Writing has always felt like praying. Gautama saw the face of his infant son and sleeping. Wife shaved his head and beard, put on his yellow robe and left without saying goodbye. Duties, possessions, ties of the heart, all dust, weighing down his soul. He walked and walked, seeking a life wide open, complete and pure as a polished shell.

In a cave away from the fray of Mecca vendettas in a world soured by commerce, Muhammad shook as the words of a new scripture came to him, surrendered himself to its beauty, singing and weeping verse by verse, year by year for 21 years. Of course you remember the man from Galilee who carried on his back the very wood on which his blood was spilled, how he pushed back the rock from the front of the cave, and this is gospel, ascended, emptied of self and full of God, returning now in offerings of bread and wine.

I pace back and forth on a cliff above the unknowable, lured by slippery and maverick tales that call forth terror, crack the earth, shatter my bones with light. I have no need to verify old brown marks of stigmata, translate Coptic fragments, a burlap robe on display in the cold stone air of the Church of Santa Delacroix is inscrutable.

It tells me only that my body is a ragged garment and will be discarded too. But here now I'm ready as a tuned string to witness what is ravenous, mythic. Here I am holy, misbegotten gossip on the lips of the gods, forgotten by the time the cups are washed and put away. So I start, as I start every day, cobbling a makeshift pulpit, casting for truths as they're given me: man, woman, child, sun, moon, breath, tears, stone, sand, sea.

Brief Intro

KYEREN: Welcome to the Poet Laureate Podcast, a luminous sanctuary for poetry and reflection. Recorded at Haus of Owl (https://www.hausofowl.com) on the Lekwungen homelands. I'm Kyeren Regehr, and we just heard "Writing Has Always Felt Like Praying" by Lorri Neilsen Glenn (https://www.lorrineilsenglenn.com), who was the first Métis Poet Laureate of Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Q & A

KYEREN: Lorri, that poem just now arrived in our ears, but when did it first begin for you?

LORRI: That poem began when I was doing a lot of research about loss and grief. I spent an awful lot of time researching different faith systems, trying to broaden my understanding and probably looking for something close to the sacred. I've never been very religious, but I think there is always something we can learn from various faith systems. That's what led me to that, and I wanted to document that process.

KYEREN: Wow, that's beautiful. Is there something about this poem that continues to teach you even after you’ve written it?

LORRI: It does. I think one of the wonderful things about poetry—and writing in general—is that no matter what’s happening in our own lives, there are connections that thread us to the larger world. It's worth exploring. We think we are singular, but there’s a universality. To dig, study, and work until you find those connections is very rewarding.

KYEREN: I kind of feel like some poems feel given and others feel wrestled into being. What was this poem like for you?

LORRI: Probably a bit of both. Some poems feel given, but they're rare. Mostly it’s hard digging. Writing and then writing to clarify, then stepping back and giving the poem space to breathe so you can return later with clarity. I often need to write a lot to figure out what I'm thinking. That's the E. M. Forster quote: “How do I know what I think until I see what I say?”

KYEREN: Do you find that poetry is active preservation or discovery—or something else entirely?

LORRI: I think all of those. It’s certainly a way of learning. Poetry teaches us—not just the craft—but about the world. It’s a way to honor our experience, to praise, acknowledge, document. As I alluded to earlier, it’s a kind of secular prayer.

KYEREN: In the title itself, "Writing Has Always Felt Like Praying," I wonder if you can speak to that a little more?

LORRI: I think we are all given a way to think deeply about why we are here. Some people do that through music, some through visual art. I love words. I love being inside them. Language is a finger pointing to the moon—it’s not the moon. Words are never quite accurate, but they are the tool I feel most comfortable using to get close to meaning.

KYEREN: What does poetry require of you?

LORRI: Silence. And I don’t just mean lack of noise, but a quiet mind too. Time for reflection. A space where I’m not needed, where I can find stillness to think. It’s not about perfection, just having fewer obligations, fewer distractions.

KYEREN: Are there landscapes, voices, or other things that call poetry out of you?

