Thank you for being with us this month as a reader, as a poet, as a poetry lover! Here is a slide with hyperlinks to every day’s inspiration and poems. We invite you to look back at the way our poem-ing has invited inquiry into fissures of our lives, nurturing empathy and respect for all who have visited this virtual space. We would love to hear about your experience and suggestions for next year. Please take this ten-minute survey
Inspiration
Voice in poetry is what pulls the reader in. It is the poet’s unique identity on the page. How something is said is equally important as what is said. It is in the “how” where we find voice. Linda Sue Park said the definition for “voice” is simple: “word choice and punctuation.” Change the words chosen and where the punctuation is placed and you will have an entirely different character or voice.
Process
Today, take a poem you have written this month and rewrite it in the following character’s voices:
A comedian’s voice
A child’s voice
A mortician’s voice
Or another voice that could stretch or shift the speaker and tone of your poem.
A Mentor Poem
This funny poem in the voice of a toothless child by Shel Silverstein bursts with voice!
Dentist Dan
Nentis Nan, he’s my man,
I go do im each chanz I gan.
He sicks me down an creans my teed.
Wid mabel syrub, tick an’ sweed,
An ten he filks my cavakies
Wid choclut cangy — I tink he’s
The graygest nentis in the lan.
Le’s hear free jeers for Nentis Nan.
Pip-pip-ooray!
Pip-pip-ooray!
Pip-pip-ooray!
Le’s go to Nentis Nan dooday!
Aida Salazar is a writer, arts advocate, and homeschooling mother whose writings explore issues of identity and social justice. She grew up in Southeast Los Angeles where she spent many days sitting in little puddles of water on cement believing she was in the ocean. Her forthcoming debut middle grade novels in verse, THE MOON WITHIN, and THE LAND OF THE CRANES, and her debut picture book, JOVITA WORE PANTS, will be published by Arthur A. Levine Books / Scholastic in Spring 2019, Spring 2020 and Fall 2020 respectively. Her story, By the Light of the Moon, was adapted into a ballet production by choreographer, Isabelle Sjahsam, and artist, Roberto Miguel, for the Sonoma Conservatory of Dance and premiered in April 2016. It is the first Xicana-themed ballet in history.
When I saw the dictate to rewrite I had a typical “student” reaction. However, after tagging my brother and a cousin when I posted my poem from yesterday on Facebook, I changed my mind. I rewrote the poem from the point of view of my cousin and framed it as a villanelle. The first and third lines are her words, as are the all-caps words. I thought my cousin would like the poem. Boy was I wrong. The rewrite is first, followed by the original:
“That is Not the Way I Remember”
That is not the way I remember.
Maybe you need to reread your words. See,
I’m only interested in the TRUTH.
And not your memory of your experience.
Maybe I picked up rocks. Maybe not because
That is not the way I remember.
Five years younger but don’t think you know me.
You called my parents liars. Retract your lies.
I’m only interested in the TRUTH
And the way OUR CREATOR AND LORD JESUS CHRIST
Will judge the fissure of your cracked soul, CUZ,
That is not the way I remember.
Go linve in PITCHER, OKLAHOMA
Super Fund site waste land. It’s your kind of town.
I’m only interested in the TRUTH.
Bring your sword and I’ll make my point.
Know, I’ll finish what you started.
That is not the way I remember.
I’m only interested in the TRUTH.
—————————————————
Original Poem:
“Picking Up Rocks in the Garden”
On Sundays cousins plucked rocks
Rooted through rows of beets and beans
In the red clay Missouri soil
Sticking to Skin, it would not wipe away.
Small price for rabbit and dumplings.
“It’s chicken.” Aunt Fern’s
Little lie rooted
Twisting through rows of
Thorny verbiage
Repeated with each Sunday’s
“Thou shalt nots” sprouting in
Little seedlings. What’s a little
Lie to spare little ones’ watery tears?
Still rocks multiplied like sins. Finding
Sustenance in Show Me Ozark clay.
Stones Spread spores in sticky soil.
Beyond the garden’s green victuals
Hidden under a canopy of trees
Vines dripped Shady secrets.
Only rabbits, relatives, and makers see
“It’s only chicken” when Uncle Tom
Prunes a plump, beady-eyed
Sacrifice from its hutch and Commands
Cousins “Go pick up rocks.” Prays Jesus
Keep secret the source of Sunday supper.
What’s a Little Lie to feed a little family?
Rabbit blood dripped from furless
Skinned Bunnies hanging like tree vines
Tied to a sturdy oak branch.
Rope twists around unlucky feet.
“It’s chicken.” Little Lie wormed in
Cousins’ ears planting seeds, questions.
Doubt grew alongside greens. Cousins
Tired of the same last supper.
