Romina Ramos writes like someone who’s stopped apologising for being exact, for being bilingual, for being here. Their work blends craft with conscience, and every line feels like a refusal to let the messy, the unjust, or the overlooked go unspoken. “I have written poetry—or what I thought was poetry—for much longer,” they say, “but over the past five years I’ve really taken to perfecting my craft as much as possible.” That evolution is hard-earned. Their themes haven’t changedim, migration, social justice, language, but their voice has. “I feel my voice has certainly evolved and matured,” they explain, “from frustrated observations to a more balanced view, searching for ways in which my craft can evoke positive change.”
The turning point, they say, wasn’t lofty, it was practical. They learned that the key wasn’t just inspiration, but permission: to write imperfectly, to get the raw thing down. “The pivotal moment for me was learning the importance of both getting imperfect work down on the page, but also of editing and redrafting into polished pieces.” That mix of freedom and discipline, letting the poem arrive scrappy, then reshaping it line by line until it’s tight as a fist, is at the core of their process. It starts in fragments. “I do jot down these thoughts whenever and wherever I can—napkins on work breaks, phone notes app on the loo, or on a train.” From there, they sit down and get serious. “Then I find time and I dedicate it to fleshing out these thoughts into coherent pieces of work, redrafting each word ensuring it has earned its place, thinking about form, structure, POV…”
It’s a long process, they say. “But one I thoroughly enjoy.”
Their inspirations come from everywhere, coffee shops, family conversations, overheard lines on the street, and always, music. “If I’m struggling to feel inspired, one of my go-to sources is always music.” Right now, they’re working on a pamphlet of poems sparked by some of their favourite musical artists. Even something as fleeting as a phrase from a grandparent, spoken ten years ago, can become a poem. The ordinary gets elevated, sharpened into clarity.
Despite having a home office stocked with books and good lighting, Romina writes best on the move. “I feel freer writing away from home distractions,” they say. Cafés, libraries, trains, spaces where people blur into poem, and good coffee is as vital as quiet. “People watching, good coffee… another great source of inspiration.”
But for Romina, poetry isn’t just craft or storytelling, it’s survival. “Poetry is cheaper than therapy,” they say. It’s more than a motto, it’s how they move through the world. Writing about microaggressions, past wounds, the complexities of identity, none of it is easy, but all of it is vital. “It really has helped me to understand that the issue doesn’t lie with me,” they reflect. Poetry doesn’t just process pain, it reframes it, reclaims it.
That same clarity pulses through Sardines, their limited edition pamphlet. It’s lean, sharp, and tightly packed, no filler, just feeling. Like everything Romina writes, it’s shaped by craft, fuelled by experience, and fired by the belief that poetry can change something. Maybe everything.
Romina Ramos isn’t writing to prove a point. They’re writing to name things that get buried. They’re writing for the fragments and the in-between. And the work, every word of it, demands to be heard.
