In an interview for the Poetry Society of America, Diane Seuss talks to Jennifer Franklin about how she writes with a keen awareness of the body as a site of both immense precarity and radical agency. When considering the role of structure in poetry, Seuss draws a parallel between the literary form and human form, how language can be compressed and lead through the formal constraints of a poetic form in the same way the human body can act as an impediment and a guide. “We write with all of ourselves,” she says, “at our best.” Write a poem that uses the structure of a poetic form to reflect on the nature of the body. Explore how the lyrical imagination pushes against structure, like the body “compresses the soul,” as Seuss describes. How does the inclusion of the body anchor your writing, and how might you play within these confines?

In her translator’s preface to The Narrow Road of Oku, a new edition of Matsuo Bashō’s seminal haibun diary published by New Directions in June, Meredith McKinney notes that though it is possible to read the work “as a straightforward, episodic travel diary of a seventeenth century Japanese poet and his companion,” the haibun form of prose writing followed by poetry “asks the reader to slow down, to pause and focus.” Spend some time jotting down notes and memories of a significant trip you have taken. Try your hand at writing in a similar style, interspersing travel journal vignettes with brief, poetic observations of a singular moment or image in time that distills a particular sensation. “I make the cool / my lodging / lounging at ease,” writes Bashō after one particularly long journey. Consider how the slowed-down pace of short, poetic lines might balance each episode’s narrative.

At the start of Deborah Levy’s My Year in Paris With Gertrude Stein, a hybrid-genre book merging biography with fiction, published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux in June, the first-person narrator finds a silver lining to her friend’s cat going missing, noting that the drama “was a relief from writing my essay on Gertrude Stein, about whom I knew too much and nothing at all.” The narrator goes on to express her frustration while studying who Stein was as a writer and a person. “Sometimes, when I read her baffling and beguiling writing I wanted to smack it in the chops,” writes Levy. Select a writer or artist whose personality, mythology, and life story pique your interest, and write a short story that revolves around a character who is working on a project about your chosen person. Consider how the subject’s real biography might play with parallels in your fictionalized character’s life and world.

Jane Kenyon’s poem “Three Songs at the End of Summer” features three portraits of late summer, each evoking its own distinct sounds, moods, and atmosphere. The first section of the poem begins with “a second crop of hay” and “five gleaming crows,” continues through the sights and sounds of summer camp, and ends with a couplet that gestures to autumn: “Schoolbooks, carpools, pleated skirts; / water, silver-still, and a vee of geese.” The second section consists of two three-line stanzas infused with the sound of cicadas, and in the final section, Kenyon explicitly reaches back in time to the speaker’s childhood and the scent of a damp dirt road on a foggy morning. Taking inspiration from this structure, write a three-part poem that explores a few resonant memories of the end of summer—fleeting images and sounds and smells of various activities. Experiment with sections of varying lengths to create dramatic effect.

When asked in an interview published on Creative Independent whether there is a common thread throughout the works that he’s translated from various languages, Max Lawton mentions that there is usually “an element of transgression, whether that’s on the level of language or on the level of content” and that “shocking movies, transgressive music, loud music, not as a form of real rebellion, just mischievousness” are what brought him into art. Taking inspiration from this prioritization of transgression and mischief, write a personal essay that uses language in a shocking way or recounts something shocking in its content. Allow yourself to experiment with syntax in a way you’ve never tried before, or to write about a memory you’ve never dared to touch. How can you strike a balance between a playful sense of mischief and an intense subject matter?

Kane Parsons’s debut horror film Backrooms revolves around the discovery of a labyrinthine parallel universe of mysteriously empty rooms and hallways which are entered through the basement of a furniture store. The concept originates from “Backrooms” website threads in which users post and contribute writing—essentially cocreating fictional horror accounts akin to urban legends—about an otherworldly dimension that exists in a liminal space, inspired by a photo depicting several empty rooms tinged in fluorescent yellowish lighting. This week, think of a space that feels mundane or familiar to you, such as a furniture store, the corridors of an expansive hotel, or a school basement. Then write a short story inspired by the image of the space when it’s devoid of any activity. Consider the lighting, furnishings, and sounds that accompany the space and what might enhance a menacing or unsettling scene.

In a recent New York Times Magazine article, Nitsuh Adebe speaks with a linguist about the ways in which words evolve over time, noting recent shifts in the use of terms like “POV” and “aesthetic,” especially in social media posts. “How people use a language is what the language is, and most everything we do in an effort to steer one another’s usage—teaching grammar, mocking errors, writing columns—is just an exercise of social power,” writes Abebe. Compose a poem that incorporates a word or phrase that has gained a new meaning in contemporary use, possibly through the rapidly changing landscape of language mediated, distorted, or abbreviated in texting and social media. What sorts of ingenuity, misinterpretation, and customization propelled your selection from its original definition to a new one? How might using it in a new poetic context subject it to an additional layer of meaning?

While the late Keith Waldrop described his 1993 book, Light While There Is Light: An American History, reissued by New York Review Books Classics in May, as a “fictional memoir,” Dalkey Archive Press, which reissued the book in 2013, referred to it as an “autobiographical novel,” and elsewhere it’s been described as a “poetic memoir.” This week, compose three short pieces about one single memory, each one to be described by one of these hybrid labels. How does your fusion of fiction and nonfiction shift when you’re thinking about the genre of your work in a different way? What kind of permission is granted when you add on a more imaginative modifier, such as “fictional” or “poetic”—and how does the “autobiographical” prefix work in tandem or in tension with a fictional element in place?

“I learned that Lucky Charms cereal is, like, seventy-five percent sugar, bananas are poisonous to monkeys, and you should rinse Popsicles before eating them to avoid losing taste buds. I learned that you can kind of just say ‘slay’ whenever, as filler, that you can address both your girls and your dad as ‘bro,’” writes Anna Wiener in “The Life and Times of an American Tween,” a recent New Yorker piece about a San Francisco twelve-year-old and her friends that expands into larger ideas around being a twenty-first century tween. Write a short story in which one of your main characters is a teenager. Draw from your own experiences as a teen, as well as your knowledge of Gen Alpha, to round this character out with age-specific habits, emotional turmoil, energy, and outlook. Consider how the character’s use of slang conveys a phase of in-betweenness, intense observation, and playacting in this preadult window of their life.

The machines are watching you . . . and they’re talking to each other. In an interview for Phaidon, Trevor Paglen, artist and author of How to See Like a Machine: Images After AI (Verso, 2026), speaks about how most images made in the world today are not centered around a human observer, but are made by machines for other machines. “A simple example is a self-driving car that is making tons and tons of images every second to navigate,” he says. “They’re not making those images for humans, they’re making them for themselves.” Spend some time imagining how a machine might “see” a photograph differently from how a human would, and write a poem with a particular image in mind. What might a machine notice or not notice? How might processing an image and communicating about it be different when we dispense with our conventional ideas of human emotional responses? Experiment with the way certain details are described and remembered.