“Poetry shouldn’t need to conform”

A conversation about science poetry with Sam Illingworth

Lucia Ballesteros spoke with Sam Illingworth, whose work sits at the intersection of science, poetry, and public engagement. In this interview, Illingworth reflects on his path through science and poetry and what this, at first unlikely, pairing can offer to science communication.

\ © Sam Illingworth 

Trained in physics and atmospheric sciences, Illingworth began his career studying greenhouse gases from space, but soon discovered that poetry could reveal aspects of science that data alone cannot.

Illingworth is the founder of Consilience, the world’s first peer-reviewed journal of science and poetry, co-leads the Brilliant Poetry competition, runs The Poetry of Science blog and podcast, serves as Chief Executive Editor of Geoscience Communication, and teaches Creative Pedagogies at Edinburgh Napier University, to name just a few of his parallel projects. 

Full disclosure: The scientist in me, trained to flag every possible source of bias, should note that I was taking Illingworth’s course on science communication and poetry while preparing this issue. So whether it was fate, bias, or poetic justice, inviting him for this conversation felt almost unavoidable.

You started out in academic research, studying environmental and atmospheric sciences. How did the move into science communication first begin for you, and what motivated that transition?

“After I completed my PhD in 2010, I wasn’t really looking to move straight into a traditional academic position. Instead, I got a scholarship to work at the East Foundation, where I explored the relationship between science and theater.”

“Afterwards, I realized that I already had a strong grounding in science, and that rather than stepping away from it, I could stay within science and shift my focus toward how to communicate it through creative approaches. I was able to publish some research in this area, and I was very fortunate to get an assistant professorship in science communication at Manchester Metropolitan University in 2014. That’s really what kick-started my work as a science communicator.”

“When I started, it was mostly understood as one-way communication—podcasts, blogs, that kind of thing. It was only once I began researching that I realized there was a whole field of theory and practice behind it.”

Over the years, you experimented with blogging, podcasting, and theater, yet poetry became your main focus. What was it about poetry that allowed you to communicate or explore science in ways those other formats couldn’t?

“It was honestly a pragmatic choice. I’d written poetry since I was young, so when I began studying science communication, I started a weekly blog The Poetry of Science, which ran from 2014 until earlier this year. The idea was simple: I would read a piece of research and then write a poem about it. It worked well, and it helped me develop a niche.”

“As I kept writing, that blog gradually opened up more possibilities. It led to further research into using poetry to establish dialogue, and even to using poetry as data.”

“I can tell you now that poetry also has qualities that make it a powerful communication and dialogical tool. But the honest answer is that at the time, poetry was simply something I knew how to do. I don’t know how to sculpt, I don’t know how to draw, I’m a terrible visual artist. I’m not saying I’m a brilliant poet, but I do know about poetry, and that familiarity gave me a starting point—an element of experience to build from.”

A big part of your work involves leading workshops where scientists, poets, and people with no background in either field come together to experiment with science and poetry. What kinds of changes have you seen when participants begin engaging with science through poetry?

“The key thing I’ve seen is people becoming more confident in themselves and in how to engage with poetry. Several people have come up to me and said, ‘I didn’t really think that I’d be capable of writing,’ and then had written something amazing.”

“I guess it’s gradual, but I would say the key thing is definitely expanding people’s life worlds a bit. There are different ways of understanding, different meanings, and realizing that maybe science isn’t the only way of understanding the world. Poetry helps us explore that a little more, I think.”

“I would say that’s probably the greatest example of the kind of work I’ve done like that, definitely.”

You often emphasize that there is no single “general public,” but multiple publics with different needs and contexts. How does this perspective shape the way you design a science-poetry workshop?

“It’s important to ask rather than assume. I always start by asking the audience about their experiences.”

“It’s really about finding out: What are you interested in? What poetry styles do you enjoy? What science topics matter to you? Rather than me deciding that someone belongs to a particular public, my approach is to say: One of the publics you might be part of is X. In the past, I know that poem Y or topic Z has resonated with people from that community—what do you think? And that becomes the starting point.”

“From there, it’s about creating a safe space where people can say, ‘You know what, Sam, that doesn’t work for me'.”

