Brett Warren (she/her) is a long-time editor and the author of The Map of Unseen Things (Pine Row Press, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Canary, Halfway Down the Stairs, Harbor Review, Hole in the Head Review, ONE ART, SWWIM Every Day, and other literary publications. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she lives in a house surrounded by pitch pine and black oak trees—nighttime roosts of wild turkeys, who sometimes use the roof of her writing attic as a runway. You can read Feeding the Bees in the October 2025 issue.
Would you like to tell us a little bit more about your poem? For instance, how or why you wrote it, or perhaps provide some extra context?
I live in a place with an especially fragile ecosystem. We have a sole-source aquifer—meaning all of our drinking water comes from the same place underground—and our local economy depends on seasonal tourism, which in turn depends on the preservation of our natural environment. We’re in a part of the country that ranks high in education and innovation, yet I consistently see little yellow flags on lawns where toxic chemicals are being used. My poem “Feeding the Bees” grew out of this frustration.
I know humans are resistant to change. But we’re also capable of evolving, especially when it’s in our own best interests. With so much at stake—the habitat we literally need to survive—can we change our aesthetic to see the natural world as vastly more beautiful than the expensive, high-maintenance, artificial-looking, suburban lawn?
We’re understandably overwhelmed. It seems unfair to be expected to protect the environment when so many corporations and government entities do so little (or actively make things worse). I struggle with eco-grief and the fear of what lies ahead as our climate collapses, yet I still can’t do everything I’d like to do for the environment. Despite the many changes we’ve made in our household, we are still contributing to the problem. But I have to try. And I’ve learned that when I take even one step, it improves my outlook, my mental health. I feel less helpless, more inspired to keep going.
If you didn’t write poetry, how do you think you might access the same fulfillments that poetry offers in your life?
If I didn’t write poetry, I think I’d be in a straitjacket by now! But seriously, if I didn’t write, I would increase my engagement with libraries, museums, bookstores, and organizations that protect domestic and wild animals and the environment. I feel so much gratitude for all the people who create and preserve these sanctuaries.
How do you revise your work?
I’m an editor, so I revise a lot on my own. But the poets in my three critique groups are also essential to my revision process. They help me see where a poem is and is not working, and they also let me know when I’ve over-revised.
I’ve learned that it’s necessary to write a lot of bad poems but to not give up on any of them too quickly. I have a folder on my desktop called “Stagnant Poems.” It’s like a vernal pool that can dry up or become stagnant in a drought but is restored to health when rain finally comes. Sometimes I muck around in there for ideas…and even find poems I had totally forgotten about. But most of the poems I start will eventually decompose and nourish other poems into life. I see this as part of revision, too.
As a poet, what does creative success or achievement look like for you?
I love it when my poetry resonates with someone, perhaps someone who has never liked or felt they understood poetry. Even better is when someone reads one of my poems and starts to notice richness and complexity in the mundane, maybe even in their own difficulties, losses, or trauma. That’s the poetic lens, and it changes things.
We love the artistic underdogs, the experimentalists, the lovely weirdos — who or what might you get creative joy or energy from that others might not be aware of yet?
I think I might be getting a reputation as a “scat poet”—I mean wildlife excrement, not jazz singing! Coyote scat has shown up in two of my poems. I have another poem about how osprey chicks poop over the edge of the nest—it’s really quite spectacular to witness. I find any evidence of wildlife exciting. Just knowing we walk the same path, separated only by time—that experience never loses its thrill for me.
How or where or with what does a poem begin?
A poem might come from something that’s been rolling around in my head for a while and finally announces itself with a line or a jumping-off point or an idea about form. Or it might arise from an unexpected experience, or from overhearing a snippet of conversation. I’m frequently inspired by the natural world, but poetry can be found anywhere—in a hospital, a supermarket, or a parking lot.
How do you make space for poetry in your daily routine?
Before I turn on my phone or laptop in the morning, I read at least one poem by a contemporary, living poet. I buy poetry books regularly, and I keep one next to the chair where I have my breakfast and coffee. I think this practice wakes up my poetry brain and reminds me to pay attention, to live in the present moment as much as I can, to try to see the world through the lens of poetry.
I worry that we’ve become too connected to our technology. We’re “drinking from a firehose” of sensory input that is often unhealthy and doesn’t serve us or enrich our lives. I’m not a luddite—I’m online every day to stay in touch with friends, do research, watch funny videos, and (very selectively) read the news. But I try to be discerning.
A huge upside of technology is how much poetry is available through online literary magazines, social media, websites, email subscriptions. I tap into all these sources. I want to see what other poets are writing about right now and how they’re doing it. So technology is also key to my daily poetry practice.
Many of us are struggling with the state of the world right now. Engaging with poetry every day means poetry is always there for me. Some days I feel myself falling into despair. But poetry is a bridge. It may seem like a rope bridge at times, but it’s still a bridge.