What A Poem Does To You

There’s something strange about poetry. It doesn’t follow the usual rules of language—
and yet, the brain seems to understand it more deeply, not less.

From a neuroscience perspective, poetry doesn’t live in just one place.
When you read something straightforward, your brain moves efficiently,
decoding meaning, organizing information, moving on.

But poetry slows that down. It pulls in more of you.
Language, yes.
But also emotion.
Memory.
Sensation.
Even your body,
in subtle ways.

Researchers often point to regions like Broca’s area and Wernicke’s area when talking about language. But poetry doesn’t stay confined there. It spreads—activating areas tied to imagery, feeling, and internal simulation.

It’s less like reading
and more like experiencing.

Metaphor is where this becomes especially clear.

When you read a line like
“I became concussed with the idea…”

your brain doesn’t treat that as abstract. It reaches for something physical.
Disorientation. Pressure. A kind of internal fog. The brain begins mapping a bodily experience onto an emotional one.

This is part of why poetry can feel so immediate—why certain lines don’t just land, but linger. I know so many that have become engraved in my brain.

Studies, including work from Emory University, suggest that when we read vivid, metaphor-rich language, sensory and motor regions become active, as if we’re internally rehearsing what’s being described.

Not imagining in a distant way.
But simulating, quietly, within ourselves.

—

There’s also rhythm… even in free verse, there’s cadence—
pauses, spacing, the weight of where a line ends.

Your brain is constantly predicting patterns. Listening for what comes next. The auditory cortex responds to this musicality, and when a line resolves in an unexpected way, it creates a small moment of surprise. It’s part of why a line can feel like it strikes not just emotionally, but neurologically as well.

And then there’s something quieter happening.

Poetry invites ambiguity.

It doesn’t hand you a single, fixed meaning.
It leaves space.

When that space is there, your brain fills it—drawing on your own memories, your own associations, your own emotional landscape.

The Default Mode Network becomes active here…the same system involved in introspection and identity.

Which is why a poem can feel personal, even when it isn’t about you.

You enter it… a poetic portal.

And sometimes, poetry becomes a way of noticing how the mind has been holding something all along.

Like this:

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Blunt Force Trauma

The fiercest feat I’ve yet to face has been to forgive myself.
For far too long,
I have been harsh with my wounds.
I allowed trepidation and degradation, remorse and regret,
to bleed into my brain.
I became concussed with the idea that these were things I had to live with,
when they only needed to be healed...

(Excerpt from my poetry collection: Lightning from Clear Skies)

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There’s a shift that happens inside these lines.

It can feel different to each reader.

Maybe at first, the pain feels like something to endure—something external, something heavy… as the poem unfolds, you start to see how the mind participates in that weight.

Being “harsh with my wounds” suggests something more than hurt.
It suggests repetition.
Revisiting.

From a neurological perspective, this echoes what happens during rumination—the brain looping through the same emotional pathways, reinforcing them over time. Not just remembering the pain, but strengthening it.

Practicing it.

The amygdala keeps those emotional states active, while the mind begins to expect them—until they feel less like moments and more like a baseline.

Something you carry without questioning.

“Bleed into my brain” captures that loss of boundary.

When emotion lingers long enough, it stops feeling like something you’re experiencing
and starts feeling like something you are.

And then, the poem reframes it.

“I became concussed with the idea…”

A concussion distorts clarity.
It disrupts perception.
It makes everything harder to interpret accurately.

Applying that to a belief is precise in a way that feels almost scientific.

Because the brain does this.

It builds certainty around familiar thoughts
even painful ones.
It repeats them until they feel like truth.

Not because they are but because they’ve been treated as such.

And then the final line loosens everything:

they only needed to be healed.

No force, nor dramatic undoing.

Just a shift in understanding.

From permanence to possibility.

The quiet science of poetry is that doesn’t tell your brain what to think.
It gives your brain just enough to feel, to simulate, to remember
and then leaves space for something to transcribe within your soul.

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You can check out my book if you are interested from Barnes and Noble and Amazon.

For an ebook version you can see it here: Lightning From Clear Skies

Thank you!

Photo by Álvaro Serrano on Unsplash