Brent Armendinger may teach poetry at Pitzer, but his real specialty is proving you can find creative inspiration anywhere from a Buenos Aires street corner to the checkout line at a co-op grocery store. After 17 years at Pitzer and a lifetime of producing his own poetry, Armendinger learned a thing or two about turning everyday experiences into sparks of creativity. For even the weariest of poets out there, the advice he has to offer has the potential to turn a daunting blank page into your newest masterpiece.
Before Pitzer, Armendinger was in San Francisco, juggling different jobs. He worked first at a community college, then at an experimental college that no longer exists. “Actually, it fell apart the last year I was working there, which is very sad,” Armendinger said.
One project that still stands out to Armendinger is the Older Writers’ Laboratory (OWL). “I proposed teaching this poetry workshop for a senior citizens team,” Armendinger said. “There was funding for it for a year, which was awesome. Then there was no more funding. But the students were so committed that they wanted to continue, and I wanted to continue. It started in a neighborhood center, then moved to the library.”
While running the poetry workshop, he worked at Rainbow Grocery, a worker-owned co-op in San Francisco. Though Armendinger worked there in order to obtain healthcare and additional cash, the grocery store served as a nurturing space. He was able to grow amongst the large number of artists and writers who worked there.
Those early gigs weren’t just survival jobs; they were laboratories for his own creativity and teaching philosophy. Oftentimes, students at competitive universities shy away from these survival jobs under the assumption that small scale opportunities will not lead to big time success. Armendinger challenges these assumptions by showing how the smallest roles and side projects can feed into a larger artistic vision. He demonstrates that creative growth doesn’t always come from prestigious platforms, but from engaging deeply with whatever space you find yourself in, transforming the ordinary into something expansive.
Armendinger eventually found Pitzer, instantly drawn to a school that prioritizes social justice and community engagement.
“That sounded really exciting,” Armendinger said. “Then I miraculously got a job. And yeah, the rest is history.”
At and outside of Pitzer College, Armendinger has instituted a playful, physical and sometimes a little daring approach. He bicycled the entirety of the Erie Canal, stopping to write syllabic poetry, composing in his head based on humans and creatures he encountered. He walked near his home, boots on, considering drought, water availability and homelessness, using poetry to slow down and pay attention.
“I’m always surprised by things that my students do,” Armendinger said. “My job is to respond thoughtfully to what they create, try to create containers in which they can experiment in ways they might not otherwise and introduce them to writers whose work has been really important to me or might help them discover other parts of themselves as writers.”
His search for creative inspiration is rooted in movement and observation, proving that poems can emerge just as easily from a long bike ride or a neighborhood walk as from a quiet desk.
Personally, I find this refreshing because it challenges the traditional idea that writing has to be done in isolation; instead, it suggests that creativity can thrive when we open ourselves to the world around us.
He credits these experiences and his early teachers for cultivating creativity. He recalls a sort of origin story — a teacher in fifth grade who gave him a poetry exercise using National Geographic pictures. Armendinger remembers being able to enter a different reality through poetry, a novel and inspirational sensation.
Armendinger emphasizes practice over perfection, a philosophy that feels both grounding and revolutionary in a world obsessed with instant results.
“ insert your quote or line of story here “Show up,” Armendinger said. “Work those muscles to play with language, to stretch what it’s capable of.” ”
He frames poetry as less a mystical gift and more a craft honed through consistency. He doesn’t buy into the myth of sudden inspiration, believing that the more one does things, the more they will be inspired by the things that already exist around them.
His advice is sound, but makes me wonder: in such a busy world, how do we teach ourselves to slow down? Maybe it starts with small acts of presence. Try putting away your phones for a walk, listening carefully to the hum of a street or allowing silence to stretch a little longer than feels comfortable. Armendinger seems to argue that inspiration isn’t hidden in rare moments but in the ordinary details we often rush past, and that slowing down is less about having time and more about choosing to notice. Each act of writing, even when it feels mundane, is training the mind to observe, to connect and to respond. In other words, inspiration isn’t a rare commodity; it’s an accumulation of attentiveness, patience and persistence, rewarding those who keep their hands and minds active.
When asked what advice he’d give his 20-year-old self, he laughed heartily.
“I didn’t know what the hell I was doing,” Armendinger said. “Something that feels aimless and meandering right now will lead you somewhere meaningful eventually. There is no perfect decision. Just start doing something, and you will make something out of it. Take a chance. That’s what I’d say.”
17 years in, Armendinger is still taking chances, still showing up and still discovering new ways to connect students, strangers and even himself to poetry.
“I love teaching here,” Armendinger said. “I feel honored that my job is to nurture other people’s creativity.” And if that isn’t an inspiring way to live, it’s hard to know what is.
Siena Giacoma PZ ’27 survives on endless cycles of caffeine, half-written drafts and lofty promises to “finish that book tomorrow.” Her cat, Olive, remains skeptical, offering judgmental stares in place of encouragement.
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