The following is an interview conducted with Ann Hostetler, via e-mail. The questions are in italics and Hostetler's responses follow in standard script.

You once stated that your poetry self and your Mennonite self were kept separate from each other in your life. After the work you have done with other Mennonite poets and your reintroduction into an overwhelmingly Mennonite environment, do you see these two aspects of your life drawing closer together?

Definitely. Doing the anthology was transformative for me. As I learned to know the many poets and the various relationships they had to a diversity of Mennonite backgrounds, I came to see that there was a place for me as a creative artist in a Mennonite context. I realized that poets--and creative artists in many mediums-- can and do create "virtual community" through their work, and that this community is just as valid and a great deal more flexible than the patriarchal, landed, rural communities from which many Mennonites originated.

Has your work with A Cappella shaped your own writing?

This is an interesting question. I suppose working on A Cappella has shaped my work, at least in the general sense that whatever a poet does becomes fuel for the work. More specifically, editing A Cappella involved me in the close study of the work of many wonderful writers and helped me create a context for my work as a "Mennonite" poet. It certainly created the occasion for me to think long and hard about what makes a "Mennonite" poet and prompted me to explore Mennonite topics in poetry, something I hadn't done before I edited the book. While poems begin in particulars, and poets bring the vitality of a particular set of experiences to the poem, ultimately, I believe that writing poetry is a non-sectarian enterprise that seeks connections beyond the particular groups or communities one writes from.


Do you write for an audience? If so, what do you hope your poetry will inspire or achieve?

First of all, I write for myself. If the writing doesn't engage and capture my attention, I don't think it will attract another reader, either. But there have been occasions when I've consciously imagined another reader present as I created the poem. This is especially true for occasional poems, such as the Lenten meditation I wrote for the Goshen College website in 2003, "Imperfect Servant." I wrote that poem with a student in mind, someone very much committed to peace and justice work who'd recently had a mental breakdown. That year I'd taught several students with similar issues, and this led me to think about the cost of doing peace work, as well as the motivation for it. This might be an example of a more subtly Mennonite poem--as it addresses issues contemporary Mennonites may face in trying to live out their faith in a troubled world--but it's certainly not limited to a Mennonite audience. It must have resonated with a number of readers, because many people have told me they appreciated the poem and it has been reprinted in a number of church publications since that time.

When did you start writing, and what prompted you to do so?

I began writing poetry as a child. My parents, especially my mother, read to me a lot, and I had an affinity with poetry from a young age. I loved the mystery of words and the magic they created for me. We had a long car ride to church, and when I was in elementary school my mother suggested I enter a poetry contest the church library was having, probably to keep me entertained on the drive. So I wrote my first poem on the ride to church and won the contest.

How would you define poetry, or what is poetry to you?

I like William Stafford's definition of poetry as language that demands a certain kind of attention. And Emily Dickinson's definition of poetry as something that makes her feel like the top of her head has been taken off.  Poetry is language felt physically and viscerally. Poetry is language that weaves a spell, transforms our familiar ways of thinking, and connects us to a larger consciousness--the mind of the writer as expressed in the consciousness of the poem.