“There’s no such thing as the general public—there are multiple publics. But the key is always to take the time to ask what people want, rather than assume what they need.”

A key goal of your workshops is to break down hierarchies. In practice, have you ever noticed poetry creating new hierarchies? For example, turning the space into a “talent show” where some participants feel judged or intimidated? How do you respond in those situations?

“I think the key thing is creating a safe space. When I first started running these workshops, I would sometimes bring in very talented poets. And that, unintentionally, created a kind of level people felt they had to reach. But people can write amazing poems with very little experience, and often they’re doing so in a language that isn’t their first.”

“What I try to emphasize is that aesthetics are not the goal; the focus is on the process.”

“Having a safe space doesn’t mean whitewashing anything. It means creating a space where people feel comfortable asking for critique, and building an atmosphere where people feel willing to be vulnerable. There will always be people, who are better poets than you, and that’s also true for me. But if you’re in a space where, rather than feeling jealous or intimidated, you celebrate that talent, then that’s the direction to aim for.”

We’re seeing science and the arts come closer and closer, with creative approaches playing a bigger role in communicating research. When it comes to poetry, there’s a fine line between instrumentalizing it to explain science and honoring it as an art form. How do you approach that in your work?

“I think it’s okay to use poetry as a tool. It just depends on what you’re using it for. If you’re using it in a didactic way to communicate science, that’s fine. When you’re starting out, you can’t expect people to immediately understand more complex conversations about poetry.”

“The best example is how my own blog developed. At first, it was very didactic: I presented the science directly through rhythm and structure, referencing the exact paper. Over time, though, the poems became less explicitly descriptive. The science was still there, but through an additional lens. That shift helped show that poetry isn’t only a way of explaining science, it’s a complementary way of understanding it.”

“It took me a long time to reach this point. And honestly, I think people are respectful when using poetry. It’s okay to use poetry as a tool, just as sometimes it’s okay to use science as a tool to communicate other things.”

After many years in the field, with numerous publications and projects like Consilience and Brilliant Poetry, have you ever encountered critiques from trained poets who see your approach as intruding on the poetic field? 

“There is occasionally pushback about oversimplification, and that’s fair. Something I could do better is to signal more clearly that I am simplifying things. I do that because I’m trying to make it accessible to audiences who have never encountered those ideas before.”

“But no one has ever told me ‘you’re not a poet’, except myself. There are reasons for that. Part of it is that I’m a white heterosexual cis man; people usually don’t tell me what I can or cannot do. And there are hierarchies: some poets I’ve spoken to see scientists as occupying a higher intellectual plane in certain contexts, which shapes dynamics as well.”

“In my own lived experience, direct critique of me intruding into poetry just hasn’t happened.”

Just like science, poetry is sometimes perceived as elitist or inaccessible. Building on what we talked about on breaking down hierarchies, how do you address the risk of simply replacing one specialized jargon with another?

“With science, I’m now very used to recognizing terminology that isn’t obvious to everyone. With poetry, though, I sometimes have to take a step back and ask: okay, what does this actually mean? And it works both ways. The audience can range from scientists who’ve never read poetry before to award-winning poets, so it’s about finding commonality and mutual respect.”

“I’m also very conscious of highlighting that even though I’m an expert, there are lots of things I don’t know or that I get wrong. And it’s fine for people to correct me. Why wouldn’t it be? That openness helps create a sense of community, which I think is crucial.”

In Consilience, you edit poems that must be both scientifically accurate and poetically strong. How do you balance artistic license and scientific accuracy? What are the boundaries? 

“I think the poem should always be grounded in science and move toward making better, clearer scientific statements. Some poems rely heavily on the scientific statement; with others it’s very obvious what the underlying science is. In my opinion, there’s no single right or wrong amount of science.”

“What we do at Consilience is an initial read-through where we assess both the quality of the poem and the quality of the science statement. A brilliant poem with terrible science probably won’t go through, and vice versa.”

“I don’t speak for everyone, but I think we’re settling into a space where the science has to be rigorous and appropriate, while still leaving room for creative expression.”

Science communication today often favors formats that are quick, visual, and instantly shareable, while poetry moves at a slower, more reflective pace. Where does poetry fit in this faster landscape? How can it stay relevant? 

