Make Poetry Punk Again: A Conversation with Josh Datko

Author Interview

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Author’s Introduction:
Josh Datko is an unusual poet in the best sense: a former musician whose careful ear for rhythm and harmony is evident in each sharp, compact line of verse he crafts. Having spent years in the military, Datko brings precision and discipline to his poetry, evident perhaps most clearly in his Bloody Sonnets sequence: vivid translations from Slovakian that reflect both his technical rigor and deep emotional resonance. But Datko’s greatest distinction might be the sincerity of his online presence—valuing genuine interaction over raw subscriber counts, he has cultivated one of Substack’s most dynamic literary communities. His radio show, known for its lively discourse and authentic engagement, exemplifies his commitment to connection. When tuning into his show, listeners are often left guessing at how much of it is rehearsed—are Josh's insightful interpretations meticulously scripted or organically spontaneous? The seamless blend of prepared thought and natural interaction adds to the show's charm, making poetry not just accessible but refreshingly vibrant and undeniably cool again.

In this interview, we dive deep into why Datko chose poetry—and specifically Substack—as his creative home. We explore how his roots in the DIY music scene shape his approach to writing and publishing, and what elements of that punk ethos continue to influence his work. Josh discusses the emotional and aesthetic connections between his poetry and the rare, tactile medium of cassette tapes. He shares the poetic voices that inspire him and the audience he's writing for, reflecting on the enduring power and challenges of poetry in translation. Finally, Datko offers candid advice for poets navigating the digital landscape of Substack and reveals surprising insights about the nuances of community-building in a digital age. Join us as we discuss what’s next for bitpunk.fm, his lively blend of poetry, performance, and punk-infused creativity.

NULL POINT: Why poetry, and why Substack? You could’ve shared your work anywhere—zines, journals, spoken word, print chapbooks—but you chose Substack. What does poetry mean to you, and why does this platform feel like the right place to build a poetic home?

BITPUNK: In many ways, Substack is absolutely the wrong platform for poetry. The aesthetic choices are very limited and even with the poetry formatting option, the typesetting is difficult. Because our pages are digital screens, it makes a difference whether the poem will be rendered on a phone or a laptop. I sadly spend too much time before publishing each poem ensuring that the line breaks will render correctly in the mobile preview. Honestly, it almost makes me want to just publish images of typewritten poems.

Also, poetry is not a first-class citizen on Substack. First-class citizens are newsletters selling predictions on the stock market—people pay for access hoping to make more money than they spend. Poetry is timeless, and yet it’s standing room only on the Substack train. In most ways, it’s better to run your own website where you can shape nearly all aspects of the experience—pick from more than four fonts, create different payment and support options. I once watched a “Substack Live” with one of the co-creators who said (paraphrasing): The economic model of Substack is what makes Substack unique, not the longform content.

What’s the economic model of poetry? I don’t think Substack changes that fundamentally. There’s only one reason to be writing poetry on Substack: everyone else is doing it. Which is to say, Substack has captured an audience of authors and readers and has undeniably built a network effect. It’s the quickest way to connect with other poets and lovers of poetry. So with the number of people here, I’ve found—just by the law of big numbers—an audience with whom I resonate. That’s harder to do in a local scene where, if you don’t vibe with your milieu, it’s uphill. But I don’t feel like Substack is my home. I feel at home among the other people here, who’ve been extremely encouraging, kind, and welcoming. But Substack is a digital platform at the end of the day. I feel like I’m allowed in, to have a drink or two, but I’m not to touch the thermostat.

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Josh Datko Live on “Poetry on Tape” - Source of Images: bitpunk.fm

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NULL POINT: From DIY venues to digital verse—how has your background in the underground music scene shaped your writing? What carried over from that world—its ethos, its energy, its imperfections—into how you approach poetry and publishing?

BITPUNK: It helped put the punk in bitpunk.fm. That’s the name of my publication, the cassettes, and the website. There’s still this old-school mentality—even today—about being published in some stodgy journal. I really don’t get it. I grew up in the hacker scene of the ’90s, where odd websites and underground zines filled with knowledge on how to crack passwords and break into systems were the norm.

I recently submitted some poems to my local radio station and was genuinely excited to hear them played in the car. But I published them first on Substack. Not only do we have these gatekeeper publications, but they insist on exclusive publishing! That concept is so foreign to me. I guess I’ve been in underground scenes for too long—I thought exclusivity had died. It still bothers me. I think it’s fine if the author wants it, but I’ve never asked anyone who submits audio for my tapes to be exclusive.

The zine community seems much more collaborative. Collage—especially visual collage—is an embraced technique. Audio collage, sadly, is nearly impossible now with tools like YouTube’s Content-ID system. So remix communities that used to thrive now get squeezed. But on Substack, some people still embody that ethos. I’d name

Justin Patrick Moore

on the audio side and

Abby Schleifer

on the zine side.

That punk ethos is probably the biggest thing I carry over. I even named a cassette Make Poetry Punk Again. A close second is my emphasis on spoken word. I’m really interested in the sound of poetry. Even when writing free verse, I’m after something that rings—whether through alliteration or vowels. Sound matters.

