Poetry for Mental Health: A One-Woman Study

By Faiqa Ali Chughtai

Poetry holds a kind of magic that transcends mere words. We often love it even when we don’t fully understand it because it speaks to something deeper within us—something primal, emotional, and profoundly human. From the earliest nursery rhymes like "Baa Baa Black Sheep," we are exposed to the power of rhythm and melody, helping us grasp the world, long before we can express ourselves fully.

John Keating’s words in Dead Poets Society captured that magic perfectly: “We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race... and poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for.” But that girl who watched Dead Poets Society on a pirated DVD, with cold hands, a thumping heart, and a sense of utter fascination, got lost in life. I got lost in the race to score better, do more, and be something. I was getting along well with my majestically mechanical, absolutely mundane life until I wasn’t. When I found myself in the darkest pit of my life, I turned to poetry.

When Ethan Hawke said: “Most people don't spend a lot of time thinking about poetry. .. until they lose a child, somebody breaks your heart, they don't love you anymore, and all of a sudden, you're desperate for making sense out of this life. Or the inverse, something great. You meet somebody, and your heart explodes; you love them so much you can't even see straight ... and that's when art's not a luxury, it's sustenance.”

I felt that truth deeply. I was one of the “most people.” In my hardest times, poetry became a lifeline—a way to make sense of emotions I couldn't articulate. Writing became a way to reclaim my voice. And I asked myself, why this? Why now? Can poetry heal? Is it the “superfood” of thoughts, the antidote? If so, how?

As I delved deeper, I discovered that my experience aligned with research. Studies show that holding back thoughts and feelings can contribute to anxiety and chronic illnesses. Conversely, expressing those thoughts through writing or poetry can have a therapeutic effect. This was precisely what I experienced. My stress made me feel like my body was betraying me—headaches, migraines, nausea, long-term sickness. The medical term for this is psychosomatic: when your mental state manifests as physical symptoms. Stress can turn your body against itself, but poetry offers a way to release those pent-up emotions (1, 2, 3).

Neuroscience demonstrates that our brains respond to poetry and music as though we are experiencing real-life sensations. Imagery, rhythm, and metaphor in poetry stimulate our brains in ways that evoke deep, almost visceral responses. This explains why we feel physically affected when we hear or read poetry that resonates with us—much like how imagining biting into a lemon can make your mouth water, poetry can create emotional and physical reactions.

The connection between mind, body, and emotions is real. Poetry, with its symbols, metaphors, and rhythmic flow, taps into that connection. It’s not just words on a page—it’s an embodied experience. The structure of poetry is akin to space in architecture; we are affected by lines, spacing, punctuation, line breaks, and thought length. A widely spaced poem can give you a somatic sense of the struggle to breathe.

Research shows that poetry and music stimulate the brain in similar ways, particularly in regions associated with emotion and memory. Even when we don’t fully understand a poem’s meaning, our brain responds to its rhythm, tone, and imagery.

I realized I began writing compulsively—lines, fragments, thoughts I couldn’t speak aloud. It wasn’t about making sense at first; it was about releasing something within me, a kind of emotional exhale. In those verses, something clicked. The more I wrote, the better I felt. It was as though I had unlocked a hidden valve in my mind, letting out fears, pain, and trauma that had been festering for years.



This wasn’t just catharsis—it felt like healing. When I sat alone, writing line after line, it wasn’t just an intellectual exercise. My mind and body were working in unison, trying to heal from the inside out. Each verse was a small act of self-care, a way to reclaim balance after everything had felt so misaligned. As Diana Hedges said, “Poetry is the literary form that is most like therapy; both seek to illuminate the human condition. Both use words and images as means of transformation.”

As I searched further, I found more evidence of poetry's therapeutic benefits. Studies show poetry is effective with adolescents, survivors of childhood sexual assault, and psychiatric rehabilitation patients. It improves self-esteem, trust, and communication, and helps reduce the side effects of cancer treatment, improves symptoms of dementia, depression, and psychosis, and even supports recovery from PTSD, job-related stress, and family discord (4, 5).