Tired of bending and picking up rocks.
Tired of the sin-filled sermon refrain
Preached from a plump, ripe evangelical pulpit.
Confess. Repent. Salvation is near.
Who will pick up rocks in the garden now?
Oh my – – it’s a great poem brimming with emotion and passion – I hope your ‘cuz will appreciate the writing in time. Family perspectives are often so different.
Such a strong reaction to a seemingly innocent story. Isn’t it funny how one person can remember things so clearly, and another can have their own personal truth about the matter. This was a great variation of the original!
Glenda — I didn’t get a chance to respond yesterday to your poem re-voiced, but I wanted to. This is clearly a very touchy family memory. But we own our memories as our personal truths, and they are written from the heart and mind, leaving us with something that caused us to write them in the first place – all of that is the strength in our words. Words move us. Your words, both the original and the re-voiced, convey a powerful message on the lasting impressions of our witnessing…whether details are cloned among the others or not, we get to own our sense of impact, no matter how tight the “rope twists around unlucky feet.” Having grown up with lots of similar experiences as you, Glenda, I most assuredly know that every Mama out there (or Aunt F) in those tough times on the farm renamed lots of “chicken” and did precisely what you depicted. I appreciate your word crafting and the shared sense of complicated moments in growing up and rectifying that which sent conflicting messages — it is, after all, the process of becoming who we are. And you turned out dandy. Hugs, Susie
I also changed perspective for my poem. The original:
That’s No Bargain
He believed I could do anything,
even cut hair
on a chair in the garage
with a pair of clippers.
Even cut hair
as well as a barber with a license
with a pair of clippers,
sporting a broken guard,
As well as a barber with a license,
but for less than ten dollars–
Sporting a broken guard,
That fell to the floor at an inopportune time.
But for less than ten dollars–
on a chair in the garage
That fell to the floor at an inopportune time.
He believed I could do anything.
From my husband’s perspective. We were newlyweds when he received his first and only haircut from me. Clearly, women should not be stereotyped!
That’s No Bargain
It should be straightforward.
I even have a clipper with a guard.
You’re a woman after all–
Women ought to have a knack for hair.
It’s simple with a clipper and a guard.
I’m just need for a little off the top.
Women are supposed to be able to do hair
Maybe clean up my neckline a bit.
I’m just need a little off the top.
In five minutes time, I’ll be a whole new man.
Maybe clean up my neckline a bit.
It’ll save me ten bucks and at least an hour’s time.
In five minutes time, I’ll be a whole new man.
You’re a woman after all–
It’ll save me ten bucks and at least an hour’s time.
It should be straightforward.
Loving these alternate voices today. Stereotyping gender was his first mistake……trying to save money and time his second. Assuming it was all so straightforward. I’ll tell you this: I’m a woman, after all, who cannot even groom my dog with clippers. Those clippers are best left to the professionals, and I’m laughing at this memory that you share.
Gail, your rewrite really emphasizes the patriarchal entitlement mentality of many men. “You’re a woman after all—“ reinforces the stereotypes.
Day 13 Re-Voiced with Twisted
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~my one~pound packaging, huh~ waxy luster lingering on your hips, wha’~ twisted vines strangling your senses, sticking to your porcelains, distorting all proportions, nah~ not about to drape my sweet red limbs of allure around that nonsense~~not hearing excuses of homesickness, lonelinesses, pathetic defenses for bingenesses~these divine vines are not Jay’s chips~y’all can eat just one and close up the dang bag for another day~sister, you are the one who’s twisted~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My favorite part: not about to drape my sweet red limbs of allure around that nonsense. That’s just borderline sensually erotic like food can be……..I love this perspective. Who’d have thought to personify the candy? And calling you twisted! Ha! Classic projection.
I love that the licorice is giving you sass with “y’all can eat just one and close up the dang bag for another day~sister, you are the one who’s twisted”. This was a perfect one to rewrite and the new form different and fun.
ha ha ha ha “the dang bag” — Susie is rubbing off on you!
Sarah — This re-voice sure shifts those luscious Twizzlers! You had fun with this! I still love the power of these delectable strings to reset our senses. I love thinking of “divine vines” as that candy. Now, as a fellow poet, I’m going to encourage you to relax with a bag-o-Twizzlers and enjoy the month of May! This has been a great month — every day a sweet Twizzler moment! Thanks! Susie
Not voice as much as point of view…
FROM HER PERSPECTIVE (original Haiku)
He lists like an old
houseboat canted on the banks
of Arthritis Creek.
FROM HIS PERSPECTIVE
She nags, “Stand up straight.”
“Now you smell like Ben Gay.”
“Whaddya mean you can’t
Get your socks on?”
