Introduction: What Makes a Poet a Poet?

Some people think poetry is just fancy words stacked in lines, like bricks in a wall. But it’s not. It’s way more like skipping stones. You toss a few words out, and if they’re just right, they ripple. You feel something. That’s the magic part.

Poetry isn’t about using big words to sound smart. It’s about choosing the right words—even if they’re small—to show something real. Something you saw, or felt, or wondered about. Some poems are quiet. Some are loud. Some sound like a whisper in a forest. Others explode like popcorn in a microwave.

You might’ve heard someone say, “That doesn’t even rhyme! That’s not a poem!” But guess what? Rhyming is optional. Think of rhyme like sprinkles on ice cream. Nice to have, but not required. Poems don’t need to rhyme. They don’t need to follow rules like essays do. They don’t even have to be complete sentences. You can break the rules on purpose. That’s part of the fun.

Poems are wild. They don’t sit still.

Here’s a secret: a poem can be one word long. Seriously. One word—if it’s the right word. A poem can be a whole page, or just a sliver. You get to decide. You’re the one holding the pen. That means you’re the boss.

Now, let’s try something. Close your eyes for a second. (Okay, open them again to read this part.) Think of the first thing that pops into your head when you hear the word “cold.” What did you get? Maybe snow. Maybe a popsicle. Maybe your toes in the morning. All of those are good. A poem about “cold” could be:

Cold air

nose red

socks missing again.

That’s a poem. No rhymes, no big fancy words. But it shows something. You can almost feel it.

That’s what Emily Dickinson did. She wasn’t trying to be famous. She wasn’t trying to get perfect grades or write the longest poem in the world. She just wanted to catch feelings and thoughts and pin them to paper before they floated away. Like butterflies.

She wrote poems about the color of a hummingbird’s wing. About hope being a little bird that perches in your chest. About death. About bees. About sunsets. She used short lines. Sometimes she made up her own punctuation. She used dashes a lot—like this—because she wanted to leave space for breathing, for pausing, for thinking.

You don’t need a teacher to tell you if your poem is good. You don’t need a poem to “mean” something deep. If it makes you feel something—anything—it’s working.

Let’s play with another one. Think of something boring. A pencil. What can a pencil really be? Try this:

Pencil—

wand of wood

with a spell of lead.

Now that pencil isn’t boring anymore. It’s powerful.

Emily once wrote:

I’m nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

She wasn’t shouting. She was wondering. Playing. Asking. She made poems out of tiny thoughts most people would walk right past.

The cool thing is, poetry is kind of like looking through a magnifying glass. It zooms in on things that are usually skipped over. Like the way light hits a puddle. Or how your stomach feels when you're nervous. Or the silence just before the bell rings.

Try this:

● Write one sentence about something you noticed today. Not something big. Something small.

● Now cut out all the extra words.

● Rearrange what’s left.

● If it feels weird or surprising or makes you look at it differently, you just made a poem.

There’s no wrong way. You’re allowed to be weird. Actually, weird is great in poems.

You can also use sound. Some poems dance. Some stomp. Some tiptoe. Listen to this:

Rain taps—

roof drums—

sleep comes.

That’s rhythm. You don’t have to clap to find it. You just feel it.

One more thing: poems don’t have to be about nice things. You can write a poem when you’re angry. Or confused. Or tired of everything. Some of the most powerful poems are written when people feel something so strongly, they can’t keep it in. Poems are a way to let those feelings out—without yelling.

Emily did that. She didn’t go to a lot of parties. She didn’t give speeches. But her poems speak anyway. They whisper, question, poke, and sparkle.

Next time you’re walking home or sitting in the backseat of a car or lying in bed with the lights off, try turning your thoughts into lines. Not full sentences. Just pieces. Bits. See what happens.

Poetry is like catching fireflies. Quick flashes of light. You might miss one if you wait too long. That’s why poets scribble things down fast—on napkins, notebooks, gum wrappers, even receipts. Anything close.

You don’t need a license. You don’t need permission. If you’ve got thoughts and feelings, you’re already halfway to being a poet. The rest is just paying attention.

Try this poem:

The wind isn’t talking

but I still know

what it means.

That’s it. Short. Soft. But maybe it makes you think about the wind differently. Maybe not. That’s okay too.

Emily once wrote:

A word is dead

when it is said—

Some say—

I say it just

begins to live

that day.

Words aren’t done when they leave your mouth or land on paper. That’s when they start breathing. Poems are alive like that.

Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme or follow rules

People sometimes treat poems like puzzles with only one right answer. They think a poem has to rhyme. Or that it needs to sound super serious, with perfect grammar and neat little stanzas. But real poetry? It’s way messier. And way better because of that.

