The Art of Connection: Poetry, Memory, and Meaning

From the bustle of construction sites to the quietude of a back porch, Sam Aureli’s journey to becoming a poet has been anything but linear. Writing, once a distant notion, emerged in his forties as a vital means of making sense of life, memory, and the world around him. Influenced by poetry, art, and music, Sam crafts work that explores belonging, loss, and the small moments that connect us to something larger. In this conversation, he reflects on the moments that shaped his creative path, the mentors and inspirations that guide him, and the writing practices that have transformed a hobby into a calling.

Q: What first led you to writing, and when did it start to feel like more than just a hobby?

A: I can’t point to a single moment that led me to writing. As a kid, I never dreamed of being a writer. In fact, I can’t recall writing anything outside of school assignments, and I wasn’t much of a reader either. The only book my father encouraged was the Bible—and there’s only so much Bible a kid can take. Because we moved from country to country, my education was constantly interrupted. Just when I’d start to settle, we’d move again. I carried a lot of frustration, and school became something to rebel against.

When I left home, Italy, at eighteen and returned to the U.S., I worked in construction—first painting, then plastering. After years of calloused hands and sore joints, I wanted more, so I decided to go to college. Since I hadn’t graduated high school in Italy, my GED only qualified me for an evening program while I worked full time. I really enjoyed drawing, and with a background in construction, I was naturally drawn to architecture. I remember my History of Architecture professor docking points on an essay, saying I had an “odd, European-like” way of writing. I didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t help my confidence. For years, my world revolved around concrete, steel, and technical drawings. Any writing I did was purely functional—and apparently still “European-like.” Eventually, I earned a degree in architecture and moved from the field to the office.

It wasn’t until my early forties that I tried creative writing for the first time. I started a novel but didn’t get past chapter eight before setting it aside. Then I turned to poetry. Its brevity felt natural, more in tune with how my mind works. At first, I wrote mostly about love, until I grew tired of that. Then I began reading poets like Robert Frost, D. Nurkse, and Rainer Maria Rilke.

When the pandemic hit and life slowed down, I took online poetry courses, including one taught by Sam Sax. I was completely in over my head. Each week we wrote in a new form and received critiques. It was my first real experience with feedback. It was humbling, and sometimes overwhelming, but it changed me. Those critiques taught me to see my work more clearly and to be intentional with every line. My poems “Lost in the Woods” and “Navigating the Night” came out of that class.

That experience energized me. I kept taking workshops, sought feedback whenever I could, and started sharing my poems on Medium and later on Substack. That’s when writing began to feel like more than a hobby—it became something I needed to do, a way to make sense of myself and the world around me.

Q: Which writers, artists, or even artworks have shaped the way you think about language?

A: There are so many, it’s hard to keep track. A handful of poets have really shaped how I think about poetry: Mary Oliver, N. Scott Momaday, Charles Simic, Jane Kenyon, and more recently, Margaret Renkl and James Crews. I’ve also been studying Richard Siken’s prose style, which has influenced how I approach my own collection about growing up. As some of my work has found its way into literary journals, I’ve really enjoyed discovering new poets through those publications. It’s been fun to see what’s out there and how different voices approach the craft.

Although I read poetry the old-fashioned way, most of my non-poetry reading happens in the car. I listen to audiobooks during my long commutes to work. I’m a big “Lord of the Rings” fan; that was probably the first book I ever read that wasn’t the Bible. Lately, I’ve been catching up on the classics: To Kill a Mockingbird, Moby Dick, Lord of the Flies. I just finished The Old Man and the Sea, and am making my way through The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I also love contemporary voices, such as Ariel Lawhon, Zadie Smith, and Jean Hegland, to name a few.

When it comes to art, I’ve always been drawn to landscapes, whether it be the emotion in Van Gogh’s work, the softness of Peder Mørk Mønsted, or the quiet realism of Andrew Wyeth. The way they capture light and mood feels a lot like poetry to me.

And music has always been a big part of my life. I grew up playing in church bands, first on drums and then acoustic guitar. I was nine years old when I first hopped on the drums during a church service. These days, the guitar mostly gathers dust, but I still listen to music constantly, especially while writing. Gregory Alan Isakov’s songwriting—reflective, atmospheric—has been a huge inspiration. Sometimes a single lyric sparks a whole poem. I’m currently listening to my “folksy” playlist as I respond to these interview questions. It includes artists like Jeffrey Martin, Charlie Bishop, Tallest Man on Earth, Nathaniel Rateliff, and Tyler Lyle to name a few.

Q: Are there recurring themes or questions you find yourself returning to, consciously or not?

