Författare: Sam Illingworth Professor of Creative Pedagogies Edinburgh N

Physics and poetry might seem like an unlikely pair, but both are rooted in structure, rhythm and precision. Both rely on clarity – distilling complex ideas into their simplest, most elegant form. And, as I explore in my latest book The Poetry of Physics, both seek to capture something fundamental about the universe.

Some physicists have embraced this connection. James Clerk Maxwell, the Scottish physicist and mathematician behind the classical theory of electromagnetic radiation, wrote verse about atoms, thermodynamics and imposter syndrome. Rebecca Elson, an astrophysicist studying dark matter, wrote poems that fused cosmic exploration with human fragility. Their work reminds us that physics is not just about numbers – it is about patterns, motion and meaning.

Writing poetry about science can seem daunting. But structure helps. Just as scientific experiments follow a method, poetic forms can provide a scaffold that can shape your ideas and guide your writing, giving you boundaries within which to explore.

Form matters. The structure of a poem can mirror the scientific idea it describes, making both the form and the content work together. A nonnet, for example, is a perfect choice for writing about loss, decay, or transformation.

A nonnet is a nine-line poem that starts with a line of nine syllables and decreases by one syllable per line, ending with a single-syllable word. This structure creates a natural sense of diminishing, making it ideal for exploring physical processes like entropy, energy loss, or the melting of sea ice. The shrinking lines do not just tell the story – they embody it, visually and rhythmically reinforcing the concept.

Take entropy for example. Entropy is a measure of disorder or randomness within a system. A system with high entropy is more chaotic, while a system with low entropy is more structured. According to the second law of thermodynamics, the total entropy of an isolated system can only increase or remain constant – it never decreases. This natural progression toward disorder can be creatively captured through a nonnet, a poetic form that mirrors the gradual decline of structure.

The tea cools, spreading its warmth outward

Molecules slow, drift apart, fade

Heat unwinds in quiet waves

Order gives way to chance

Each moment less still

Motion dissolves

Atoms hum

Time flows

Gone

The structure mirrors the process it describes – just as the syllables fall away, so too does energy, dissipating into the surroundings. The poem does not just explain entropy; it makes you feel it.

Writing your own physics poem

To start, choose a scientific concept with a natural progression – something that grows, collapses, fades or transforms. A black hole swallowing light. The cooling of a neutron star. The flickering of a quantum state.

Once you have your subject, let the structure guide you. The longest line should introduce the concept, setting up the movement that follows. Each line should shrink not just in syllables but in intensity, following the physical process you are describing. Keep the language clear and simple – both physics and poetry thrive on precision.

Sam Illingworth’s new book brings together art and science.
CRC Press

Most importantly, let the poem take its time. Writing is like experimentation – your first attempt is rarely your final result. Refine, adjust and revise until the form and meaning align.

Once you have experimented with a nonnet, you may want to explore other poetic forms. Different structures can emphasise different aspects of physics, shaping the way the subject is presented and experienced. Perhaps a haiku, a villanelle, or maybe even a sestina?

Eventually, as in physics, structure should not confine you. It should empower you. Just as quantum mechanics could only emerge after centuries of classical physics, free verse poetry becomes most effective once you understand the forms it is breaking away from. Poetic structure teaches control, rhythm and precision. It helps you learn how to balance content and form, just as classical mechanics teaches foundational principles that underpin later discoveries.

Once you are comfortable with structured poetry, try letting go. Write about physics with no predetermined form. Let the language shape itself. See where the words take you.

And when you have something you are happy with, why not share it? The Brilliant Poetry Competition 2025 invites writers from around the world to explore the connections between science and poetry. This year’s competition is themed around UNESCO’s international year of quantum science and technology, with prizes of up to £1,000 and entries accepted in English, French and Spanish.

Physics is already rich with poetry. Its rhythms are found in the orbits of planets, its symmetry is woven into the fabric of the universe, its surprises are hidden in the flicker of quantum states. Writing a physics poem is not about forcing science into art but about recognising the poetry that is already there. The universe is waiting. Now, all you need to do is write. Läs mer…

Nan Shepherd’s The Living Mountain is not a book about conquering peaks or mapping uncharted terrain. It is instead a deeply felt, poetic encounter with the Cairngorms.

This vast mountain range in north-east Scotland has been shaped by ancient glaciers and known for its high plateaus, deep corries and shifting light. These mountains, some of the highest in the UK, are rugged, remote, and often treacherous. Yet, they hold a stark, indifferent beauty.

First written towards the end of the second world war, The Living Mountain remained unpublished in a drawer until 1977, its quiet brilliance only gradually recognised. Now, with publisher Scribner bringing out its first US edition, a new audience will discover this landmark of nature writing.

Shepherd, a Scottish writer, educator, and poet, had an unparalleled relationship with the mountains. The best way to describe it is a word she herself used: feyness. There is a deep, almost mystical sensitivity in the way she moves through the landscape. She does not seek to master it, but to know it intimately – its ice, its rock, its light.

Nan Shepherd.
John Grant Roger

Each chapter of The Living Mountain focuses on an element of this vast range: the plateau, the recesses, the plants, and, most strikingly for me, the water. Her description of Loch Etchachan made me want to go there immediately, but such is the clarity of her prose that I felt as if I already had. Its pristine waters shimmering in the shifting light, the stillness broken only by the wind and the sheer presence of the place evoked so vividly that it felt less like reading and more like remembering.

Shepherd’s writing reminds me of the Scottish poet Norman MacCaig – though where MacCaig wrote often of Assynt in the far north-western corner of Scotland, Shepherd’s domain was the Cairngorms. Both share an awe, a humility and a sense of reverence towards their subject.

There is a poetic tenderness throughout Shepherd’s writing, in the cadence of her sentences, in the careful weight of each word. At around 30,000 words, it is a short book, yet every phrase feels hewn from the page, as enduring as the granite she describes.

A line I return to often is one that Shepherd uses to describe the water at the height of these peaks: “It does nothing, absolutely nothing, but be itself.” This is the essence of Shepherd’s philosophy. The mountains do not exist for our amusement or our conquest. They simply are.

This is a book not about “Munro bagging” – the practice of ticking off Scotland’s 282 mountains over 3,000 feet – but about being with the land, walking it slowly, attentively, over a lifetime.

A fragile land

The Living Mountain is being republished by Scribner on March 18 2025.
Scribner

Yet, The Living Mountain is also a stark reminder of the fragility of that world. Shepherd notes, as early as 1934, that summer snow is disappearing: “Antiquity has gone from our snow.” Was this, unwittingly, one of the earliest literary observations of climate change? Around the same time, British engineer Guy Callendar had begun linking rising global temperatures to CO₂ emissions, though his findings were dismissed. Almost a century on, Shepherd’s words feel prophetic.

For US readers encountering The Living Mountain for the first time, they may wonder what a remote range in the eastern Highlands of Scotland offers them. But these mountains contain, in their own way, the spirit of the Santa Cruz mountains, the Appalachians, the Rockies. In their solitude and permanence, they offer the same humility, the same respect, the same quiet self-reflection that comes with encountering something so vast and indifferent to human life.

With a framing introduction by Robert Macfarlane, a British writer known for his books on landscape and nature, and an afterword by Jenny Odell, an American artist and educator, this edition gives The Living Mountain the platform it deserves. This is not just a book about place – it is a book that is place. It remains as vital as the mountains themselves, urging us to look more closely. To listen more deeply. To move through the world with the same quiet reverence that Shepherd once did.

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