Civic engagement is central to the mission and moral legitimacy of higher education. While it is challenging to foster authentic relationships between campus and community, we have found a way to make it happen: We’re teaching urban planning students to write poetry.

In the basement of an off-campus building with unreliable heat, our students pulled their chairs into a circle and pulled out their writer’s notebooks. The class consisted of Drexel students, West Philly community leaders, and two faculty members who had gone way out on a limb – us.

Few in the class had ever written a poem, let alone read their work out loud in front of an audience. We each took turns reading the poems we’d written, while the others snapped and nodded in affirmation. This was not a humanities course. This was the final “exam” in a required class on civic engagement and participatory planning.

Our class, Civic Engagement and Participatory Methods — a required course in Drexel University’s Department of Architecture, Design & Urbanism — helps students hone the skills necessary to engage in community work, whether as an architect, a community organizer, the leader of a local nonprofit or an urban planner. We have co-taught this Side by Side class for the last nine years; half of the participants are students at Drexel University and the other half are community students who reside in surrounding West Philadelphia neighborhoods.

Over the course of 10 weeks, students explore and refine their approach to leadership, how they show up in a group setting, cross-cultural communication skills, public meeting facilitation, media engagement and other essential competencies. The class blends practical training with a critical look at the historical and present-day factors that influence life in the city of Philadelphia.

This raises two questions: What does poetry have to do with civic engagement? And why center the humanities in a class designed for urban planners and architects?

We see civic engagement as a creative practice. Planners, architects, organizers and block captains need to strengthen their creative muscle so they can respond to the demands of a dynamic, uncertain world.

Writing and reading poetry does this by surprising us, drawing our attention to a particular moment in time and space, and making space to process difficult emotions. Poetry allows students to draw upon their humanity and meet each other (and themselves) across vast differences in expertise and experience. These tools help us understand the stories of people who are different from us.

Poetry cultivates our capacity for attention to people and places. This sensitivity allows us to imagine together, turning the dream language of the poem into the steel cables of Hart Crane’s Brooklyn Bridge or the rust and gold of J.P. Clark’s Ibadan. Civic awareness makes poetry stronger, not just planning.

Access to poetry’s dream language enables us to be more flexible. To successfully run a community meeting, facilitators need to be able to “dance in the moment” (a favorite phrase in the coaching world). “Dancing in the moment” refers to being fully present for the person you are listening to while tuning in to your own reactions. It requires curiosity about what the other person brings with them, even if it doesn’t fit the story about them that you came in with.

The poetry we write and read in class helps our students learn to dance in the moment, and it helps build the bonds of trust that allow Drexel and community students to reckon with each other’s stories and viewpoints. From our own years of experience in community work, we know these are essential skills for any community leader and any aspiring urbanist.

These days, there is a lot of handwringing about the future of the humanities in higher education. After all, the humanities, including creative writing, have been considered essential to a well-rounded education for many hundreds of years. We believe students stay away from humanities courses not out of a lack of interest, but because they are worried about the return on investment.

So why are some of us simply wishing for students to come to their senses and prioritize humanities and arts classes, when we can integrate these tools into every discipline and allow creative practice to permeate our pedagogy?

In spite of reports of diminished student resilience when it comes to difficult texts, we do not feel the need to water down the rigor of our class. We have been consistently inspired by our students’ excitement, and their bravery, when writing poems with pen and paper so that they may add more tools to their urbanist toolkit.

Early on in the term, we studied Ross Gay’s “To the Fig Tree on 9th and Christian,” a poem set in our beloved city of Philadelphia. Gay describes a moment when strangers unexpectedly come together around a neighbor’s overflowing fig tree. Students wrote poems trying to capture this feeling of unexpected togetherness. For one undergraduate, this inspired her to write an ode to public libraries in Philadelphia, which she sees as “an underappreciated staple,” “a gathering place,” “a shelter,” “a mental escape,” even “a home office.” For her, the social infrastructure of the public library provides a space with “the possibility of conversing with a stranger.” In a time of disappearing funding and the ongoing privatization of public space, public libraries just found their newest advocate.

In the fifth week of class, we introduced the describe-interpret-evaluate model, an intercultural communication tool we have adapted to teach students how to communicate across differences of race and class. This tool forces students to withhold their impulse to jump to conclusions, pausing long enough to take in the whole situation from a variety of points of view. Only at the end of the exercise are they invited to engage their faculty of judgment.

The pause is what matters, and it is precisely where students frequently struggle. This year, we assigned a poem about forgiveness — “Phase One” by Dilruba Ahmed — to help students accustomed to the hot takes of the social media era to learn how to pause to offer grace and understanding, to others and to themselves.

After crafting her response poem on forgiveness, an architecture student reflected, “A crucial part of both forgiveness and being a leader is accountability. Leaders make mistakes and they deserve grace. As a leader it’s important that I learn to forgive myself, but also important that I take accountability for my mistakes.”

We have taught this content many times before, but only this year, when engaging her creative muscle, could a student come to this insight so quickly. We wish all experts in planning and design would be open to making mistakes, taking responsibility for them, and using that insight to grow and change.

Like every city, Philly has its struggles to overcome. Our students, from Drexel and the neighborhood, are working to mend this broken place. In response to Alice Walker’s poem “I Will Keep Broken Things,” a graduate student reflected that “brokenness does not equate to worthlessness. In fact, there is an inherent beauty in things that carry the marks of time, history and experience.”

Recognizing this beauty allows designers, planners and other leaders to work with the strengths and assets that exist in every community and neighborhood in Philadelphia. It gifts the power of poetry to the practice of planning and offers the insights of the attentive urbanist to the poet’s gaze. Too often, experts notice only what’s missing, deficient or broken, and we lose the power of possibility to reimagine and build anew.

Just as we did in our class, poetry can ignite our creative capacity to reimagine together what possibilities exist for cities and communities that stand together, recognize each other’s worth and dignity, and build collective power.

Around 9 p.m., the classroom’s heater sputtered. The security guard rapped on the window, telling us it was time to close up for the night. The students signed each other’s poetry zines, like you would a high school yearbook. We emerged, lingering for a few more minutes under the streetlights of the West Philadelphia neighborhood we call home.

This post was originally published on Next City.