How does a poem begin?
I (Dani) have not been writing much these days. I’ve been working too much and stressing too much and hiding behind too many other things. When rob asked “Where does a poem begin?” My brain went scholarly and then it went teacherly. So, of course, I turned the question onto my bright and thoughtful students in our upper-year poetry seminar. What’s included here are the responses from four of my students (and a sneaky one from myself and my computer) and while they are varied, they have those trademarks of the emerging poet that invigorate me as a reader: the stress, the desire, the reaching out for connection. I could use, I think, a little more of it in my life (the writing stress and not the house stress job stress money stress world stress). I think there might be something in there for you, too? – Dani Spinosa
Celia
Fournier
Where does a poem begin? When faced with the menacing blank page, the empty notebook paper, the mocking, blinking cursor, I often ask myself the same thing. Hunched at the desk, straining to pull the figurative language from my brain, it seems that a poem can’t possibly begin with me. But they certainly don’t come from the heavens – no divine inspiration. There have been no bolts of lightning or glowing lightbulbs when I grip the pen, waiting for inspiration to strike. No amount of wishing can will poetry into existence, no matter how many times I may try.
Where does a poem begin? One can never be sure. They appear on only their terms, and only in the moments where writing is furthest from my mind. A poem begins with the story my grandmother tells; the birds on my back deck each morning, greeting each other and meeting the day; and the flush of our cheeks as we wander down sidewalks, hands waving in heated debate. A poem begins with the snowman I notice appear in my neighbours’ front lawn and the soft crunch of the bun from the bakery down the street – sweet, and still warm; the ringing laughter of my friends, too late to dare check the time; the hug that lingers, the wave from the window, the drawn out goodbye and the glorious welcome home. A poem begins with living. And the writing, well, that comes later, when I finally make it back to my desk.
Sam
Hovey
A poem begins wherever your thoughts are interrupted, even if for a millisecond. Interrupted by anything that deserves more than a glance or a pass-over of the eyes—you stop for one millisecond. It was the pattern of salt on the sides of your shoes like mountainscapes. Or it was the stubborn texture of a stubby hangnail on your thumb, the kind that emits little pricks of pain every time it’s nudged. Maybe it was spoken; did she say groovy? Who says groovy? A poem begins unsolicited, where so many things are already on your mind and something new lights up in the background. With a shadow cast over everything you should be thinking about, even for a millisecond, all you see is what you would be thinking about if you had time.
Annika
Setterington
A poem begins with an attempt to internalize an external experience. Seeing the texture of a painting at a museum, hearing the lyrics of a new song, feeling the familiarity of a conversation with a friend. Then, a sprint to turn the moment into a memory vivid enough to recall every minute detail later. It begins with an attempt to bring a memory back to the present and make it real. Solidify it. Enough to reach out and grab it, so that the original internalization becomes someone else's external experience. The cycle repeats. A poem begins with an attempt.
Dawn Web
In the streetlights
Blaring while glaring between them
On drunken nights, single and lonely
On stage, singing into the microphone
Playing guitar in the dodgy dive bars
Decorated in
Blood, spit, and beers
Languishing over ash or maple Brighter hardwood
To lighten the dim.
Suits of plaid shirts and denim blue Where their wood—ha.r.d.ens
At the after party because
The bar has closed, and
We will go all night—till Dawn
[6 AM]
Banging out drums
Belting our lungs
Wagging our guitars whilst
Dripping piano keys
Cuddling next to Kevin, stirring loins At Jimmy’s, the host begs to kiss me
downing more beers
as someone orders takeout
I respectfully decline
Refusing to be caught in his love triangle
He slaps himself
across the face
Sleeping on strangers' sofas
between jobs
between homes
Entering the depths of confines
Holding down children from jumping off bridges. Scraping pennies.
To get tossed—assaulted—
Stone to back
Ass falling on the wood, beneath
Neck rebounding upon the bricks
Wrist burning from a breaking bleed of teeth piercing skin—eating
Carpals crunching.
On the flights,
Plane across
To deepen connections
With friends. With lovers.
To recover and heal the bruising blazed upon knees
In the forest, camping, eating
Steak and mushrooms
Until the sky turns pink and the trees dress to impress
While we undress and put up our tents
In the Bush, on rocks
Overlooking the firepit
And a view of lakewater surrounding
Mystical couples
Making new friends, a relation with
The sun grazes us finally with grace
Once again.
On the beach
Listening deep within as your body
Syncopates, regulates to match pitch
With the ocean tides
Your heart, your mind
Your breath
G L I D E
Skinny dipping at midnight
On the toilet
Reading magazines
Poop material to aid your release
On the side of the highway Sticking up—one thumb. H
itching rides for a
Risky endeavour, and an unknown adventure.
Hiking the mountain to drink
~The freshest water ~ on earth ~
Seeping sap, a dripping tap Between the rocks and branches
Into my bottle. Clean!
Dipping into the three layers of gooey Nakusp Hotsprings
The hidden uncommercialized
exposed
testicles, nipples, vulvas
Boiling our skin
Purifying our poors
Rejuvenating our insides
I paint in the water bed
As Mo rests, lays blessed, resets in his hammock
As Alex examines the world blended in the sand of mountains of ant hills.
In forests, so green
Turning red—
Escaping wildfires—smoky seems
Paranoid with bear spray
The lighter is chasing us
In hostels, hunt for privacy
Give rise
On bathroom floors that
We dirty
Balmy skin, hard gust expelling our mouths Filling the mirror, the room sweltering.
At a rest stop,
Stranded and starved
Just you and me for miles
MacGyvering a stove
Out of an empty soup can, we cut holes and
Place the metal over the propane flame.
On the top bunk,
I climb down the ladder
A foreign body lays—
No shirt, side boob
Black thong on hot nights
Expose gorgeous booties from under the covers
We met for the first time and decided to get tattoos
In art galleries
Kachina follows me around
I bring her to dinner with my other lover
I bend my knee to her and I kiss her goodbye
I could go on and on
It never really begins, and it has no end.
There is a poem in every moment.
Dani Spinosa
A poem begins in the glitch, in the slip between thought and tongue, in the syntax that breaks before it makes sense. It begins where language malfunctions. It begins in that gap, that space where the body stutters against the page. A poem begins in the refusal to end. It just keeps beginning.
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We’re representatives for CRWR3011 Creative Writing: Poetry II at Dalhousie University (Winter 2025), with Dani Spinosa as the instructor. We’re just reading and writing as much as we can and weathering this winter. We’re a remote class, so we meet online, but this writing with each other is one way that we can connect despite (or with) the distance.
