We are delighted to welcome Simon Lamb, author of a Passing on of Shells, back to the blog to celebrate the publication of his latest book, the inventive and imaginative Mat o'Shanter - a witty and wry reimagining of Robert Burns' Tam o'Shanter. 

Simon has been a primary school teacher, has reviewed books, performed poetry at numerous festivals and has been Scriever at the Robert Burns Birthplace Museum.  Here Simon offers a fascinating insight into the length of poems exploring an impressive array of poets and poems along the way.

No matter where I go, in Scotland, the UK, or even abroad, I am pursued on my travels by one persistent question. It glugs around the room, regardless of venue, unspoken, till, when the time comes in our workshop to put pen to paper, a voice pipes out its name. How long does my poem need to be?

I do not think the question comes from a place of how-quickly-can-I-make-this-nightmare-end-?, not at all. Rather, I believe the questioner simply wants – demands? – parameters. Give them a sheet of calculations and they’re done once the calculations are completed. Give them the task of composing a short story and even the slight tick-box structure of beginning-middle-end gives them a goal to which to aim. But give them the freedom of writing a poem – particularly one without a prescribed form – and the world of success criteria caves in.

The answer to the question can be only this: your poem should be as long as it needs to be.

In my first book, A Passing On of Shells (Scallywag Press, 2023), each poem was written in exactly fifty words. When quizzed on why, I would reply that the six-word story was too short; flash-fiction’s hundred-words too long. For me, fifty was the Goldilocks number. That is not to say I only ever want to write poems of fifty words in length, just that it felt right for those particular poems in that particular book. They were still as long as they needed to be.

Scottish poet Don Paterson makes a convincing argument in 101 Sonnets (Faber & Faber, 1999) that a sonnet’s fourteen lines create the “perfect” length for a poem. (I’m inclined to agree: my legacy as writer-inresidence at the Robert Burns Birthplace Museum in Alloway, Ayrshire, is a series of six sonnets inspired by the museum’s six sites. It’s a very attractive and addictive form!) The time it takes to read a sonnet, to listen to it spoken aloud, the space it takes up on a page, the almost-square shape of its existence… And yet, still, the best sonnets are those that feel right to be a sonnet, fourteen lines. As long as they need to be.

My most-taught poem in schools comes from Zaro Weil’s CLiPPA-winning collection of poetry, Cherry Moon (Troika, 2019). The poem is called ‘Plum Tree (Summer)’. It runs to a mere eighteen words. Add or remove even a single word and I am convinced you would diminish the piece’s completeness. As a grand advocate of teaching poetry over form, this poem gives and gives: immediacy, repetition, property as noun, simile, first-person voice, stanza/gap, questioning, sass! I could go on. Weil’s tiny masterpiece is as long as it needs to be; its world is complete and awaits only a reader.

When reviewing my debut poetry collection, A. F. Harrold noted that short poems have always appealed to him, being so much easier to keep in one’s head than great long epics. (Harrold’s latest book, by the way, is Pocket Book of Pocket Poems (Bloomsbury, 2025), with entries starting at sixty-word poems and reducing in length through the course of the book. Don’t miss the “Thematic Contents Index List Thingie”.) But great long epics do have their place. Our storytelling culture is founded upon them. In 2026, Christopher Nolan – one of Hollywood’s hottest film directors – will bring his take on The Odyssey to the big screen, no doubt bringing a whole new generation to the ancient Greek epic.

In 1790, Scottish poet Robert Burns wrote his own epic — with parallels to The Odyssey, it should be noted. (A mock odyssey? McOdyssey? Don’t steal that; I’m having that.) Late one market day night, farmer Tam drunkenly quests home through a biblical storm. It’s ‘Tam o’ Shanter’. And it is excellent. A classic of Scottish literature and one of my favourite poems. And, yes, you know what I’m going to say next: at 228 lines, it is just as long as it needs to be.

My new book is a spiritual sequel, a redux, and something entirely all its own. It’s Mat o’ Shanter. Running to 228 lines, my modern-day adventure takes all of the narrative beats of the original and reverentially spins a new version for the ears and eyes and hearts of today. Just as Nolan looks to bring Odysseus et al. to new viewers with his big screen bonanza, I hope to bring Tam and his cronies to new readers, turning his tale anew. I hope they will agree the poem’s as long as it needs to be.

While the draw of the satisfaction of completing a sonnet (14), a limerick (5), a haiku (3) is strong, I suggest that when it comes to poetry – especially poetry without the constraints of form – we focus on what is best for the poem at hand. When asked, How long does my poem need to be?, encourage the writer, whatever their age, to be brave enough to write the poem as long as it needs to be.

That plum tree lives forever in its five-line world. The drunken Scotsman lives forever in his 228-line epic. Be brave enough to write the poem you are writing; trust in your ability to craft a perfectly-sized universe.

A big thank you to Simon Lamb for this fascinating blog and to Sarah Pakenham at Scallywag Press for the opportunity.