Poetry: Making Ordinary Words Do Extraordinary Things

Poetry is not dead. Do you hear me? It’s not just for people in posh universities or old people at tea parties. Poetry is alive, goddammit!

Poetry has a history almost as long as humanity itself. Before we held poetry up as art, it played a far more important role—that of memory. Through rhythm, rhyme, and repetition, 

people passed on their history and the memory of their people. In this way, spoken poetry predates writing itself. 

Poetry is not only spiritual and personal, but it can be a form of immense political power and resistance. Poetry has given voice to the unheard, challenged tyrants—that is why rulers have long feared their poets. And often killed them.

Poetry is powerful. Whether personal or political, poetry is one of humanity's oldest ways of preserving memory, speaking truth, and challenging the powers that be. 

Isn't it wonderful that you, too, have the power to create poetry—what Allen Ginsberg called ordinary magic? 

But where do we begin on our journey to create a poem? While figures of speech, rhyme, meter, and stanza are all parts of a great poem, first, the language itself deserves our close attention. 

1: Choose the Right Word

The English language is a glorious bastard, taking into itself all its conquerors and colonizers and leaving us spoiled for choice. 

If you want to express anger in your poem, you can choose the Anglo-Saxon option, wrath, which is pretty intense but not as wild as the Old Norse berserk. If you want a slightly more classy rage, why not try Norman French and get furious? Or perhaps you feel more constrained, and you need the classical Latin-based irate to describe your less obvious fury?

Few languages in the world offer so many layers of meaning for even simple words as English—use these options. Let the ghosts embedded in the language speak for you. Get yourself a thesaurus and hunt for that special word. Not the fanciest word, or the smartest, but the one with a pulse—that carries your meaning best. 

If you are writing in a language other than English, this important advice still stands. Why just look when you can survey, hunt, peek, gander, or eyeball? 

As Mark Twain said: “The difference between an almost right word and the right word is a large matter—it’s the difference between a lightning bug and lightning.” The former will give your poem a glow, but the latter will set your words on fire. 

Choose the Concrete Image Over the Abstract

Unlike everyday speech, poetry asks us to give every word our full attention. For instance, did you swim in the sea or did you bathe, float, paddle, wade, dive, or glide? Always keep in mind that great poetry demands the specific.

Abstract terms are airy and intellectual. Emotions such as love, hate, or fear are concepts that we grasp intellectually, but usually only superficially. Concepts do not engage our senses of touch, smell, sight, and hearing, and to each of us, these concepts may mean very different things.

But specific descriptions based on concrete terms appeal to a reader's senses and create a world within the poem that they can see, taste, smell, and touch. While abstract terms may find a place in your poetry unless you ground your imagery in the real, your poems will fail to move the reader, which is the ultimate aim of our art.

By basing your poem in concrete language, you give the reader something to actively experience. Instead of telling us about loss, let us feel the stiff wool of your late father's jacket on your skin. How the smell of the cigarette smoke has faded, but it is still there if you press your face into the fabric. 

Abstract ideas have their place, but they don't become real until we root them in the real world of our senses. Readers feel their way into your meaning through these visceral images.

Which brings us to one of poetry’s greatest secrets…

Trust Your Readers!

Writers new to poetry often write “closed poems” as opposed to poems that invite the reader into their experience. A closed poem sets everything out, answers every question before the reader has even asked a single one. In this way, you force the reader to be a spectator, someone sitting on the bench while you play the game. 

For instance, you might write: 

When she left, she broke my heart

I miss her every day, 

the bed is empty next to me

Or you could guide your readers towards those feelings of heartbreak through the concrete and the particular. For example:

the scent of her—lavender and burned matchsticks on the pillow

the lipstick left on the bathroom shelf—

accusing. She is only in the dust

settling on her copy of Neruda’s poems

Now you are inviting the reader in to uncover your meaning. They become participants in your creation. You have allowed the images to carry the emotional weight and invited the readers to use the clues to make up their own minds about the meaning of your poem.

However, that does not mean that your poems must be obscure and leave your readers scratching their heads. Some poetry can also be astonishingly direct but involves the reader nevertheless by implication and a deep resonance.

For example, Philip Larkin writes in a rather explanatory way, but he almost never tells you what you should feel about the particular observation he is making. He leaves the emotional response up to you, inviting you to collaborate in creating the meaning of his words. 

He is one of my favourite poets ever. If you have not yet heard his poetry, you are in for a treat. Here is his poem “This Be the Verse.” How are these for epic first lines?

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.   

They may not mean to, but they do.   

Ultimately, a closed poem tries to tell the reader what they should feel. On the other hand, an open poem presents them with the evidence and allows them to feel it for themselves. 

Think of these concrete, specific details as a runway or a series of steps leading you to the cliff edge. Once your reader reaches it, they can step into the unknown and discover the poem's meaning for themselves. 

Remember the quote often attributed to Chekhov, "Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”

Remember: Simple Does Not Mean Shallow

Here are some writing exercises to buff up your words to a dazzling shine. If you don't already own a thesaurus (which is a very important part of your poetic arsenal), you can use this free online tool: https://www.powerthesaurus.org/hate/synonyms. 

But let me warn you first before you go all out. Don't choose the longest, fanciest word you can find. Many beginner poets try to impress with highfalutin’ words just for the sake of appearing literary. Beware, this may switch your reader off. Often, the simplest terms are the most profound. 

Bai Juyi (772 to 846 AD) was one of the most beloved poets in Chinese history. According to tradition, Juyi read his work to an elderly, illiterate woman. If she did not understand the poem, he considered it a failure and revised his words until she could.

We should follow his example. Poetry does not need to be difficult to be deeply meaningful. Often, the most moving poems use the simplest language. 

A line that comes to mind is that of Somali-British poet Warsan Shire:

“To my daughter I will say, when the men come, set yourself on fire.” 

Every word in the line may be simple, but the meaning is anything but. 

Now It's Your Turn!

With these ideas in mind, over the next week or two, try these three writing exercises. When you are done, you are welcome to share them with us. 

Writing Exercises

1. Write a poem about a childhood experience that changed the way you see the world using sight, taste, touch, smell, and sound, and without naming your feelings.

2. Pick an everyday object and describe it over ten lines using as many sense experiences as you can—without naming what the item is. Once you are done, title the poem with the name of the object.

3. Describe a color to someone who has never seen it without referring to it by its name. 

Now go and make your ordinary words do extraordinary things. 

POETRY EDITOR: Janine Milne is a Literature and Creative Writing graduate from University of South Africa/UNISA. Janine Milne's poetry has appeared in Sol Plaatje European Poetry Award anthologies and Stanzas. She won the 2026 Bridgette James Poetry Competition as well as the 2017 MacGregor Poetry Prize. She has published short fiction in Short Sharp Stories, Bloody Parchment, and Lemonwood Quarterly.