Go see a doctor – get a pill,
Get a shot,
Get some p.t.
Get a knee replacement,
Get..Get..Get
“You’re keeping me awake at night.”
“Stop dragging your feet.”
“A little exercise won’t kill you.”
“Who do you think I am,
Florence Nightingale?”
Muttering under his breath,
“I’m going to get a replacement, alright,
And it ain’t gonna be a knee.”
Jackie, your poem reminds me of a friend who is dealing with similar challenges. Thankfully, she’s been a little more careful than your narrator and I can’t imagine his uttering the closing lines of your poem,
Muttering under his breath,
“I’m going to get a replacement, alright,
And it ain’t gonna be a knee.”
Thanks for sharing what others may be thinking. The voice comes through loud and clear!
AHAHAHA! Jackie, I’m laughing out loud over here. Marital bliss. I’m doing an eyeroll. Teehee! If he got a replacement… hmmm… a blow-up doll comes to mind. OMG, you are a saint, in my book…if not nuts. LOL! XXXOOOSooze
Jackie, this is hilarious. Love the Florence Nightingale allusion. Bio Freeze works better than Ben Gay and doesn’t smell as awful. Love the dialogue. It contributes to the nagging tone. Thanks for the giggle.
Jackie–The voice and the snark are so authentic! I can picture the brow-beaten old codger. It reminds me of many older couples I know.
Aida, I rewrote “Poor Pluto” from the bully’s perspective. Not that I’d know anything about being a bully. Oh, you read my poem about fighting? Well, I learned my lesson. Do you think this narrator will?
POOR, POOR PLUTO, INDEED!
That cry baby, Pluto!
What a nerve!.
To think he could be one of us.
“Skedaddle, Pluto! Get lost!
Hit the road now, kid. Take a bus.”
We’re the Big Guys in the universe.
We’re the ones in paintings and verse.
That little guy couldn’t do the job.
Now he’s got the nerve to sit there and sob.
Thought he could join us, but he’s just a slob.
Look at Pluto at the edge of the galaxy,
Watching us whirl and what does he see?
Summer and winter, from June to June
Mars and Jupiter, Mercury and Neptune
Saturn, Uranus and Earth and Venus
Yes, Pluto just wants to be whirling with us.
Poor, poor Pluto indeed!
We’re majestic Sequoias!
He’s just a skank weed.
“Get outta here, kid.
We’re glad to be rid
Of chump like you
Who didn’t succeed.
Maybe in the future, you can join us then.
When you grow up and learn not to sob.
Now, get on the ball and go do your job.
We’ll let you know. We’ll tell you when.”
Come on Big Guys.
We’re the Celestial Gang,
Circling the sun and doing our thang.
Poor, poor Pluto, indeed!
Anna,
You certainly have the hang of voice. All of your poems have welcomed voice with punctuation and diction. The dialogue also has been a technique you use so cleverly to show the speaker’s interaction with other “characters.” That line — “He’s just skank weed.” –whoa! Love this poem and still feel sorry for Pluto.
This is cracking me up:
We’re majestic Sequoias!
He’s just a skank weed.
I like the bully perspective – – it shows that there are two sides to the issue, and even though the bully may not be nice about the way the issue is handled, there are some valid reasons for the feelings. I like the voice!
This is a fun approach, Anna. My favorite lines are “We’re the Big Guys in the universe./We’re the ones in paintings and verse.”
What fun, Aida, to hear the child’s voice in your poem about Dentist Dan. I’m not familiar enough different dialects to know whether the narrator was speaking in a dialect or just talking with a mouth full of dentist tools and paraphernalia. Whichever is true, the voice comes through.
Thanks for the challenge to do the same with one of our own poems.
Anna, Aida did not write the dentist poem. It’s a Shel Silverstein poem.
Oops!!! Thank for pointing that out. Aida probably could have.
Shel, great poem!
[Note: Earlier, I wrote about Sunday fried chicken dinner — how much I, as a kid (and still today), loved it. Today I’m using the voice of Mama and that Sunday dinner.]
Tell Me This is Not My Calling
Milking ol’ Silver: therapy,
that steady rhythm
of kneading and pulling, an exacting manipulation,
thumbs and hands, mind can
wander to books
and better days, the cinnamon
and sugar smell of the bakery,
walks to the Savoy matinees,
wearing hats and heels, hopping the bus
to window shop downtown with Marie and Hilda.
But lives change,
like hand-me-downs, passed from kid to kid,
with each costume a new countenance emerges.
Now, my days string along
like all those diapers and dungarees,
socks and dishtowels clothes-pinned, flapping
like so much yard art of faded colors,
on the line.
Friday afternoon,
of all the chores on this godforsaken farm,
I try not to think about THIS one —
my clock counts down
till Sunday dinner.
