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by Ursula Whitcher
You love math and science, and you love poetry. But how do you start writing a STEM poem? Do you begin with the science or with the poem? Here is a collection of examples to draw on and experiments to try.
Look for the Poetry in Your Science Idea
Let’s say you’ve found a fascinating scientific phenomenon and you want to turn it into a poem. One place to start is by asking yourself how the phenomenon interacts with embodied experience: Is it something you can see, taste, or smell? Would you experience it as motion, heat, or pain?
The physicist Geoffrey A. Landis’s poem “Five pounds of sunlight” starts with a unit conversion problem: Given the energy of sunlight reaching the earth every second, what is the corresponding weight in pounds? Landis turns his numerical answer into poetry by tying it to specific sensory detail. That five pounds is “The weight of a kitten, / six months old, still frisky.” We hear, see, and touch the kitten as it echoes the sunlight’s movement:
“Some of that five pounds of sunlight reflects back into space.
The kitten bounces off the kitchen cabinets, reflecting back into my office
scattering books and papers (…)”
Scientific writing often takes place in a formal register, full of specialized words and concepts. If you’re a poet who is attuned to individual words, the friction between scientific and informal vocabulary can spark ideas. The ecologist Madhur Anand’s “Ode to a QR Code” slides from the technical assessment that “my position, alignment, and timing are not in / sync with the encryptor” to symbolism: “All the minor corrections / in the world cannot replace broken trust (…)” Try reading technical sentences aloud. How do they feel in your mouth? Can you use these words to speed or slow your poem?
Math and science can influence the structure of a poem. There are overtly mathematical forms, such as the Fib, a counted-syllable poem based on the Fibonacci sequence. Sandra Beasley’s poem “Unit of Measure” uses repetition and mathematical comparison to set up—and smash—expectations:
“Everyone is lesser than or greater than the capybara.
Everything is taller or shorter than the capybara.
Everything is mistaken for a Brazilian dance craze
more or less frequently than the capybara.”
Do scientific concepts suggest a shape for your poem? Can you turn counting or comparisons into a poetic game?
If you’re a poet who prefers to start with feeling rather than form, examine your science idea for conflicting or contrasting emotions. Some emotions may seem easier to combine with science—frustration at a long-ago teacher, for instance, or awe at the natural world—but poetry shines in contrast and paradox. Carly Rubin’s poem “Somebody I Used to Love Asks Me Who Marie Curie Is,” anthologized in The Heartbeat of the Universe, layers wonder and heartbreak:
“The story is necessary. It feels unfair
that someone doesn’t know, like every
precious gram of burning metal’s
been reburied and forgotten (…)”
Science poetry can range further than delight in the stars—it can be funny, sexy, and furious.
Look for the Science in Your Poetry Idea
Let’s say you already have a poem idea—there’s an experience, an image, or a turn of phrase that you sense is the seed for a poem. Ask yourself, “Where is the science?” Would knowing more about the geology or ecology of the scene you’re envisioning suggest new ways to describe it? Would a comparison between human and robotic baristas be more striking if you knew something about the trajectories of real robot limbs?
Scientific understanding can make a poem richer or brighter. Chanlee Luu’s poem “A Chanterelle Empress & Porcini Prince at the Precipice of the World” uses the biology and taxonomy of mushrooms to connect meditations on friendship, family, and Asian American identity:
“Consider the mushroom,
not flora, not fauna, but a secret
third thing. A bounty hiding in plain sight—”
You don’t need to be a scientific expert to start writing science poetry. But you don’t have to write from pure inspiration either—you can use research to enhance your poems. That research might be formal, sifting through databases like the free medical archive PubMed or science news sites like Quanta Magazine, or it might be an informal browse through Wikipedia (check the footnotes!) or YouTube.
You can also repurpose chance-gleaned knowledge in new ways. Carl Phillips’s poem “Like So,” for example, has a striking line about eclipses:
“We’d reached the marshes, by then, that
all the dead must come to. I could see my face,
tilted there, like a solar eclipse viewed indirectly, which
is the proper way, in a basin of water. You must hold it steady (…)”
This fact about historical strategies for safe eclipse viewing is not taken from archival research: It’s from the TV show Dickinson.
Record Your Experiments
Poets and lab scientists both need good notebooks. As you try out ideas and learn fascinating scientific facts, jot a few notes on what you’re thinking. Your next poem might be ready to sprout.
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Ursula Whitcher is a writer, poet, and mathematician whose science fiction mosaic novel North Continent Ribbon is shortlisted for the 2025 Ursula K. Le Guin prize. Whitcher’s mathematical research examines the geometry of string theory; poetry and short fiction have appeared in Analog, Asimov’s Science Fiction, and The Deadlands. Find more at yarntheory.net.
