Poem Starters: 100 First Lines to Get You Writing

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100 poem starters: first lines to get you writing

Staring at a blank page? These poem starters are 100 original first lines, grouped by topic, that you can borrow to get a poem moving. Pick one that makes you curious, copy it to the top of your page, and keep writing. Need a topic first? Try our 150 poem ideas, or give your poem depth with these common poem themes.

Table of Contents

How to use a poem starter

Use it as line one, then let it go. The starter is a doorway. Your poem can go anywhere once you’re through it.
Change one word. Swap a detail for something from your own life: “cardamom” might become “cinnamon” or “diesel.”
Delete it later. Many poets cut their first line once the poem finds its real beginning. That’s fine.

Memory and childhood (10 starters)

The kitchen still smelled of cardamom the year we stopped visiting.
I was seven the summer the river took my shoe.
Nobody told me the last time would be the last time.
My grandfather kept his watch five minutes fast, as if time owed him something.
In the photograph, everyone is laughing at something just outside the frame.
We had a dog once who only barked at the mailman’s bicycle.
The school bell still rings in my head at 3:15.
I remember the house by its sounds: the stair that creaked, the faucet that sang.
Every August, my mother lined the windowsills with tomatoes to ripen.
The first word I learned in English was “sorry.”

Love (10 starters)

You leave your coffee half-finished, the way you leave sentences.
I learned your laugh before I learned your middle name.
Love, it turns out, is mostly remembering who takes sugar.
We fell in love in a parking lot, which nobody believes.
Your name sounds different in my mouth than in anyone else’s.
The distance between our cities is exactly one phone call long.
I kept the receipt from our first dinner like a ticket stub.
You hum when you think no one is listening.
This is not a love poem; it is a list of the times you waited for me.
On our worst day, you still made two cups of tea.

Loss and grief (10 starters)

Your number is still in my phone under the name you chose.
The chair at the head of the table has learned to be empty.
Grief arrives on Tuesdays, uninvited, wearing your coat.
I keep your voicemail the way some people keep seashells.
The doctor said “comfortable,” and I hated the word.
Your garden doesn’t know you’re gone; it keeps blooming anyway.
I set out one plate too many and didn’t put it back.
Some days I forget, and then the forgetting hurts.
The house is quieter than any house should be.
You taught me to ride a bike, and then you let go.

Nature and seasons (10 starters)

The first frost wrote its name on every windshield.
Spring came late this year, apologizing in crocuses.
The heron stands in the shallows like a question mark.
Rain on the tin roof sounds like applause for nothing.
All night the wind rehearsed its argument with the trees.
The moon tonight is thin as a fingernail clipping.
In August, even the shadows look tired.
The snow erased the road, and for a moment there was nowhere to go.
The ocean keeps returning what we throw into it.
One leaf held on to the maple all through November.

Places (10 starters)

At the bus stop, six strangers watch the same empty road.
The laundromat hums like a church at 2 a.m.
In my hometown, the only traffic light blinks yellow forever.
The hospital vending machine has heard everyone’s sorrow.
The library smelled of glue, dust and possibility.
Our apartment was small enough to hear each other dream.
At the airport, everyone is leaving or arriving, and no one is here.
The diner’s neon sign is missing one letter, and so am I.
My grandmother’s village has one road in and no road out.
The parking lot after the concert is a field of tired lights.

People (10 starters)

My father fixes everything except what he says.
The crossing guard waves at cars as if they were old friends.
My sister borrows my sweaters and returns them full of her stories.
The man on the train reads the same page every morning.
My teacher wrote “more” in the margin, and I’ve been trying ever since.
My best friend laughs like a door flung open.
The baby studies her hand as if it were a map.
My neighbor waters her plants in a nightgown and complete dignity.
My mother speaks to God the way she speaks to the grocer: politely, and expecting change.
The night nurse knows everyone’s name, and no one knows hers.

Everyday objects (10 starters)

The key to our old house is still on my ring.
This mug has a chip shaped like the coast of somewhere.
My phone lights up with someone else’s good news.
The hallway clock has been wrong for twenty years, and we trust it anyway.
Grandmother’s sewing box holds buttons from coats long gone.
The suitcase under my bed is packed for a trip I keep postponing.
My shoes know every shortcut in this city.
The lamp in the window has been left on for someone.
A wedding ring waits in a dish by the sink while the dishes get done.
The jar of coins on the counter is a savings account of small wishes.

Feelings (10 starters)

Anxiety sits at the foot of my bed like a cat that won’t move.
Today happiness was a parking space right by the door.
I am angry in the quiet way that rearranges cupboards.
Loneliness is a room with the television on for company.
Relief tastes like the first breath after holding it too long.
Jealousy wears my face better than I do.
I was proud of you in a way that hurt my throat.
Hope is the light under a door I haven’t opened yet.
Some sadness has no reason, only weather.
I’m tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

Questions and big ideas (10 starters)

Where does a word go after you say it?
What would I say to God if I were sure He was listening?
If time is a river, who is standing on the bank?
How many versions of me live in other people’s memories?
What does a house remember after the family moves out?
Who decided that grown-ups don’t cry on buses?
Is it home if no one there knows your name?
What do the stars think of our streetlights?
When did I start sounding like my mother?
What is the bravest thing you’ve done that no one saw?

Funny and playful (10 starters)

My cat has filed a formal complaint about breakfast.
The houseplant is thriving, which proves it isn’t mine.
Dear Monday, we need to talk.
My alarm clock and I are no longer on speaking terms.
The last slice of pizza has been watching me all evening.
Autocorrect thinks I’m far more interesting than I am.
Somewhere in the dryer, my lost socks have started a band.
I wrote a poem for my coffee, and it didn’t even say thank you.
The squirrel outside my window is clearly running a business.
My dog believes the mailman is a recurring villain.

All starters are original lines by Poetry Valley. Use them freely as the first line of your own poems.

How to start a poem off: 6 techniques

Every starter above uses one of these moves. Once you know them, you can write your own first lines.

Start with a precise image. Put the reader somewhere right away. Example: “The first frost wrote its name on every windshield.”
Start in the middle of the action. Skip the setup. Example: “You taught me to ride a bike, and then you let go.”
Ask a question you can’t answer. The poem becomes the search. Example: “What does a house remember after the family moves out?”
Talk to someone or something. Address a person, an object or a day of the week. Example: “Dear Monday, we need to talk.”
Make a surprising claim. Say something that needs explaining. Example: “Love, it turns out, is mostly remembering who takes sugar.”
Hold a contradiction. Put two things side by side that shouldn’t fit. Example: “The hallway clock has been wrong for twenty years, and we trust it anyway.”

Example: from starter to poem

Here is starter #33 turned into a short poem. Notice how the image in the first line becomes a feeling by the end.

Heron
The heron stands in the shallows like a question mark,
asking the water the same thing every morning.
The water answers in silver, then lets it go.

I have stood like that at the kitchen window,
waiting for a phone to ring,
learning, like the heron, that patience
is only hunger that knows how to wait.

Original poem by Poetry Valley

Quick answers

How do you start off a poem?

Start with something concrete: an image, an action, a question or someone you are speaking to. Avoid opening with a general statement about a feeling. Show the reader one specific thing, and let the feeling grow from there.