LORRI: I grew up on the prairies, and they’ve always called me back. The spareness, the sense of feeling small under that sky—it’s humbling. And now, living by the Atlantic Ocean, that vastness is also a source. Both landscapes inspire awe and quiet.

KYEREN: Do you think poetry calls us to that quiet place, to that deeper questioning?

LORRI: It does for me. When I left the academy and began writing poetry around age 50, it felt like a place I could ask the big questions. It was inviting—a community of questioners. Questions like: What am I doing here? What should I pay attention to? Who matters? It brings us home to ourselves.

Munro's Sponsorship 1

KYEREN: Thank you, Lorri. I would love to invite you to read another poem. But first, I want to mention that this episode is supported by the generous spirit of Munro’s Books (https://www.munrobooks.com), a literary landmark in downtown Victoria. Munro’s has been a sanctuary for readers and writers alike for over 60 years, and their poetry section is unrivaled. I want to thank Munro’s Books for supporting this shared time today.

Second Poem by Lorri Neilsen Glenn
"Blur"

This one is called Blur, and it was published in the online magazine Juniper (https://juniperpoetry.com).

My feet slip into the old green waders, damp and too large, and I lumber down to the sea in the dim light because I ache for the sound of it. The shushing and trembling waves that hiss at the toes of my boots, a kind of summoning. Ghosts sidle up, press against me in the chill millennia of howls and cries and silent boats, dark as stones drifting like sighs toward the bottom, stories clinging to their hulls, an open coffin.

I'm never the only company I keep, and the blacker the water, the greater the weight of knowing this. The moon is behind the trees. The sky powdered with ash. White stars lately. Inside and outside. Soften, melt, flesh, flora, boots, seaweed, breath, salt, air, slumber. The blur a vessel I enter, alert for the glint of a torch. A sign like this cracked blue cup caught between rocks, its tumbled edges porous, its handle tethering fingers to all who once gripped it, all I will never know.

Q & A (continued)

KYEREN: Laurie, how has poetry acted as a companion in your life?

LORRI: That’s hard to articulate. Once I began writing poetry, I realized how much it calmed me, how much it challenged me. Even when the poem doesn’t work out, there’s something meditative and healing about it.

KYEREN: Do you find that poetry dislodges things within you?

LORRI: I think writing always does that for anybody. It’s amazing—you start writing and suddenly you’re 20 years back on a distant shore. It’s an adventure. But it also works like a tongue on a sore tooth—it keeps going there.

KYEREN: There’s a quote from T.S. Eliot—though I’m paraphrasing—about removing yourself from the experience in order to create the art.

LORRI: I think that’s true. We may begin from emotion, but to make the poem express what we truly want, we have to pull back and work on it as art.

KYEREN: One last question. If you could whisper something to an emerging poet—about courage, craft, or voice—what would it be?

LORRI: Find your kin. The poets who challenge and inspire you. Read widely. Write and write. The sooner you understand where you are in the landscape, the better. I always say: Find out who you are, and then do it on purpose.

Munro's Sponsorship 2

KYEREN: Thank you, Lorri, for your presence and your words. Books by Lorri Neilsen Glenn (https://www.lorrineilsenglenn.com) are available at Munro’s Books (https://www.munrobooks.com) for international shipping, or at their iconic downtown Victoria storefront, alongside a poetry section that invites you to linger, to explore voices from across the country and around the world, all gathered under the timeless arches of Munro’s Books.

Third Poem by Lorri Neilsen Glenn
"Wild All Night"

You hear the birds, hundreds of them, restless, erupting their racket, filling the meadow, mocking the mountain, the cold stone calm of the old paperbark tree. What force opens their throats? What promise has been broken? What currents of hope and fear rush through those fragile bones, spring into their eyes, batter blood through the small devices of their hearts?

Listen. Nothing lasts. Quiet can be stolen like your bag in the street. You’ll soon be awake in all the wrong places, your words snatched out of time. Oblivion is a wise old teacher. There is no try. It’s all right you didn’t get it until this moment. Wake every chance you can. Join the chorus. Praise the wild. Carry light.