“Sometimes we become a little obsessed with outputs, and have the need to create poetry for anyone apart from ourselves.”

“Poetry can be really powerful in helping us better understand what we’re trying to achieve or reach.”

“Poetry shouldn’t need to conform. Maybe it should make us reflect. If everything around us is accelerating, why are we accelerating too? Poetry can be a way to act. To pause and reflect and reintroduce meaning into our lives.”

If you were speaking to someone who is skeptical of combining science and poetry, what would be your strongest argument for the value of this work?

“I’d start by sharing the research, data, and evidence showing that this approach actually works. If the skepticism is more about poetry itself, I’d share testimonials from participants.”

“If someone says, ‘This just doesn’t work for me,’ I’ll try a few times—maybe suggesting we look at a paper together. I still believe poetry can be for everyone, but it’s important to respect people’s barriers and wishes.”

“Early on, I did get pushback. People said, ‘What you’re doing isn’t real research.’ And honestly, that was a fair comment at the time. It pushed me to ground my work more rigorously in evidence and research. I realized I had been a bit wishy-washy about why poetry matters.”

“Now I can point to a solid evidence base: poetry can create safe spaces, support dialogue, and bring scientists and non-scientists together for meaningful two-way exchanges. Building that understanding has taken about a decade. I don’t always have a perfect answer, but at least now I can show the evidence when someone is skeptical.”

We’ve talked a lot about how you use poetry, so perhaps we can end by seeing a little of it. Would you be willing to share a short poem that reflects your approach and say a few words about why it works?

“One of the poems I’ve really enjoyed, mainly because I love the research behind it, is called Women of the Wildfires. It was inspired by work showing that women and shepherds historically helped reduce wildfire risk in central Italy by tending to the land—clearing leaves, moving debris, using what is essentially an Indigenous approach to managing wildfires.”

“For me, it’s powerful because it connects us to the past and highlights the role of women and other underrepresented or marginalized communities in caring for the earth. And the research itself is just really interesting.”

Women of the Wildfire

Sam Illingworth

In Monte Pisano’s shadow

women tread,

silent stewards

to the leaf

and flame.

Their hands rough

as the bark they skirt,

a patchwork quilt

for earth’s unmade bed.

Beneath their fingers

memories stir,

murmuring

through groves,

through vines –

every unturned blade

a sunken spark.

They move like ghosts

amongst the trees,

their legacy

a faded collage

of presence

and loss.

And still

the setting stands,

voiceless witness

to its quiet keepers –

a ritual unspoken,

a fire tamed,

a disaster unbirthed.

---

In Illingworth’s workshop I off course ended up writing poetry myself. Even for a short piece, I had to dig deeper into the science behind it. Trying to find the right angle pushed me to understand concepts more deeply, sending me down research rabbit holes I hadn’t anticipated.

What surprised me most, though, was the dialogue it created. Because I felt a bit stuck, I started talking about the poem with people around me, most of them with no science background. Suddenly, I was having conversations about science that I wouldn’t normally have, and in the process, I was sharing research, explaining ideas, and hearing perspectives I hadn’t considered. It became a small example of what Illingworth describes: poetry opening space for different voices, perspectives, and ways of understanding.

So if this interview leaves you even a little curious, take that as your starting point. Pick a topic, chase a thought. Let the poem be your excuse to ask questions, explore ideas, and see science from a different angle. 

Taxonomies of Belonging

Lucía Ballesteros

The world feels steadier

when we can name it.

As though the act of saying

you belong here

helps us belong too.

A chestnut leaf on the pavement, 

not just orange, not just fading,

but Castanea sativa,

midway through its quiet surrender to autumn.

Naming begins as curiosity.

As the humble wish to understand.

Oak - Quercus robur

Apple - Malus domestica

Magpie - Pica pica

The leaf had a name.

The bird had a name.

So we began naming one another,

with the same tidy logic.

What began in curiosity

drifted, almost unnoticed,

into arranging.

Arranging into sorting.

Sorting into separating.

Labels for identity.

Boxes for order.

Definitions that promise clarity

but narrow what they hold.

Who do they free

and who do they cage?