The genesis of a poem for me is usually a cluster of words. The

Hear, O seekers of word and wisdom, the voice of Margaret Atwood, who declared: “The genesis of a poem for me is usually a cluster of words. The only good metaphor I can think of is a scientific one: dipping a thread into a supersaturated solution to induce crystal formation. I don’t think I solve problems in my poetry; I think I uncover the problems.” These words shine like a lamp upon the hidden work of the poet, who does not begin with answers, but with fragments—small sparks of language that, when given time and form, grow into something solid and dazzling, like crystals drawn out of unseen waters.

For Atwood reveals that the beginning of art is often humble. It does not descend whole from heaven, nor arrive fully shaped like a statue from stone. It begins with a cluster of words, stray sounds, half-formed phrases, mysterious seeds. Yet within those words lies hidden potential, as the supersaturated solution holds within it the possibility of crystalline beauty. When the poet places the thread of her attention into that hidden sea, suddenly the crystals begin to grow, attaching, forming, becoming something visible and tangible. So too with poetry: language grows upon language, thought upon thought, until the structure emerges.

Her metaphor is ancient in spirit though modern in image. Just as alchemists once sought to turn base metal into gold, the poet transforms ordinary words into radiant structures of meaning. But Atwood confesses that her poems are not solutions. They are not final answers or finished truths. Instead, they are revelations of the problems, the hidden tensions, the wounds beneath the skin of the world. For the poet is not always a healer but a revealer, peeling away the veil so that others may see what lies beneath.

Consider the example of Wilfred Owen, the poet of the Great War. His verses did not solve the agony of battle, nor heal the wounds of nations. Instead, they uncovered the problems—the horror of gas attacks, the waste of young lives, the betrayal of patriotism turned into slaughter. His poems were crystals of pain, grown from fragments of words that carried the truth of his experience. They offered no answers, but in their clarity, they forced the world to confront the questions it had tried to ignore.

Atwood herself has walked this path. In her novels and her poetry, she has turned her gaze to the wounds of society: the oppression of women, the fragility of freedom, the cruelty of power. Her poems are not solutions, but revelations. They crystallize the hidden problems, forcing the reader to look, to acknowledge, to feel. This is the true work of poetry: not to provide comfort alone, but to awaken consciousness. For until a problem is revealed, it cannot be faced; until it is named, it cannot be changed.

Yet there is also wonder in her words. For the image of crystal formation is not one of pain alone, but of beauty. Even in the uncovering of problems, poetry creates form, shape, and radiance. What is terrible may be made bearable when clothed in art; what is hidden may be brought into light in a way that stirs both sorrow and awe. Thus, the poet’s task is dual: to reveal the wound, but also to show the strange beauty of truth itself.

Therefore, O children of tomorrow, the lesson is clear. Do not wait for perfect answers before you create. Begin with your clusters of words, however small, however fragile. Dip the thread of your attention into the sea of thought and let the crystals grow. Do not fear that your work will not solve the world’s troubles; its purpose may be greater. Your task is to reveal, to uncover, to make visible what has long been hidden. For in the act of revelation lies the first step to healing, and in the act of creation lies the essence of being human.

So remember Atwood’s wisdom: a poem is not a solution, but a revelation. Its genesis is humble, its growth mysterious, its result radiant with truth. Honor your words, no matter how small, for they may grow into crystals that awaken the world. For poetry’s power is not in solving the riddle, but in showing that the riddle exists.