For this installment of We Call Upon the Author to Explain, we had the great honor of talking to Timothy Geiger about his collection In a Field of Hallowed Be. The book deals with growing up, family, love, and memory, and handles these weighty subjects with a lightness of touch that’s quite extraordinary to experience. It’s an incredibly thoughtful collection that led our conversation to some heady places. We hope you enjoy reading.
Ada Wofford: In the opening poem, the narrator, while high, is asked by a cop why his eyes “look like that.” The narrator replies, “I was born this way.” This line felt very poignant to the struggle the narrator was going through. All the narrator’s problems, the life that brought him to that moment, could be explained as a form of fate. Is that what you meant to express with that line? And how does the concept of fate speak to the collection as a whole?
Timothy Geiger: I do think that the prefatory poem tries to establish the concept of fate as a recurring theme throughout the whole book, though not necessarily fate as predestination so much as fate as the signs and portents we follow to somehow arrive at where we are in this world. The speaker, at that moment in the poem, is lost, or by your astute reading, was born lost, not knowing the way, and has to make a choice to find his way to the field where he belongs. To me, the idea of belonging is inextricably linked to the idea of fate, in that fate gives us the opportunities to lead us to where we belong. The phrase “meant to be,” which shows up later in the poem, again expresses the idea of fate guiding the speaker to the right path—to that one place which can show him how to live. Consequently, this notion of fate leads the speaker through the book all the way to the final poem, “The Center,” which is meant as both an interpersonal and a contextual symbol of finally belonging.
AW: The poem “Weather Report” contains the line, “Tracy blames the moon,” which has its own context within the poem, but in the following poem, “Animals in the Dark,” the opening two lines read, “There is no solace in what I want/anymore. I conjure the moonless field.” Are these meant to be read as being connected, as the moon being to blame for the narrator’s melancholy? To build on that, what is the importance of nature in this collection?
TG: Sigh… the moon is such a lonely rock, but the light it offers makes even the darkest night effervescent… But I think what connects those two poems even more than the moon is the sense of duty the speaker feels in the face of nature. There’s this saying, “That’s just life on the farm,” which my wife and I tell each other whenever we experience some hardship with our livestock, or the weather, or the land. It speaks to the indifferent aspect of nature, how you can do everything right, and things still go wrong. I think that’s the role of nature in this book, that despite the tribulations it throws at the speaker, the melancholies and the tragedies, it never dampens the speaker’s desire to be a good steward of it, because when it goes right, which is often, nature is such an overwhelming source of joy and celebration.
AW: The title of this collection is beautiful, but of course, one cannot help but think of the Lord’s Prayer when they read it. I took it to mean that the “field” meaning earth (both the earth of the ground and planet Earth) is God, something worthy of worship and love. Is this what you intended? If not, what inspired the title?
TG: Matters of faith and spirituality have always played a large role in my poetry. My first book Blue Light Factory, was primarily about growing up in a large Catholic family. Over time with maturity, I’ve adopted a more pantheistic view, particularly with my last book, Weatherbox. Your reading of the title is spot on, as is your reading of “the field.” My intention was to harken back to the terminology and language of my past life in Catholicism to express my current transcendent beliefs regarding the magnanimity of the field—a place which to me exemplifies true holiness and grace.
AW: The poem “Smoke” deals with college-age drug use and refers to the activity as something that might “postpone the inevitable confrontation with our lives.” I love that line. Do you see this collection as a “confrontation” with life? Something that grapples with all the things you weren’t willing to deal with at a younger age?
TG: Sometimes a confrontation, but more often just a basic acknowledgment of issues from the past. I think it goes back to fate again, and the inability to change the necessary lessons and misdirections that got me here. I was a pothead and daily drug user for 20 years of my life, until my son was born, when I went cold turkey, but I’ve never seen it as something that needed to be confronted. I think that particular line and the “inevitable confrontation” are more about entering adulthood and how, at that stage of life, we find ways to avoid obligation; at least that’s what I did, until someone smaller came along who was more important than the nonsense, someone who I would give my life to.
