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Interview: Poet and Pastor Steve Garnaas-Holmes of New Hampshire

admin ♦ October 9, 2011 ♦ Leave Your Comment

 

I notice in going over the interview with United Methodist Minister and poet
Steve Garnaas-Holmes that a lot of the theme in these questions, and answers,
have to do with a poet’s work. It also has to do with, To whom are you
speaking, and Pastor Steve says in so many words, It is more about who
is speaking with me.
(I help people to live with heart, connect with God, and practice
gentleness, gratitude, trust, courage and love.)

The poet is a
contemplative man, and I think the reader will agree that the Facebook friend
whose current Parish is New Hampshire, USA (Bow Mills United Methodist Church)
and who will be moving to Massachusetts, USA in July (St. Matthew’s United
Methodist Church in Acton), has a conversation with God going in his life. This
Billings,Montana man who went to Rocky Mountain College, and Pacific School of
Religion in Berkeley, California is married to Beth, and sometimes speaks in
terms of aphorisms in his Facebook postings. Here are three of those:

People love to ask, “What would Jesus do?” as if they know. But Jesus
consistently did what no one expected!
Steve Garnaas-Holmes Yes! People are
not going to come for our programs. They’re going to come for deep
relationships, for vibrant living, for joy, for love, for transcendence. It’s
the heart. The heart shared by a whole community who live as if they’ve just
been resurrected. Hearts strangely warm. Unless we’re madly in love with God,
they should pass us by.
You see? We are one. We weep each other’s tears and sing each other’s
hope. We are one. To be human is to be one with all. We are one.

We two spoke by phone on a Monday night in
April 2011, 8 p.m. New Hampshire USA time: Steve from his home and this writer
from his home in Mill Valley, California USA. As a towards-the-last-word of this
introduction, a singular hallmark of Pastor Steve’s poetry is Christian
hope.

The interview is
the second in a series of interviews with poets who write religious and
spiritual poetry. Right now this writer has Pamela Cranston interested in being
interviewed, a California poet who is an Episcopal Priest and former Sister in
the Franciscan Order.

Your nominations for poets in the United States to be
interviewed are invited. Anglican nominations are good, others of religious and
spiritual inclination for nomination are encouraged, of course. Please note
their name in the comments section of this posting. State a reason for including
them in your list of religious and spiritual poets.

INTERVIEW

As a poet, when did you find you
wanted to write poetry and begin to do so? As part of that question, the
inevitable, Why do you write poetry? What do you find it has for you and
others?

I don’t remember when I first
began to want to write poetry. I’ve been doing it as long as I can remember. I
can think of lots of reasons why I like to write poetry… but when it comes right
down to it, I just love to write poetry.

A lot of the poetry I write is
essentially prayer. I think poetry and prayer is the same thing. In that sense I
don’t really write it for an audience, only for God. In a sense, I am my own
audience.

Part of the wonder of poetry is the possibility of conveying
that wonder to somebody else. Through the poem someone else might join in the
conversation, with a different set of perceptions and questions or insights and
experience.

Somehow their contribution to the conversation enriches me in
the same way someone else’s prayer enriches me, even if I’m not aware of their
prayer.

Have you a book of your work, or do you intend to have
one published? (If no book in the works, make believe there could be so
questions can be answered.)

Will you let us in on this
news and tell us What thoughts you’ve had about a theme, or if there are
particular favorite poems of yours that you’d like to see as part of the work?
Meanwhile, where is your poetry published, mostly?

I do not have a book. I would love to.
A lot of people urge me to publish a book. There are three reasons I haven’t. I
enjoy writing poetry more than the work of getting a book published. It’s a
matter of looking at poetry and writing to editors. That kind of thing.

I
think I am haunted by a little bit of self-doubt, and I think, “Who would want
to look at my poetry?” It kind of tugs at me. The third reason is I just plain
don’t get around to it.

I’ve thought about putting together a book with
some kind of theme. People have said I could write a book about my walking in
the woods, or just about God, or reflecting on Biblical passages. The only place
my poetry appears regularly is my blog, Unfolding Light. Rather than compiling a book on one them, I’d prefer one with
more variety in it,with a theme that’s a little harder to pin
down.

Where I first found your work
was in the journal, “Weavings,” published by the Methodist
Church (Upper Room Publications). How did you get started with that journal of
spiritual writing? Please tell us why you like the journal, and as a Methodist
Minister and poet who is currently assigned to  Bow Mills United Methodist Church in New
Hampshire, What does it offer a parishioner in its
writing?

In fact, “Weavings” is one of the only places I get
published right now. (Weavings is committed to exploring the
many ways in which God’s life and our lives are woven together in the world.)
The way I got started is that the editors asked if I would submit something, and
I’ve been doing it for a little while. One of the things I like about “Weavings”
is that they explore the spiritual life through spiritual writings, essays,
stories and poems, in ways that are really honest and unflinching, and
accessible to the average person–who are in touch with that kind of thing. It is
not couched in special language.

