recounting the trauma we’ve endured. In that way, nature became a kind of intermediary, helping me process what I couldn’t face head-on.
Additionally, the nature poems in Yoke functioned as a reprieve for readers, offering a break from the more visceral, direct poems that dealt with navigating family suicide and other traumatic experiences. I think nature, with its mystery and depth, offers a lens through which we can explore heavy emotions while also finding moments of peace and reflection.
Yoke can be purchased on Amazon using this link:
Q: In what ways does the poem The Wild suggests that human understanding of the world is limited compared to the timeless wisdom of nature?
A: In The Wild, nature serves as a bridge between memory and mystery, emphasizing how time in the natural world is cyclical and enduring, while human existence feels fleeting and fragile. I wanted to use the vastness of landscapes—wind, trees, stars—to illustrate how little we understand or control. The contrast between our transient thoughts and emotions and nature’s unchanging rhythms suggests that while we attempt to comprehend the world through science, memory, or myth, nature carries on, indifferent to our understanding. This dynamic speaks to our limitations—no matter how much we think we know, nature holds a kind of timeless wisdom beyond our reach.
In Yoke, my debut chapbook, I was also trying to emphasize how nature, in this way, functions similarly to death. Both are ever-present forces that exist beyond human comprehension. Just as nature continues on its course, indifferent to our attempts to explain or control it, death operates outside of our understanding. It’s vast, mysterious, and inevitable. In Yoke, where I explore the deaths of two close friends, I used nature as a way to approach grief and memory indirectly. Nature’s cyclical and indifferent qualities mirror how death moves through our lives—unpredictable yet constant, something we must face without truly grasping its full meaning. By juxtaposing nature with death, I aimed to explore how both shape our existence, always just beyond our reach but profoundly impacting how we live and remember.
Q: How has your diverse professional background influenced your approach to storytelling and writing?
A: My career has been a patchwork of experiences, from working in education to more creative and freelance roles. I’ve done everything from photography, medical billing, and financial analysis to bartending, coaching volleyball, and mixed media art. Each of these experiences has shaped my approach to storytelling. For example, working in education has made me conscious of how stories can be used to teach, engage, and provide comfort, while bartending or coaching gave me insights into human behavior and connection in different settings.
As someone who is both autistic and ADHD, I tend to embody the stereotype of being a "jack of all trades, master of none." I’ve always had a wide range of interests, and this is reflected not only in my job-hopping but also in my personal hobbies and creative projects. This diversity shows up in my poetry as well—I love to explore different forms, topics, and styles. I especially enjoy writing formal poetry, like sonnets and sestinas, because they feel like puzzles to me. They allow me to experiment with language in ways that are structured yet playful.
Ultimately, writing connects me to myself. It’s how I work through trauma, reflect on my experiences, and, at the same time, how I allow myself to have fun. Whether I’m diving into a new poetic form or unraveling a personal subject, writing helps me make sense of the world while letting me play with its possibilities.
Q: How do you think storytelling contributes to fostering creativity and engagement in alternative learning environments?
A: Storytelling opens up different avenues of understanding and can break down barriers between subjects. In alternative learning environments, where traditional approaches may not always work, stories make abstract concepts more tangible. They create emotional engagement and invite curiosity, encouraging learners to explore topics they might not have been drawn to otherwise. Storytelling isn’t just about imparting knowledge—it’s about sparking questions, reflection, and connection.
I remember reading something during graduate school about how creating a story around information is one of the best ways to learn and remember it. I can’t recall who conducted that research, but it’s certainly true in my experience. To this day, I will forever remember how to get to my dad’s friend’s house in Chicago because of a story we made up about the names of the streets—Willow, Finkston, Lake, Shermer—each becoming the last name of a make-believe band we spent the entire three-hour car ride creating. That kind of playful storytelling not only engaged me but solidified the information in my mind.
In my adult life, storytelling has also been a way to learn more about myself. I didn’t discover that I’m autistic and ADHD until I was 35, and this was only possible because other women shared their personal stories online. Most research and medical understanding of how these conditions present, especially in women, is woefully inadequate. Reading their experiences helped me see myself more clearly and realize that storytelling isn’t just a creative act—it’s an act of self-discovery and community-building. Sharing personal stories is how we connect, learn from one another, and make sense of our worlds.
Q: What is the biggest struggle you currently face as a poet?
A: Time is the biggest struggle—juggling motherhood, medical concerns, part-time work, and all the other responsibilities of adult life. Finding uninterrupted moments for writing can feel like an impossible task, and when I do have time, it's sometimes difficult to quiet the noise of everything else going on. Balancing all those demands while trying to keep the creative part of me alive is a constant challenge.
Q: What steps have you taken to address this struggle in your writing?
A: I've learned to give myself grace and let go of the idea that writing has to happen in a perfect, quiet space. I’ve also embraced writing in short bursts—grabbing 10 or 15 minutes when I can. Prioritizing self-care has been essential as well, knowing that when I’m drained, the work suffers. Lastly, I’ve leaned on community, whether it’s through writing groups or sharing works-in-progress with trusted peers. That accountability and support help me push through when things feel overwhelming.
Q: What advice would you offer to emerging poets trying to make their voices heard in the literary world?
A: Find your people and hold onto them. The literary world can feel intimidating, but having a supportive community of writers makes all the difference. Surround yourself with people who understand your journey and can provide feedback, encouragement, and perspective. Don’t be afraid to submit your work, even if you get rejections—those rejections are part of the process and can help you grow. Most importantly, don’t wait for the perfect moment to writebecause it might never come. Write when you can and trust that your voice will find its way through.
Something that’s stuck with me throughout my literary career came from poet and entrepreneur Geoff Anderson, whom I connected with through social media. He once told me, "It takes 10 years to become an overnight success." Hearing that early on helped me immensely by shifting my perspective toward the long view. It made me realize that building a career in writing takes time, patience, and persistence. Success isn’t about one big breakthrough; it’s about the small steps you take every day.
So, I would also emphasize that this journey is a long game, and success comes from consistently working on your craft. Find a community that will support you, but also seek out workshops, writing groups, and other resources that help you grow. I’m a big believer in constantly developing as a writer—learning more about the tools at our disposal so that we can use them deliberately and consciously. Discipline, growth, and community are the building blocks of a sustainable writing life.
Q: What has been the most fulfilling accomplishment in your poetry career to date?
A: One of the most fulfilling moments was seeing my debut poetry collection Yoke in print. It felt like the culmination of years of hard work, vulnerability, and putting pieces of my life into words. Knowing that those poems now exist out in the world and can resonate with others is incredibly gratifying.
But I’d also say that one of my other most fulfilling accomplishments has been seeing how my kids have become interested in writing and joining me in the creative process. After my book was released online, my six-year-old told me how cool it was and immediately asked if we could start writing a book together. We now regularly write together, and my kids actively see me reading, writing, submitting, and performing. In fact, my six-year-old has even performed poetry with me at an open mic!
One of my biggest hopes is that by continuing to be creative and sharing my work with the world, my children will see how fulfilling it can be to follow your passion. I want them to find something they love as much as I love writing, and to know they can share that with the world too.
Through her poetry and storytelling, Caiti Quatmann continues to explore the mysteries of nature, identity, and grief, while fostering a creative legacy for her family and community. Her work is a reminder that even in the face of life’s most profound challenges, art has the power to heal, connect, and inspire.
Continue to support Caiti by following her on Instagram
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Lukumi Arlota – Contributing Writer
Lukumi Arlota is a mental health advocate, black empowerment activist, public speaker, and business owner.
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