Line up the tools:
scalding water’s in the galvanized tub
in the yard;
hatchet, sharp out by the elm,
that big root, my chopping block.
“Chickens beware.
You don’t trust me, I know,
eye me with your chicken suspicion
in those triple-lidded schizy stares.”
Kids are at school —
no one should watch this butchery.
My false pretext,
“Here chick, chick, chick,”
luring with a fistful of corn,
“‘at’s a way…just a little closer.”
It’s all in the grab, stealth counts,
“I just want to pet you, scoop you up.”
Before he knows what’s what,
I swipe his feet and scramble to my guillotine,
(if only he’d quit squawking)
in this infernal one-sweep motion
slap him to the root, hatchet swings overhead,
thwack.
Detachment.
Murdering chickens, two every week,
a bloodbath of inhumanity
that feeds five children,
while a little bit more of me
drains away.
by Susie Morice
You are a master of voice, Susie. You can put yourself in someone else’s shoes and see life from their perspective. I love this:
“You don’t trust me, I know,
eye me with your chicken suspicion
in those triple-lidded schizy stares.”
Kids are at school —
no one should watch this butchery.”
Chicken suspicion….triple lidded schizy – – great internal rhyme and imagery that gets at the heart of the chicken…..literally and figuratively. And should and butchery – – also great repetition of vowel sounds.
From the reader’s perspective, I see a woman who gives her all – and what she feels drains away actually transfers to her children in the values and sacrifices of life.
Suse- “Godforsaken” and “scalding” are words my mom used, and while we did not have chickens to murder, I sometimes felt that my mother’s life drained away into that stainless steel sink as she scoured it with Comet. I have so enjoyed, been honored to witness the stories of your life on the farm.
Susie, lot’s of favorite lines, but the ones that touch my heart are the lines that reveal how difficult it is for caretakers who have to make touch choices to provide sustenance for those they love.
Murdering chickens, two every week,
a bloodbath of inhumanity
that feeds five children,
while a little bit more of me
drains away.
Susie, I love the brutal honesty of your poem. The violent image of a guillotine emphasizes the methodical act of killing a chicken. My favorite part is the description of deceit:
My false pretext,
“Here chick, chick, chick,”
luring with a fistful of corn,
“‘at’s a way…just a little closer.”
It’s all in the grab, stealth counts,
“I just want to pet you, scoop you up.”
Wonderful poem.
What a fun challenge to write in another voice. Here is my original poem:
A Second Letter
The Yellow Envelope
contains The Secret –
Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister
Three Days Missing
After The Funeral,
Eat
Pray
Love
as you are Learning To Walk In The Dark
there is A Hope in the Unseen
when you feel Alone
may you find Peace Like A River
Remember Me Always
i’ll be Where The Heart Is
-Kim Johnson
Here it is rewritten, in the voice of a small southern town gossipin’ woman in church:
The Grievin’ Widder
That there cheap pine box
seals the mystery she reckons she’s keepin’.
Talk of the Town!
“A wife and at least a dozen mistresses…..
“Poor Beverly,” they’s sayin’.
Well, let me tell you – she may be wearin’ her black dress today.
But after the funeral, she’ll go shoppin’ for
Velvet violet
Silver sequins
Glitzy gold
After the funeral,
There’ll be a rich widder runnin’ loose in the town.
Once she’s figgered right,
She’ll marry another rich ‘un –
richer’n the others.
She’ll be keepin’ her black dress ready.
-Kim Johnson
Kim — Oh wow! What a terrific change in voice — the gossipy nastiness of those old ladies talking trash in church. I love that! You’ve captured the slang/twang of a nasty voice! So fun to read. I just really enjoyed this! And the notion of “she” out there looking for a rich ‘un – richer’n the others” — oh wow! Zinger-ooney! Love it! You so capture the wickedness of people thinking the worst and gossiping — the hypocrisy of all this being in the church… dandy! Voice is an amazing twist of a creativity, isn’t it!? Cool! Susie
Kim — You really captured the personality and just way of seeing/observing of this gossiping woman. I am at once chuckling and ashamed that I am chuckling. As much as I interrupt gossip in the halls of school, I really do like hearing the talk of the “town.” You really did a great job with the punctuation — the dashes and apostrophes brought this gal alive.
Oh my! Your closing lines sum up the opinion the observers have of this “current widow”.
Once she’s figgered right,
She’ll marry another rich ‘un –
richer’n the others.
She’ll be keepin’ her black dress ready.
Sound like dialogue one of those British murder mysteries my husband and I sometimes watch.
Kim, I’m hearing the voice of Gladys Kravitz from the old television show “Bewitched” when I read your poem. Church sure can be a gossipy place, so kudos for that detail.