How has poetry managed to hold such sway over us—through words, through rhythm, through something intangible that speaks to the body more than the mind—for thousands of years? It's a subject that has captivated some of the world’s greatest thinkers from as early as Plato’s The Republic. 

In The Republic, Plato's teacher, Socrates, famously denounces poets for imitating reality rather than understanding it. “The poet is like a painter who, as we have already observed, will make a likeness of a cobbler though he understands nothing of cobbling; and his picture is good enough for those who know no more than he does, and judge only by colors and figures,” Socrates declares in Benjamin Jowett’s translation. 

But perhaps Socrates’ attack is a sign of poetry’s true power. It's often the case that a poem—something based more on feeling than an analytical thought—can compel us not just intellectually, but emotionally. 

Bookstore1Sarasota has long understood the importance of poetry , bringing leading poets like Katerina Canyon and Edward Hirsch to the area as part of its annual PoetryLife weekend since 2012. This year, poets Aimee Nezhukumatathil and Ross Gay will participate in two events for the Sarasota-Manatee community: a morning conversation and book signing on wonder, joy and the writing life at Bookstore1 and an evening poetry reading and discussion at Florida Studio Theatre. 

We sat down virtually with Nezhukumatathil, a professor of English and creative writing at the University of Mississippi in Oxford and the author of four award-winning poetry collections and two illustrated collections of essays. Her 2021 book, World of Wonders: In Praise of Fireflies, Whale Sharks and Other Astonishments, was named Barnes & Noble’s Book of the Year and a Kirkus Prize finalist. Her forthcoming poetry book, Night Owl, debuts in March and uses night as a theme to explore love, family and our environment. She explains why, sometimes, writing poetry is the best thing we can do for ourselves and for each other. 

Poetry is a very particular art form. When did you first think you wanted to be a poet?

"I came to poetry later than most of my writer pals. I was studying in the pre-med track but came across contemporary poetry in my junior year of college at Ohio State University. I loved the precision with words and images and the music of the line. I switched from chemistry to English and I’ve never looked back."

Night Owl takes its inspiration from the literal nighttime. Can you talk a little bit about your interpretation of night in this poetry collection?

"Night has always felt like a soft loosening of the world’s grip on me. During the day, everything asks to be fixed quickly, answered quickly. When I became a mom, with the asks of my children—and mind you, much of this is what I had deeply wanted and hoped for—that pretty much doubled. But at night, the demands fade, and I can hear things I miss when the sun is up: my own breath, birdsong, memories and possibilities for writing. The dark feels like permission. As a poetic framework, night gives me a way to move through emotional registers that might feel too bold or bright in full daylight. Grief, wonder, longing, tenderness, worry, yearning—they all glow differently in the dark. I’ve been drawn to the nocturne for years because it’s a container for vulnerability without spectacle. I don’t feel interrogated at night. I feel my most honest, my most vulnerable."

Do you have a process when you start to write a poem?

"I love this question because it gets at a misunderstanding I think people sometimes have about poetry—that we go out 'looking for metaphors,' like the world is a writer’s giant prop closet. I don’t start with metaphor. I start with observation, an image. I’m not asking, 'What does this bird stand for?' I’m asking, 'Who is this bird when I’m not around?' That shift matters to me. And poems feel different when they grow out of relationship instead of assignment."

You’re often inspired by the natural world. Where do you think that comes from?

"Gardens, forests, beaches, deserts [and] mountainscapes all remind me that belonging—who owns what land and who deems who ‘owners’ of such land—shows us even more complex relationships about the (violent) origins of this country. Even the word ‘belonging’ is complicated. Sometimes that word comes from attention, from learning the names of things that live beside you. As a woman of color, I’ve often felt both visible and invisible, and the natural world gives me another way to claim space—not through argument, but through care and witness and attention and knowing the names of the creatures and plants that live on this planet, in this country in particular. I hope readers feel less alone in their mixed and complicated feelings about the outdoors, and remember that tenderness is not weakness, but a way of staying human inside a place that can be harsh. If we can keep noticing, keep tending, there’s still room to grow something gentler, together."

At PoetryLife Weekend, you and fellow poet Ross Gay will also talk about joy of being not only “personal" but "communal and radical.” In a time when the arts are being threatened by our federal government, how can poetry be not only an individual act, but as you and Gay say, one that is communal and radical? 

 "Joy is radical because it insists on connection in a world where powerful people want us to believe we are alone and move quickly to the next shiny thing that catches our eye. But when  we gather around poems, we share breath and silence—we remember we belong to one another. Even if the arts are called 'nonessential,' poetry is how we practice empathy. So that should tell you something about the motives of the people who say art is expendable [when it comes to] school budgets and such. A poem moves from one body to another. That movement—of feeling, of imagination—is communal. And that communion is power."

What is one step each of us can take to notice the things around us a little more and, perhaps, turn them into poetry?

 "I’d say to start small. Often people get overwhelmed because they think they have to fit everything they feel about, say, a friend’s death [into a poem], and how do you capture an entire person in one poem? Spoiler alert: It’s impossible. Just notice something small and stay with it and see where that leads you. The tilt of a leaf. The sound your house makes at night. The way a certain word tastes in your mouth. Poetry begins there.

"And read widely—not just poetry that sounds like what you think poetry should sound like. Read poets who surprise you. Read outside your comfort zone. Let your ear be trained by many different kinds of music. Give yourself permission to write small. A stanza. A single image. A few lines scribbled before bed. You don’t have to begin with a grand statement. Trust smallness. Boredom is useful. Put your phone down. Let yourself be a little restless. Poems often arrive in that quiet space where nothing flashy is happening."

Aimee Nezhukumatathil will participate in two discussions with fellow poet Ross Gay on Monday, Feb. 23, 2026, part of Bookstore1Sarasota's PoetryLife Weekend, which also includes poem-writing workshops, readings and more. For more information, visit sarasotabooks.com