A: I keep circling around questions of belonging, memory, and forgiveness. How we carry what shapes us, even when we try to set it down. I’m always hovering in that space between loss and renewal, between the ache of the past and the quiet hope of what comes after.

I’m drawn to the quiet moments after the storm. Those pauses, reckonings, small mercies that help us move forward. The natural world finds its way into my work, too. As I’ve stepped away from the church, nature seems to have filled that space. There’s something grounding about looking to the earth for answers, or at least for perspective.

At the heart of it, I think I’m always writing toward connection: how we love, how we hurt, how we heal, and how even the smallest details—a bird at the window, a breath of wind, a remembered voice—can remind us that we’re still part of something larger.

(See “The Weight of His Chair,” “Mornings at the Kitchen Table,” “The Indifference of Snow,” “On the Edge of Knowing,” “Love, Explained by Flying Foxes,” and “A Way of Staying Soft” for examples)

Q:  How do you balance writing with the rest of your life? 

A: Honestly, it’s getting harder. I still have a demanding job, and I’ll be in it until retirement. Some days it feels like I’m back in college, writing late at night, though this time without the pressures of raising kids or church responsibilities. Still, I’m not as young as I once was. I haven’t quite figured it out yet. Let’s call it a work in progress.

Q: What advice would you give to emerging writers trying to publish?

A: Read. Then read some more. Read the classics, modern poetry, and voices that sound nothing like your own. Take workshops, join online classes, and surround yourself with people who care about writing. Find a few trusted friends who’ll give you honest feedback. Don’t write in a vacuum.

Carry a small notebook everywhere. If something catches your attention—a phrase, an image, a line from a song—jot it down. Later, turn it over in your mind like a stone in your pocket until it becomes something more.

As tough as it can be, put your work out there. Start a Substack. Let your writing be seen. The feedback, good or bad, will help you grow. Be brave. Be honest. Don’t write to please anyone else. Write to understand yourself and make sense of the world. If you do that, publication will follow. And be patient. Some journals have rejected me half a dozen times before finally saying yes.

Q: What’s the hardest part of writing for you—and conversely, the most rewarding?

A: The hardest part is turning off “work Sam” and clearing my mind of obligations. I write best when I can read freely, but that’s hard to do when I’m stressed about work.

The most rewarding part is how healing writing can be. It helped me find peace after my father passed in 2020, despite our complicated relationship. Writing allowed me to reach a place of forgiveness, even when it wasn’t asked for.

Q: What kinds of stories or projects are calling to you right now?

A: I recently finished my first poetry collection, On the Edge of Knowing, which explores the relationship between self and nature, and the tension between memory and impermanence. Many of the poems came from quiet moments on my back porch, just observing the world around me with curious eyes. It’s with the publisher now (Kelsay Books) and expected in spring 2026.

I’m also working on two other collections: What the Earth Remembers, which continues the themes of the first, and A Sparrow in the Palm, which explores family, trauma, grief, and the search for self. I’m especially excited about that one. A few of the poems, like “The Day My Father Ran Barefoot at the Dog,” “Grace,” and “This Side of the Lawn,” have recently been accepted for publication.

Eventually, I hope to put together a collection that examines faith and doubt, and the push and pull of growing up in a deeply religious family. I find that working within these broader themes helps keep my writing focused and intentional.

Q: Why are art and its history important?

A: Art matters because it captures life in ways words often cannot. I’ve come across works that have stopped me in my tracks and left me speechless. How many things in life have that kind of impact? Recently, while walking the halls of the MFA in Boston, I saw some impressive paintings, some as large as entire walls. Then I came across Turkish Sentinel by Charles Bargue (1877) and I couldn’t walk away. I can’t fully explain why it held me, except that I was mesmerized by the incredible detail packed into such a small piece (about 8” x 11”). It almost felt photographic. Moments like that remind me of the power of art to connect us to something beyond ourselves.

I don’t have a background in art history, but I believe it’s important because it helps us understand the world, not so much through the eyes of power or conquest, but through human creativity. In that sense, it’s no different from poetry: both preserve who we are across time. From chalk drawings in caves to oil paintings on canvas, humans have always felt the need to express themselves in ways words can’t. And even as the world changes rapidly with the rise of AI—both for better and worse, there will always be those who pick up a pencil or a paintbrush to leave their mark on the world. In the end, isn’t that what we all want?

Places to Find Me:

Substack: https://samaureli.substack.com/

Website: https://samaureli.com/

X: @SamthePoet0731

Instagram: samaurelipoet

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sam.aureli