Think about how people speak. Not everyone talks the same way. Some speak in short bursts. Some stretch their sentences like chewing gum. Some use weird words on purpose. And poetry? It listens to all of that and says, “Cool. Let’s write it like that.”

There are no poetry police. You won’t get in trouble for writing a poem that breaks every rule in the grammar book. Actually, that might make it more interesting.

Want to write a poem without any capital letters? Go for it.

Want to put a period in the middle of a word? Sure.

Want to skip punctuation completely? No one’s stopping you.

Because poetry is about what feels right—not what fits into someone else's rulebook.

Emily Dickinson got this. She wasn’t following poetry guidelines like she was building a bookshelf with instructions. She was more like someone building a fort out of couch cushions and blankets. It worked because it was hers. She used dashes in places where people expected commas. She broke up thoughts into little pieces, like puzzle chunks that made a picture you had to help build in your mind.

Here’s something fun to try: take a regular sentence and break it in strange places.

Like this one:

The sky was orange because the sun was going down.

Now let’s break it into a poem—not by changing the words, just by changing how we look at them:

The sky

was orange

because the sun

was

going

down.

Doesn’t it feel different? Slower, maybe. A little more thoughtful. Like the words are walking instead of running.

Poetry doesn't need to be a rhyming game. Not everything has to go “cat, hat, bat, rat.” That’s fun, sure, but sometimes it’s like a joke you already know the punchline to. What if you want to surprise someone? What if you want to not rhyme, because you're writing about something quiet, or strange, or serious?

Here’s a poem that doesn’t rhyme at all:

My backpack is heavy

but it’s only full

of thoughts

I never said out loud.

That hits different, doesn’t it? It’s not bouncing with rhythm. It’s sinking. It feels like a secret.

When people say poems must rhyme, they’re thinking about songs, or Dr. Seuss, or greeting cards. And yes, rhyming can be awesome. But it’s only one kind of music that poetry can make. There’s also rhythm, repetition, space, silence. That’s part of the fun. You don’t need a drum to make a beat. Sometimes, you just need a pause.

Look at this:

I waited

and waited

and waited

and nothing came.

That repetition? That is a rhythm. You feel the waiting. It stretches. That’s the point.

Poetry also doesn’t need to explain itself. It can ask questions and leave them hanging. Or it can make you feel something without spelling out why. Emily wrote like that. She didn’t write instruction manuals. She wrote moments. Like this:

A narrow Fellow in the Grass

Occasionally rides –

You may have met Him – did you not

His notice sudden is –

She's writing about a snake. But she never says “snake.” She hints, dodges, and leaves a little space for your brain to do the rest. That’s what good poems do. They don’t tell you everything—they make you notice everything.

And here’s something wild: you don’t even have to use words that exist. You can make up your own. Poets do it all the time. You know why? Because sometimes the perfect word doesn’t exist yet. And instead of waiting, poets just invent one.

What would “cloudish” mean to you?

What does “blankety-blue” feel like?

What is a “thoughtsmudge”?

If you wrote them in a poem, people would figure it out. Or they’d feel something even if they weren’t sure what it meant. That’s the power of breaking the rules.

Let’s try this. Think of something ordinary. A sock. A spoon. A puddle. Now write something about it that doesn’t describe it the usual way.

My spoon

is a tiny boat

sailing into cereal storms

and milk oceans.

That’s not about rules. That’s about play.

Emily did this with feelings too. She didn’t say, “I’m happy” or “I’m sad.” She wrote things like:

Hope is the thing with feathers—

That perches in the soul—

She gave hope wings. She turned it into a bird. That’s not just breaking rules—that’s rewriting them.

And if you’re thinking, “But won’t people think my poem is wrong?”—here’s something to know: in poetry, “wrong” just means “unexpected.” And unexpected can be amazing. If you do something new, you’re adding to what poetry can be.

There are poems shaped like spirals. Poems made of only questions. Poems that start at the end. There are poems with no spaces. Poems with just one word on a page. Even poems written backwards.

What matters is whether it feels true—to you. Not to someone else’s checklist.

Think of a rule you’ve heard before. “Always use a capital letter.” “Don’t repeat words.” “Finish your sentence.” Forget it. For one poem, just toss those out the window. Write what feels like it needs to be said. Use slashes or all caps or line breaks wherever you want.

This isn’t schoolwork. This is word-building.

Here’s a final experiment. Take these lines and do whatever you want with them. Rearrange them. Break them up. Add more. Toss one out. Make it yours.

The wind pressed

against the door

like it wanted

to be let in.

You can change it to:

The wind

begged

scratch scratch

to be let in—

but I

did

not

open.

Or:

Outside

something whispers

against wood.

Not now

I say.

You’re not following someone else’s pattern. You’re building your own. And in that way, you’re doing exactly what Emily did.