When I first began working at poetry seriously (as an earnest teenager scribbling poems in the back of French class, of course), I loved most the poets and poems who seemed to be speaking right to me, the ones whose voices in my ear were intimate and particular. It took me longer to discover that this is not the only thing a poem can do. Poems can whisper, but they can also shout, whimper, taunt. The speaker can sit right beside you and speak directly into your ear, or they can get up on stage. Some of the poets I find most compelling feel oracular: a clear, pristine voice arising from a great depth.
Where does your speaker typically stand? What happens to the work when you change that position?
Prompt #8: The Speaker and the Shadow
Re-read a handful of your finished poems - maybe a mix of the ones you love the most and the ones that aren’t quite working for you. How would you describe the position of your speaker? Who is being addressed, and how is the speaker positioned relative to them? (This sounds like a figurative question, but I mean it quite literally: is the speaker sitting in the car beside someone she loves but can’t quite talk to, or is she sitting in a hotel room by herself talking via the poem to someone hundreds of miles or a lifetime away?)
Draft a new poem, or revise one of the old not-quite-right ones, that places your speaker in a different position - up on stage, whispering on the phone late at night, yelling at a friend (or enemy!) across the street. What changes when your speaker changes in this way? Does the diction shift? The form?
End your poem with a question - a real one, not a rhetorical one, or one you already hope you know the answer to. End with a question you’re dying to have answered.
Sharing your work helps sustain momentum. I’ll leave the comments open, so you can share a poem title, a snippet of a line, or something else about your writing life.
Nancy, I am enjoying this immensely, and I am being productive too! Thank you!