Like a lot of people, I did write poetry as a child and as a teenager. But I lost interest in it — either reading about it, or writing it. Other forms seemed more vibrant at that stage.

Then I was reading an interview in The Times with Alice Oswald, who was talking about a new book-length poem she was publishing that year. I don’t even know why I read it, but it sounded so compelling that I went straight out and bought the book. It’s called Dart, and it’s the second collection of her poems — really one long poem which she wrote walking up and down the River Dart, tracing it from its source to the sea. She talked to the people she met there, walkers, poachers, sewage workers, and wove their voices to create a songline of the river — almost giving the river a voice.

When you’ve seen the possibilities in a particular art form, why would you not want to explore them? The experience of reading Dart was absolutely electrifying. It opened a door which had been closed, and lit something within me. The following summer, I started to try and write seriously, and out of that took an evening class.

I think you absolutely can be taught to write poetry. We were not given instruction, but we’d bring our work in and other people would critique it — rather like when you learn the piano and your piano teacher listens to you and points out the strengths and weaknesses.

It opened my eyes to contemporary poetry; and [if I hadn’t gone] I wouldn’t have met the good friends and champions of my work. My whole view would have been so much narrower.

Going to a class is also a statement of intent: this is important to me, and too important to do by myself. I need friends along the way.

Poetry might be solitary in terms of conception, but I see it as a mode of thought and means of com­munication. Poetry is about speaking to others and being shaped by other voices — whether it’s the literary canon or people and the world around you.

The common thread in the poets who have influenced me is that they are people rooted in the outdoors and nature, though I don’t write about that much. Kathleen Jamie, John Burnside, Robin Robertson. . . They’re all Scottish. And Gwyneth Lewis and R. S. Thomas — both Welsh. And Seamus Heaney, of course. John Burnside is a fascinating poet — there’s a lot of faith and theology in his poetry, and some is very serious, but he also has quite a light touch. There’s a mystery I aspire to in my own work — a depth that needs to be plumbed.

Alice Oswald is my favourite contemporary poet, my touchstone, though I don’t write anything like her. And I love the way Seamus Heaney uses form in an incredibly light and deft manner. You could be reading a sonnet and not realise it, he holds these things so lightly.

I write quite formal poetry. It seems to be what suits me at the moment.

No, poetry doesn’t earn a living — but perhaps I’m not the person to ask, because I’m just beginning my journey. I work four days a week as a commissioning editor for the non-fiction, religious list of a publisher.

Part of me wouldn’t want to see poetry as a vehicle for making doctrinal points, or giving a message — it’s deeper than that. Poetry is truth-telling, a mode of thought and self expression. Faith is ultimately concerned with truth; so perhaps they are cousins with some­thing to say to one another.

But, of course, writing is always part of the process of discipleship — what I write and how I write about it is part of my faith.

All my poetry has something of me in it, even it’s not about me, and so it also has God in it, even if it’s not about God.

Poetry and faith are two niche interests that many people don’t have much time for, maybe for good reasons; so it’s nice to be able to create poems for Christmas to give as a gift — which might be read, or not. It’s an invitation, and it can be worship and celebration — an expression of gratitude.

Some of them are very oblique. I wrote one about a canal lock being a metaphor for the incarnation, so there’s something there if you look for it, but, if not, it’s a poem about a canal lock, in winter.

George Surtees, one of my poetry tutors, said: “A good poem begins firmly but steps off lightly.” I can be tempted to close things off too firmly, or resolve a poem too easily. Paul Valery said: “A poem is never finished, only abandoned,” and that’s perhaps right. You work on something as much as possible and put it aside, and perhaps come back to it.

You always think your own family is normal, don’t you? But I think my older brother and two younger sisters are quite close, as families go. They’re very important to me. I like writing for people; so I suppose I write for them more than other people.

Without wishing to sound overly spiritual, I would hope the most important choice in my life is the daily decision to be a disciple of Jesus — and it is a lifelong choice, not a one-off. But perhaps also the two “grown-up gap years” I spent at Bible college, and doing a creative-writing Master’s degree were both quite foundational — and in quite un­expected ways.

Broken relationships of all different types are probably my big regrets. One day, there might be the pos­sibility of all these being reconciled — and that would be the most wonderful thing.

If I could, in some way, com­municate my deep understanding that the world is fundamentally a good place for people to be in — everyone welcome, and everyone belonging — either through my writing, or in some other way, that would be a great gift. I’m not denying the heartbreak, tragedy, and trauma in people’s lives, but I believe in a deeper reality that everyone is welcome, and it’s part of our commission to bring that to birth.

We’re all called to be the things that we long for. I recently came across the poet Pádraig ó Tuama, who leads retreats and does conflict resolution in Northern Ireland [Back Page Inter­view, 3 June]. You could sum up his work as that of a theology of welcome — incredibly generous, but not naïve, not denying the fragmentation or violence.

I’m not historically brilliant at going on holidays, but I’m trying to do better. I live in London, and love it, but I also like a certain amount of wildness.

There’s something lovely about hearing rain on a window pane or the outside of a tent. It makes you feel very cosy. And I love sparrows — the way they cheep all together, in one burst, and then go silent again.

An English teacher I had in the fourth form was incredibly in­spirational, waking me up to the exciting beauty of words and also ideas. And my parents have in­fluenced me really deeply, and it’s been good, as I’ve grown older, to become friends with them. And perhaps the person who has in­fluenced me most is my spiritual director.

I love the Psalms. There’s a possible connection there with poetry, but, really, they give you a vocabulary for the business of engaging with God. And I really like Ecclesiastes — it’s delightful, and more cheering than most people think.

It makes me sad, because I really want to like it, that I find the Gospel of John such hard work. I should love it. I do love the beginning and the end — especially the hyperbole: “and if all the things that Jesus did should be written down. . .” But it’s almost like Russian literature to me — I understand the words in the sentence, but don’t understand the links and causal connections.

A recent phone call from Amnesty International made me angry. I have always supported them. I had a phone call last weekend about Iran currently reviewing its penal code, and the possibility that stoning people to death might be abolished. The call gave me quite a few details I hadn’t known, and especially how the law is weighted against women. I had a visceral reaction about this appalling violence — state- and community-sanctioned violence.

Cycling around London, especially at night, has made me really happy recently. It may be a childlike sense of freedom, or the sense of con­nectedness, or just the physical exhilaration of it.

I do pray. Usually “thank you”, and “help” for friends. I’ve been recently using Loyola’s examen at the end of the day, and a large part of that is saying thank you.

If I was locked in a church, I’d choose John Donne as a com­panion. He’s an endlessly fascinating character — slightly intimidating as well — who lived in a fascinating time, who could write the Holy Sonnets and poems to his mistress going to bed. . . And the incredible sermons when he was at St Paul’s Cathedral. There would be a lot to talk about, and to laugh about, and to find out about.

Katherine Venn was talking to Terence Handley MacMath.