Teachers always ask me, "What is a poem?" or "What is poetry?" People have been trying to define poetry for centuries, but it always seems to slip through our fingers.
Many years ago, Carl Sandburg wrote a series of beautiful definitions of poetry—one of my favorites: Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night. I love how he doesn’t try to explain poetry, but instead invites us to experience it through images—glimpses of how poetry lives in the world.
Poetry isn’t something you can pin down. It moves, it reveals, it holds memory and rhythm, silence and sound. It’s both the thing itself and the feeling it leaves behind. Poetry doesn’t simply explain—it embodies. It invites us to experience, to see differently.
Here is my own series of definitions—an attempt to capture poetry’s presence, how it collects the fleeting and the lasting, the seen and the unseen. I hope these offer a new perspective on what poetry can be for you and your students.
- Poetry is the heart’s pentimento—the hidden imprint of feeling that rises through the layers of words, like a keepsake shadow revealing itself in rhythm and music.
- Poetry is the blue gentian growing up from the fissures in limestone rock—tucked in the grikes sheltering the flower in early spring.
- Poetry is the staff of music—bars, sharps, and flats, whole and half notes, a silent score waiting to lift from the page into sound.
- Poetry is the inner jester and the quiet conductor, moving us to laughter or tears.
- Poetry is a tiny stone and an acorn my son picked up along the way—tucked in his pocket.
- Poetry is the starling murmuration—black wings shifting in unison, shaping and reshaping the sky, the murmur of movement.
- Poetry is the pause between our in-breath and our out-breath.
- Poetry is the handkerchief I find in the pocket of my mother’s winter coat—folded and forgotten, carrying the touch of when she was still alive.
- Poetry is the wind’s howl—and the way it searches, slipping through a crack the size of a violin string, playing through the night.
- Poetry is a doorknob, worn smooth with the handprints and dreams of all who have turned it—to step inside or walk away.
- Poetry is the tree’s roots, deep and unseen, anchoring it steady in the shifting earth.
- Poetry is the dust wake from a truck on a dirt road—the cloud that rises before it settles.
- Poetry is a field guide, a star guide, a heart guide—a map of birds and fish, of places known and unknown, a way of finding our way.
As a teacher, I love using Sandburg’s definitions of poetry as a writing prompt. I ask students, What does poetry feel like, look like, sound like to you? Is it the dust wake behind a truck, the hush before a song begins, the acorn tucked in a child’s pocket? There are endless ways to define it, and each definition offers a fresh way of seeing the world.
Georgia Heard is the recipient of the 2023 NCTE Award for Excellence in Poetry for Children, which honors an American poet for their body of work for young readers. She is the author of over 20 books, including numerous professional resources for educators. Her latest poetry teaching guide, Awakening the Heart (Second Edition), explores how to weave poetry into the everyday life of the classroom. She is also the author of Heart Maps: Helping Students Create and Craft Authentic Writing.
Her most recent children’s book, Welcome to the Wonder House (co-authored with Rebecca Kai Dotlich), has received multiple accolades including the 2024 Lee Bennett Hopkins Poetry Award and recognition on the School Library Journal and Bank Street Best Poetry Book lists.
In addition to her writing, Georgia is the founder of The Poet’s Studio -- an online writing workshop platform.
Learn more about Georgia at GeorgiaHeard.com and follow her on social media:
📍 Instagram & X: @georgiaheard1
📍 BlueSky: @georgiaheard.bsky.social