Your wife is helpful and
encouraging of your poetry work. So I understand. Can you tell us in what ways
she helps and supports you? Also, this writer is doing a series of three
interviews with Bishop’s Wives, the first done. Tell us as a husband, What your
wife does also in your Church? Is there a special role she fulfills, or work she
does as a Pastor’s Wife?

At home with his wife
Beth

Actually, Beth doesn’t have much to
do with my poetry at all. She is my reality check and my anchor in a lot of
ways. My poetry is a thing I do on my own. Like she plays the piano and does
Spiritual Direction. We have worked together many times, and that is a fruitful
partnership there. We really complement each other well. At the moment we are
not working together, but she is a great consultant to have on
board.

There is always the inevitable and somewhat worn question
that is a favorite of people who ask questions of writers and poets. I think it
remains a good question, and fair game to ask, Where do your ideas come from?
And to expand on the question, What seems to be your theme in the recent poetry
you’ve been writing? If it is liturgical, or Biblical, or some kind of
inspirational theme you think your own parishioner’s need or want, please give
us a little detail or
anecdote.

I don’t usually write poetry for Parishioners: I write for a wider audience or a
different audience. Some of the poetry I write is in the [Church] newsletter. I
don’t know that there is a theme as much as there is intent. Especially when I
write for Church folks, I write with the intent of engaging them in the reality
of God in their own lives…to pay attention more deeply. Sometimes that is
directed towards scripture; sometimes it is just inviting them to look at their
daily lives in a fresh way: inviting them to see more deeply.

Poetry
really comes for me out of prayer. It is fair for me to say my poetry comes from
God, in the sense that my prayer life comes from God. It’s listening. Poetry is
90 percent paying attention, and ten percent taking good notes. All of the work
of the writing and crafting of the poem is just ten percent of it. I think it is
a matter of listening, listening to God.

It seems you read your work aloud. That’s a guess, but should be in the realm of possibility. Where
usually do you read? Where may someone find your work on the internet? Or in New
Hampshire and elsewhere? Sometimes reading aloud to people or even to oneself
help the poet craft his work. Do you revise very often a single work, and are
you ever inspired to find an encouragement to change a poem after having read it
aloud? This writer does? To share something with you my Facebook friend, a poem
can be nine years old and have stayed with me all those years, still to be
revised. Is so the same for you?

Do you work from pen
and paper, or use the computer or typewriter solely?

Have you a mailing list of friends or associates who
you “write for” and who are a kind of help or sounding-board for new poems?

As you know, I like to write poetry to express my own
sense of religion and respond to liturgical and inspirational matters, including
our Church (Episcopal) prayer book or the Bible. I find I do my writing of
poetry first to share with friends, many from Church. Is Church an inspiration
or aid to your own sensibilities as a poet in ways every day–other than the
specific writing of the poems? It is for most of us who attend worship, but what
of the poet, is there a special inspiration? Even in the words of prayers or
readings?

You ask about reading poetry
aloud. It’s really true. It’s their sound, not just the words and their meaning.
I enjoy the music of poetry, the actual spoken words. One of the most
pleasurable expediences writing a poem I ever had was once, late at night, lying
on the floor. Working with the sounds of the words was actually physically
pleasurable, like eating bread. There is something of that with what I am doing
with poetry, let the sound be the poem and let that be the reality of a
poem.

(Here is that Thanksgiving poem):

Thanksgiving
It does not take—although
it
could—our breath away,
this warm November day
that should be dense and
dark;
instead it gives.
The park is washed: a tide of light
leaves
the day’s bright spine
exposed, the clear sun beached
upon the evening’s
shore,
reposed where children each
reflect it, young and pure.
How is
this day not old
and grey, but yet a bride,
lap full of wedding
gifts,
all tied with gold, with light?
It lifts our hearts, too cold,

and too soon winterized,
to watch our children run
in ribbons
through the gold,
the bright gift
wrapping strewn, untidy sheets of
light,
across the afternoon,
not innocently laughing
jewels into our
laps
until our arms collapse,
and we are warm. How can
this laying on
of hands
of light, so late, be right?
What are we to remember
of this
gilded not-november
miracle of days?
The oracle of praise
this day of
Magi lays
abiding at our feet,
the reason given
for tidings of
light,
light piled against the trees and benches,
against our legs and
feet,
against our thoughts of sleet:
God has no oughts, but gifts.
This
is our tithe: let light
be more than interlude,
life little more than
this—
delight and gratitude.

]]>

There are some poems that
suggest themselves as done, but a lot of poems stay open and I keep working with
them. I sometimes work with them years later and see [them] in a new way. There
may be a specific problem that I can work with that vexed me. A poem can come
off in

60 minutes or
twenty years. There are some poems that never finish: they keep growing and
suggesting new things.

I use whatever I’ve got. I use computers, I use
pen and paper. I write poems on the back of envelopes and napkins. I write
anywhere. Sometimes I’m sitting in the house, or out walking. If I don’t have
any paper I have to work it out in my head, like on a bus.

