Find the Speaker of the Poem

Not every “I” is the poet, themselves.

Poetry is a very personal art. And the way that we’re taught to think about poetry helps to reinforce that idea.

When we discuss novels, we often talk about character. What are the character’s motivations, the character’s choices. How does the character choose to impart their story?

While we’re all aware that the author is the one pulling the strings — and, sometimes, we’re asked about an author’s specific choices — we examine story mainly through the lens of character.

On the other hand, when we talk about poetry, we are asked to examine the poet’s choices, the poet’s mindset.

When we talk about The Road Not Taken, we’re asked about what Frost means by the road less traveled. We talk about what Frost is saying, instead of what the speaker of the poem is saying.

When we talk about just about anything by Sylvia Plath, we’re trying to psychoanalyze her — like each poem of hers is a puzzle piece that, when put together, will somehow explain her suicide.

Poets are not afforded the same distance as novelists. We’re bound much more closely to our work, like each poem is a paper horcrux that, when added together, forms the poet, in whole. It’s one of the most frustrating misconceptions that most people have about writing poetry these days: that writing poetry is an egotistical act, that it’s all self-driven, self-inspired, self-reverential.

In short, writing poetry (especially in these newfangled times, where anyone with internet can share their poetry) is an act of therapy. They’re venting their pathologies, like going to the mall with a pair of underwear on a stick.

(I actually had somebody say that last one to my face. I was not amused, but have considered using it as a blurb for a poetry collection.)

Needless to say, this is all bullshit.

In every poem, there is a speaker.

The speaker of a poem is analogous to a character in a novel.

They likely won’t be as well-developed as a character in a novel — as poems usually measure in the dozens of words, instead of the thousands. They might or might not be given a name. You might or might not know anything about them, really.

Like a character in a novel, they might be very similar to the writer. They might have some of their aspects, some similarities, and may be going through some similar issues. But they are largely different. They are a being in their own right, outside of the author.

The same way an author can write a character that has lived experiences outside their own — a drug addict, an alcoholic, a bulimic, a taxi driver, a king, a knight — a poet can write about emotions and experiences they themselves have not experienced. They can put themselves inside the head of somebody else, the way a novelist can.

Perhaps my favorite example of this is a poem by Karen Finneyfrock. See if you can guess whose head she’s stepped into:

My feet have been wilting in this salt-crusted cement since the French sent me over on a steamer in pieces. I am the new Colossus, wonder of the modern world, a woman standing watch at the gate of power.

The first night I stood here, looking out over the Atlantic like a marooned sailor, plaster fell from my lips parting and I said, “Give me your tired, your poor,” like a woman would say it, full of trembling mercy, while the rats ran over my sandals and up my stairwell. I was young then and hopeful.

I didn’t know how Europe and Asia, eventually the Middle East, would keep pushing their wretched through the bay like a high tide. I am choking on the words I said about the huddled masses . . . (read the rest of the poem here.)

No, I don’t think the poet has any lived experience as the Statue of Liberty.

And, yes, on some occasions, like writing a memoir, the speaker of the poem might be the poet themselves. But even then, it is an idealized form of the poet, a fictionalized one. An aspect of the poet, rather than the poet in their full self.

Of the hundreds of poems that I’ve written, there are maybe a handful I can think of where they’re strictly autobiographical, written with myself as the speaker. It’s far more common that I have some kind of speaker in mind. For a brief moment, I’m stepping into the shoes of that person, that character, and bringing a bit of them into the world, like pulling a rose from a pocket dimension into our own.

So, when you are reading a poem, your first question shouldn’t be What is the poet saying? Rather ask, What is the speaker saying?

In adding that extra lens of nuance, there is a whole world of understanding.

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Zach J. Payne is, to borrow the words of Lin-Manuel Miranda, “a polymath, a pain in the ass, a massive Payne”. He is a thespian, poet, and writer for young adults. He is the #2 Ninja Writer. A native of Whittier, CA, he currently lives in Warren, PA.