NULL POINT: You still make cassette tapes, which is rare. What’s the emotional or aesthetic through-line between your tapes and your poetry?

BITPUNK: It’s rare because we were all duped into believing digital was better. Marshall McLuhan has this framework called the tetrad: four questions to evaluate the effects of media. What does it enhance? What does it make obsolete? What does it retrieve? What does it reverse when pushed to extremes?

I won’t go through the full analysis, but take streaming music—it’s been pushed to extremes. Now we listen to vibes. Curated playlists. Music is about us, not the other way around. We can’t sit through a full album. This all started, I think, with one simple addition: the next button on CD players.

Try finding the next song on a cassette. It’s frustrating. Much worse than vinyl, where you can at least see the gaps. A cassette is linear. You play it. Then you flip it. Try listening at 2x speed—it’s nearly impossible. Even a print poem can be skimmed. But with a cassette or a live performance, you’re stuck in time. That’s what I’m after. My poetry is meant to live in one of those slower, embodied mediums.

NULL POINT: Who are your poetic influences—and who do you think you’re writing for?

BITPUNK: First of all, I’m a baby poet. I can tell you exactly when it started—October 14th, 2024. I published a post here on Substack that day. Not even a year ago. If you told me then I’d have over 100 poems and audio performances published now, I wouldn’t have believed you.

I came to poetry for a practical reason: I needed audio for bitpunk.fm. On the third tape I made, in late September, I read Stephen Crane’s In the Desert. Then I joined @iancattanach’s writing school, which ran on Substack and on a platform called Skool. There was this early burst of new writers around October 2024. Ian introduced me to Robert Bly—specifically The Teeth Mother Naked at Last—and that poem unlocked me.

To use an audio term: Bly has immense dynamic range. He’ll knock you flat with a political poem, then write something quiet about mailing a letter from a small town. He was a U.S. Navy veteran, ran his own press, and performed with stories and music. I’ve collected his old cassettes and magazines. I’m not shy to say I actively try to emulate him—in words and performance.

His lineage goes back to Emerson and Thoreau. He translated Neruda, Rilke, Trakl. That led me into translating WWI poets. It’s some of the most powerful poetry I’ve encountered. I’ve learned this: no one likes antiwar poets. Hviezdoslav’s Bloody Sonnets were censored until after the war. Robert Bly got death threats for opposing Vietnam.

So now I know this is my fate too. I’ve become an advocate for poetry in translation. You fold time. You bring voices from the past into the present. If those voices share your vision, you’re building alliances across centuries.

All this—antiwar views, the audio-first mindset, the cassette fetish, calling myself a poet on Substack—I know it’s polarizing. I have zero mass appeal. So I try to imprint myself heavily into the work. Take it or leave it. But for the readers who do connect, I try to respond with real appreciation.

NULL POINT: What advice would you give to other poets using Substack?

BITPUNK: Be careful what you wish for. Ask yourself what you really want from Substack. Is it money? A public archive? Another social media app?

Substack’s dashboard is built for paid newsletters. But poetry is a cool medium. It requires work from the reader. Non-fiction? That’s hot media—the author does the heavy lifting. A poem needs time. So if you post one and don’t get “engagement,” it doesn’t mean people didn’t care. They might come back to it a day later. But the metrics won’t reflect that.

We all start from zero here. If you make a new account tomorrow, it’s a long climb. So use the same tactics that work offline: show up. Read other people. Comment meaningfully. Build relationships.

I go to events with a briefcase full of 30 cassettes, covered in stickers. It’s hard to convince people to take a free cassette. I don’t charge, but I still have to sell the idea. And I think I do that with enthusiasm.

NULL POINT: “Any surprising insights you’ve gathered about community-building here?”

BITPUNK: If you’re going to commit to poetry, make a publication only for poetry. Most people treat poetry like brussels sprouts—good for you, but hard to love.

So here’s what I’ve seen: if a writer posts a poem, it’ll “perform” worse than their other posts. And then they start to doubt themselves. But that’s just the metrics lying to you. Poetry doesn’t perform. The only notification I have on is for comments—because those are real. When someone engages, really sees your work, you can often see theirs in return. All the other metrics? Bullshit.

NULL POINT: What’s next for bitpunk.fm?

BITPUNK: When I finish translating all thirty-two of Hviezdoslav’s Bloody Sonnets, I’ll release a book. I’m torn between making it a rough DIY zine or something more polished. Either way, there will be audio too.

The monthly tapes will continue. That’s a good pace for a little magazine. Sometimes the theme clicks easily; sometimes it stews all month. Then I pull it together over a weekend.

I’ve been doing live performances—Fridays on Substack, Mondays at a local open mic. I might cut back a bit. But I love live performance. I think as AI gets stronger, live shows will matter more. AI text, AI music—it’s already here. I read a study that said people prefer AI poetry. So in-person work will become a form of truth.

I’m also building a radio station: radio.bitpunk.fm. Right now it plays past poetry readings, my tapes, Finnegans Wake, McLuhan lectures, audio from @justinpatrickmoore, and music from a DJ friend. But I want to feature more Substackers—authors and poets reading their own work.

So yeah, if you want to be on the radio, get in touch.

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