Ways To Write A Poem

It's easier than you think.

Usually I find that I don’t write poetry. Rather, the poetry happens to me, and I just write it down.

There are many cases of this in my writing. Roadkill melting into wildflowers on the street by my high school; my twin in Greece, and me in Chicago. The name of my high school best friend: a perfect metered rhyme with that of my current one, first and last. The neighbor’s cat walking off into the woods, an inky, mournful void in contrast to the green leaves. I never saw him again.

Poems are striking moments, and striking moments are everywhere. Sometimes they’re images— the fox in the park staring me dead in the eyes— and sometimes they’re words— my twin deadpanning advice, just tone deaf enough to work. All I really have to do is spin the silk I see into something shiny. Something interesting.

So I collect these fragments, and then I arrange them. It doesn’t have to be complicated; syllabic meter and rhyme are interesting picture frames, not necessary components of the painting. I shake out the poem-moments into my tea, then I interpret words from the mushy shapes in the bottom of the cup.

There are many ways to do this. You can go for total abstraction or concrete detail; I do both, often. Say I’m sitting in Kiera’s room while she sews together an outfit for her concert tomorrow, and the muse possesses me.¹ There are silvery, loose turns of phrase I could put to this moment— psychedelic angel purple, crochet hook nails, twirling fabric like a pinwheel, a pinprick weapon molded into a creative force— and there are straightforward, casually-smiling ones I could use. She braids the strips, lopsided pigtails, the mess on the desk a happy one.

The secret key, though, is comparison. Unexpected comparison. Kiera sings along to the playlist she made for me and I’m happy just to listen; we beam together like the endless emerald chasm between two mirrors, or two remoras on the same shark. She writes her life on a chalkboard and I draw pictures with the fallen dust. Surprising likenesses add dimension to moments like this.

And it’s difficult, until it’s not. Or until it’s less difficult. I’ve found myself thinking in meter these days; I’ve gotten whole poetry collections out of phrases that bounce off my head with the water in my shower.² To write is a skill, not a talent, and the best way to sharpen it is by doing.

Start by noticing. Make an effort to track the sky while you walk in the park— a robin, a blue jay, a black-capped chickadee— and note the shapes in the patterns you see. The starbursts you see in streetlights; the halos that dance behind your eyelids. The more you notice, the more you continue to notice, and you begin to pull more complex images and connections from the world around you. Recall what you see. You go from noticing the individual twirls in Gloria’s hair to the way her posture mirrors that of the cat she’s petting. The world starts to flow with poetry.

Then all that’s left is to assemble, spin the web of language and metaphor. Make daisy-chain connections; try to surprise yourself. How this cat, if you see him from the right angle, looks just like the neighbor’s from so many years ago. Kiera lights the edges of the fabric aflame to lock in the fibers— that fire matches the warmth she radiates, starts to melt the distance between you and your twin, and suddenly you’re a sister again and the world is all soft pajamas and Christmas eve hearths. The green in Avis’s eyes matches the green in your own. You both are kinds of trees.

Pick phrases that communicate emotion and image. Gloria: radiance and citrus peels. The fox on the sidewalk: battered, streak of flame, mammalian mycelial network of distrust and bear traps. Words start to sparkle like berries ready to be plucked: grenadine, elytra, striation, alpine, gala. Link them together, fabric strips braided, and keep them for yourself or send them out to the world in a shout.

Poems are what you make them. So make them. I hope you find power in what you create.

Poems are everywhere, for those with eyes to see…

1. Not totally hypothetical. Hi Kiki.

2. Things That Are And Are Not Birds!