Every so often a writer asks me how to write an artistic statement, and the question is usually tinged with dread. The artistic statement sits somewhere between an essay and a mission statement, and most people either overthink it into a manifesto or underthink it into a shrug. This is a pity because it is one of the few pieces of writing about your work that you control completely. Editors and juries ask for it not because they expect profundity, but because they need a key to your poems—something that tells them how to read what they have in front of them.

The first thing to understand is what an artistic statement is not. It is not an autobiography. It is not a list of influences, though those may appear in passing. It is not a theory of art, though it may gesture toward one. It is, at its best, a concise description of what you are trying to do in your work and why it matters to you. The emphasis is on your work: the poems you have written and the ones you hope to write. The statement is a service to the reader, not a defense of your existence.

Why do editors and juries ask for one? For the same reason a host might ask a guest what they like to eat: to shape the experience. A submission pile is crowded, and an artistic statement gives the reader a way in. It can clarify which poems belong together, what thread you are pulling, and where you think you are going. It also signals that you have considered these questions. A vague statement raises doubts, not necessarily about your talent but about your awareness. A specific, honest statement can make a reader trust you enough to slow down.

How do you write a short, honest one? Start with the poems. Choose three or four that feel central, and ask yourself what they have in common. Not theme in the crude sense—death, love, nature—but an approach to language. Do you favor short lines? Do you use repetition like a lever? Do you let the title do half the work? Describe that approach plainly. For example: “These poems work best read aloud; they are built from the vocabulary of speech, and I use rhyme only when it sounds inevitable.” That is more useful than any grand claim about authenticity.

Next, say what you are trying to do. Not in terms of meaning, but in terms of effect. What do you want the reader to feel, think, or be disoriented by? You do not have to promise an outcome; you can say what you are attempting. A line like “I am trying to write poems that do not wrap themselves up too neatly” is honest and helpful. It tells the reader where to look for the difficulty. It also sets a tolerance for ambiguity, which is often what a jury is gauging.

Finally, say something true about your relationship to the tradition. This can be as simple as naming one or two writers who are present in your ear. Not to prove you have read them, but to locate your work on a map. If you are writing against something—a dominant style, an inherited form—you can say so, but keep it about your work, not a polemic. The moment you start telling other people how to write is the moment your statement becomes a manifesto, and that is rarely what anyone wants.

A good artistic statement is usually between 200 and 400 words. It should take five minutes to read and should leave the reader with a clear sense of your concerns. It should not explain every poem, nor should it apologize for those that resist explanation. It should be written in your own voice, but a slightly more formal version of it—this is still a professional document.

If you are stuck, try this exercise: pretend you are telling a friend who has never read your work what to expect, and then write it down in one paragraph. Do not aim for poetry; aim for precision. You are not writing the poems, you are writing the gate that lets people into them. Make the gate sturdy enough to hold a sign, but not so ornate that it draws attention from the path.

And remember: the artistic statement is not a binding contract. You are allowed to change your mind next year. What matters is that, for the moment, you have looked at your work honestly and found a way to say what it is doing. That is what editors and juries are really asking for: not a final answer, but evidence that you are paying attention.