AW: You mentioned to me when I initially reached out about this interview that “this book was born at SAFTA in the Writer’s Coop.” I stayed in the Writer’s Co-op, too, and certain lines (particularly the poem “Maybe Mice”) immediately brought me back to my time there. How would you describe your experience at SAFTA, and what is it about the environment/the landscape you found so inspiring?
TG: I’ve often said my stay at SAFTA was a transformative experience. I was able to disconnect from my work and family obligations for an entire week and just isolate myself in that little cabin in the woods to read and write. It was something I had never been able to do before. When I arrived, it was 80°, but two days later, a cold front pushed through, dropping half an inch of snow. To be able to see the farm and the forest transform the way it did led to my own proverbial transformation, and I wrote, unhindered, drafts of 9 poems during the week, an output I’d never experienced before. One thing I noticed in particular was the way the cold amplified sound—the birds, the squirrels, the mice in the rafters overhead, even hearing the sheep in the pasture half a mile away. There was an overwhelming sense of being less a part of the world, yet finally being in the world. The entire experience of being at SAFTA influenced me enough that it led to me buying my own farm “away from it all” two years later, albeit with goats and pigs, but no sheep, at least not yet.
AW: “Invisible Birds” relates heard but unseen birds to voices over the Internet. This poem is fantastic in how it shifts its focus from birds that may or may not be there to friends (though they could also be considered strangers), the narrator’s son is talking to online. But it seems to take a rather innocent take on the world of online culture (which is actually refreshing), framing it as something as innocuous as birds heard outside of a cabin. Can you speak about this perspective of the “online world” breaking into the real world? And if I’m overanalyzing this, please speak to your intentions with the poem and what you hope readers can take away from it.
TG: Another poem written at SAFTA, this one reflecting on speaking with my teenage son (who I missed terribly) over the phone while hearing birds in the trees I could not see, while he also spoke to other people on his computer, people whom he could not see. I really appreciate your analysis, and see it not only as the online world breaking into the real world, but also as the unseen world (the birds, the voices) finding a way into the known, shared world. This against the backdrop of my son’s dealings with his ADHD (another unseen force) and that online world which his diagnosis led him to inhabit, and my own helplessness in the face of his situation—a helplessness which the end of the poem tries to make clear is really unfounded; as my son consoles, he is just fine. I should also mention that this poem owes a huge debt to David Baker’s beautiful poem “Hyper,” in which he writes of his own daughter’s diagnosis of ADHD.
AW: “The Hidden Spring” speaks to time and place. On November 24, 2017, “[A] bagpiper played ‘She Moves Through the Fair,’” then exactly two years later, “fiddlehead ferns” take up the tune. This makes me think of the classic novel Slaughterhouse Five and the much more recent novel Transcription in the sense that, to paraphrase from a well-known film, everything is happening at once all the time, even memories. This aspect of being a human fascinates me very much. The idea that all our memories shape whatever is currently happening to us. Can you speak about the significance of memory in your work?
TG: Yes, me too! I’m also fascinated by the idea that we inhabit our memories in the present to become ourselves. So much so that the poems in the book I’m currently working on, tentatively titled “Anamnesis,” try to manipulate narrative structures of time by merging the past and present into a unified experience so that memory, as it were, is always present in the now. In this book, though, I think memory is more Wordsworthian in nature as an active force that can be drawn from to bridge the gap between childhood innocence and adult concerns in order to arrive at some semblance of tranquility, as in “The Hidden Spring,” which is really a love poem to my wife. Consequently, time is then differentiated from memory as more of a physical force that tries to separate us from memory as it pushes us towards mortality. The poem “Xiuhtecuhtli” (named after the Aztec god of time) tries to express this idea by looking at the shape of time as having a distinct beginning and ending, unlike memory, which is shapeless, ever-present, and ethereal. It’s one of my favorite poems in the book, but that’s also because I got to write it about my pet pig, Porcini, and she’s adorable. See!