You know it’s
what we call a first reader… someone we send a work to before we send it out to
a public. The closest thing I have for that is my sister who lives in Montana
where we grew up together.

Almost anything becomes an inspiration for me.
Sometimes my poems have a liturgical feel about them. Sometimes specifically
scripture and the church liturgy. But I would say just as often it is a piece of
junk mail, or something I overhear. I do believe God speaks to us many places.
Poetry comes to me in whatever places I encounter. It comes from all
over.

What would you say to young
poets?

To young poets, I’d say four
things. The first is: pay attention. Look around. Notice stuff. Poetry is mostly
listening, and partly taking really good notes. Let what you see be itself,
without imposing what you think. Really look. Look with your eyes and your
heart; look at what we usually miss. Look at what’s invisible. Listen to what
people say, and how they say it, and what is unsaid. Feel what’s inside you and
around you. You don’t have to have deep emotion to write poetry, just deep
attentiveness.

Secondly: Don’t try to be “good.” Just be yourself. Don’t
worry about how good it is, just pay attention to how true it is. Keep
practicing this weird thing of matching up words with the world in and around
you. It will take a long time until you’ve practiced enough to bother with that
whole thing of judging whether a poem is “good enough,” especially for other
people. Don’t bother. Just write for yourself.

Third. Write a lot. Write
a bunch of junk. As long as it’s a bunch. Just write. Get it out. Practice
writing. Practice paying attention to how you say things, and put your mind to
learning–and keep going.

Four: Read a lot of poetry. Lots of different
kinds. Not to copy, or to compare, but to whet your appetite, to see new
possibilities, to learn from others– and to enjoy! Notice how they do it. Notice
what happens in poems that you really like. See what can you learn from them.

Is there anything that you’d like to add, a question of your own
or statement you want to make that I have not touched
upon?

I don’t think so.

ADDENDUM

Poems by Steve Garnaas-Holmes,
as selected by the poet and posted with his permission. All Copyright © Steve
Garnaas-Holmes.

O Greening God, Spring be your praise!

Praise be
these warming, gentle days,

the evening light that lingers
more

each day beside her lover’s door,

the silent, ice-bound
brook’s release

to sing its melody of peace,

and snow-bowed limbs,
now free, that lift

their hands to thank you for the gift.

The
lines of geese, mile after mile,

are monks processing up the
aisle

toward the altar of their nest

while chanting psalms that we
are blessed.

Your praise be sap in buds and roots,

the courage of
the small green shoots,

the breeze from warmer bosoms drawn,

the
songs of birds that thread the dawn.

O God of budding, birthing
things,

all rising up your glory sings—

all bugs that hatch, all
smells that waft,

all thawing, swelling, turning soft:

this is
your praise, and may it be

as in the woods, so clear in me.

Emerge
in me, O Lord, like spring,

that I may be the hymn you
sing.

The glass of water
says

The wind
says, “Let me hold you.”

A cloud mouths your name in silent
payer.

A bird intones an ancient chant,

“Beauty shadow you! Beauty
shadow you!”.

You walk under the street light,

an angel with one
wing,

and she says,

“You, too, have this gift.”

You cross
the bridge,

patient on its hands and knees,

and it says, “Walk
over my back

to your love.”

You go along the frozen
river

and the black water moving underneath

says, “Already
something in you

is arriving at God.”

The steps you climb
say,

“Yes, the whole world holds you in its lap.”

The door says,
“Go through! Go through!”

The wastebasket says, “I will relieve your
burden.”

The glass of water, with a twinkle in its eye,

says,
“Yes, it’s true. Beforehand,

long ago, we all agreed, all of
us,

to bless you, and to go on blessing
you.”

Ox

If
I were an ox

and You my driver,

would I mind?

If love were
my yoke,

would I balk?

If I walked a path

whose way I could
not see,

whose end I could not know,

would I complain?

If I
pulled a cart laden

with riches beyond my knowing,

bound for
strangers,

would I refuse?

Oh, Driver, Brother, You

who set
me free,

crack your whip of light.

Let’s walk this joyful
road.

Autumn Colors

Autumn colors have an
edge.

Shards of red and orange sparkle

through the cracks and
splintered ends

of summer’s gentle arc.

Behind the green and
murmuring veil of bliss

death speckles every leaf and bark,

and
colors spark and hiss.

Leaves turn the shade of blood,

the shade
of bread, then die;

they bleed and wash the trees

with broken
colors,

shadows radiant and bright,

‘till all is gathered and
dispersed,

‘till all is white.

Death’s season; passion’s colors:

these hues are loose,

and not at our command,

but still
not unforgiving:

undomesticated shades

only at the edges of our
living.

Faith is such a luminous surrender:

the red
transfiguration of the tree,

celebrant with unexpected
brightness

pouring life, unshackled, to the wind.

Listen at the
garden’s edge, dear child

of life and death, to this rustling
oracle:

that what we call a miracle

is often only
wild.

This article appeared originally in Church of England
Newspaper, London.