All this research helped me realize why poetry has been part of human experience since the dawn of time. From lullabies to nursery rhymes, songs to slogans, religious verses to chanting mantras, we are surrounded by poetry without even realizing it.

What is it that connects us to poetry? Why do we turn to it in times of need? Is it because poetry offers structured engagement, sharing, and emotional exploration? Or is it because it integrates with deeper insight?

The triune brain model, proposed by Paul MacLean, suggests three interconnected levels of brain function:

1. The Reptilian Brain: This is the "lizard brain," focused on basic survival— “Can I eat it, or will it eat me?” It governs instincts related to food, fear, and reproduction. You could say it thrives on survival, always on guard, much like the primitive mindset of early humans.

2. The Limbic Brain: This is the emotional center, responsible for attention, emotional relationships, and bonding. It judges experiences as “agreeable or disagreeable” and is key to nurturing, intimacy, and recognizing danger.

3. The Neocortex: This is the highly developed part of the brain in Homo sapiens, the “thinking brain.” It regulates hormones, controls movement, and is involved in cognition, analysis, and evaluation. 

This part of the brain is constantly evolving—this is where neuroplasticity happens. (Yes, the same part that Andrew Huberman often talks about.) Each time we learn something new, new neural junctions are formed. Developing emotional understanding and expanding our vocabulary helps enhance mental health because it strengthens these neural connections.

Poetry operates at the intersection of these three brain functions, bridging instinctual responses with emotional and higher cognitive processes. It’s like the pep talk the neocortex gives to the limbic and reptilian brains when they get scared.

Reptilian brain, gets scared, limbic brain gets aroused by the response and gets very scared and new cortex talks some sense into them. Poetry kind of does the same, offering ways to process fear and emotions.

The speculative model of the triune brain suggests that, metaphorically, the lower levels of the neocortex house dreams and unconscious thoughts. Poetry connects these unconscious elements with conscious thought through its sensory impact—imagery, rhythm, and metaphor. In doing so, it links the head and the heart, connecting the conscious and the unconscious. Making limbic system to response more promptly to poetry than prose.

Perhaps that's why Professor Nigel MacLennan calls poetry "meaning expressed in a predictable manner." It resonates because it may be something we haven’t yet consciously thought but lies buried in the unconscious (7).

In the end, my study was small—just one woman, one laptop, and one set of experiences. But poetry proved to be an incredible tool for shooing away the woes, worries, and ailments. Though it remains wrapped in mystery, there's much more to discover about the brain and its mysteries. But this will always hold true:

“We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race... and poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for.”

Art isn't a luxury—it's sustenance.

Citations:

1. Vine, V., Boyd, R.L. & Pennebaker, J.W. Natural emotion vocabularies as windows on distress and well-being. Nat Commun 11, 4525 (2020). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41467-020-18349-0

2. Pennebaker, J. W., & Beall, S. K. (1986). Confronting a traumatic event: Toward an understanding of inhibition and disease. Journal of Abnormal Psychology, 95(3), 274–281. https://doi.org/10.1037/0021-843X.95.3.274

3. Pennebaker, J. W., Kiecolt-Glaser, J. K., & Glaser, R. (1988). Disclosure of traumas and immune function: Health implications for psychotherapy. Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 56(2), 239–245. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-006X.56.2.239

4. Alfrey, A., Field, V., Xenophontes, I., & Holttum, S. (2021). Identifying the mechanisms of poetry therapy and associated effects on participants: A synthesised review of empirical literature. The Arts in Psychotherapy, 75, 101832.

5. Park, J. H., Kim, J. Y., & Kim, H. O. (2022). Effects of a group poetry therapy program on stress, anxiety, ego-resilience, and psychological well-being of nursing students. Archives of Psychiatric Nursing, 41, 144-152.

6. Shewell, C. (2020). Poetry, Voice, Brain, and Body. Voice and Speech Review, 14(2), 143-166.

7. MacLennan. (2022). The Psychology of Poetry. https://www.psychreg.org/psychology-poetry/