AW: You have really great opening lines. For example, in “Pretense,” you open with, “After losing my shirt.” And in “Smoke,” you open with, “Honest to God, I used to know a guy named Vinny Christ.” Can you speak about your thoughts on opening lines, their importance, and maybe quote a favorite of another author if you have one?
TG: Thank you for saying that. I feel like every poem I write is prompted by the opening line, meaning the opening line is the first thing I come up with and put to paper, and sets the course for the map the poem is going to follow. And while the line may suggest a tone, or a subject, or a narrative structure, I love that I don’t necessarily have to follow those suggestions. I think back to my MFA at The University of Alabama, where one of my dear teachers, Thomas Rabbitt, used to ride me about my opening lines because I always started poems with time markings, as in “December and…” or “I’m nine years old and…”. He pointed out that I was doing this because I was beholden to the yoke of narrative exposition, establishing setting, and once I saw what he meant, there was suddenly no going back. Now, I see the opening line not as a part of a narrative equation, but more as a part of the lyrical discovery every poem is trying to make. And concerning favorite opening lines by other authors, there are just so many I wouldn’t know where to begin. (See what I did there?)
AW: And lastly, is there anything you would like to promote or anything I didn’t ask you about that you would like to talk about?
TG: Yes, thank you so much for such great questions, and for the opportunity to talk about my book and my poetry. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that, in addition to writing poetry for the past 35 years, I’ve also been printing it through my work with my limited edition fine press, Aureole Press. So much of my work as a poet is informed by my work as a printer. I’ve been setting type, letterpress printing, hand binding, and publishing books since 1989, when my dual life as a poet and printer began. In that span, my press has published over 40 books by such writers as Philip Levine, Naomi Shihab Nye, Carl Philips, Peter Everwine, Tu Fu, and, most recently, the poet Katie Hartsock. Since 1997, I’ve been incredibly fortunate to get to share my passions and teach both poetry writing and bookmaking at the University of Toledo, where my press is currently housed. My website is aureolepress.weebly.com, and if you’re ever in Toledo, please stop by the typography laboratory, and I’ll happily take you on a tour while we talk poetry. Thank you so much, again.
In a Field of Hallowed Be is available through Terrapin Books
Timothy Geiger is the author of the poetry collections Weatherbox, winner of the 2019 Vern Rutsala Poetry Prize from Cloudbank Books; The Curse of Pheromones from Main Street Rag Press; and Blue Light Factory from Spoon River Poetry Press. His newest collection, In a Field of Hallowed Be, was published in September 2024 from Terrapin Books, and received an Honorable Mention from the 2025 Eric Hoffer Award in both the Grand Prize and DaVinci Eye categories. He is also the author of ten chapbooks, most recently Holler (APoGee Press, 2021). His work has received a Pushcart Prize XVII and a Holt, Rinehart and Winston Award in Literature, as well as many state and local grants from Ohio, Minnesota, and Alabama. He runs a small farm in Northwest Ohio, raising goats, chickens, ducks, turkeys, and pigs. The proprietor of Aureole Press, a letterpress imprint publishing contemporary poetry, he is a professor of English at The University of Toledo, where he teaches Creative Writing, Poetry, and Book Arts.
Ada Wofford (they/them) holds MAs in both English and Library Studies. In addition to working at a rare book shop, they are an associate poetry editor at Sundress Publications, the editor of We Call Upon the Author to Explain, and the non-fiction editor at Stirring: A Literary Collection. Their writing has appeared in The Blue Nib, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Autostraddle, Capable Magazine, Sundress Reads, and more. Their chapbook, I Remember Learning How to Dive, was published in 2020, part of which earned them a Pushcart Prize nomination.
