Have you ever read a story, certain you know where it’s going, only to have the author take a sharp turn at the end? It’s like walking through the forest and suddenly coming upon a pristine mountain lake. A turn like this can open your eyes to an entirely different viewpoint. As readers, we love to be surprised (to a point), and that brings us to this month’s technique: the volta.
But first, read these sample poems, and see if you can figure out what connects them.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
The Pedestrian
When the pickup truck, with its side mirror,
almost took out my arm, the driver’s grin
reflected back; it was just a horror
show that was never going to happen,
don’t protest, don’t bother with the police
for my benefit, he gave me a smile—
he too was startled, redness in his face—
when I thought I was going, a short while,
to get myself killed: it wasn’t anger
when he bared his teeth, as if to caution
calm down, all good, no one died, ni[ght, neighbor]—
no sense getting all pissed, the commotion
of the past is the past; I was so dim,
he never saw me—of course, I saw him.
For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet
Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop.
Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.
Open the door, then close it behind you.
Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel the earth gathering essences of plants to clean.
Give it back with gratitude.
If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and back.
Acknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire.
Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the guardians who have known you before time, who will be there after time. They sit before the fire that has been there without time.
Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.
Be respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people who accompany you.
Ask their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought down upon them.
Don’t worry.
The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises, interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and those who will despise you because they despise themselves.
The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few years, a hundred, a thousand or even more.
Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the thieves of time.
Do not hold regrets.
When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed.
You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant.
Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.
Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. Let go the pain of your ancestors to make way for those who are heading in our direction.
Ask for forgiveness.
Call upon the help of those who love you. These helpers take many forms: animal, element, bird, angel, saint, stone, or ancestor.
Call your spirit back. It may be caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse.
You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return.
Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.
Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It may return in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be happy to be found after being lost for so long.
Your spirit will need to sleep awhile after it is bathed and given clean clothes.
Now you can have a party. Invite everyone you know who loves and supports you. Keep room for those who have no place else to go.
Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the speeches short.
Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way through the dark.
One Perfect Rose
A single flow’r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet –
One perfect rose.
I knew the language of the floweret;
‘My fragile leaves,’ it said, ‘his heart enclose.’
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.
Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.
Untitled - the Reddit Cow Poem
my name is Cow,
and wen its nite,
or wen the moon
is shiyning brite,
and all the men
haf gon to bed –
i stay up late.
i lik the bred.
These poems are all very different in style and voice, but can you spot the similarities? They all have an ending line (or two, or even a short stanza) that changes your original understanding of the poem. That ending line or stanza can be called the volta, tornada, or envoi, but these are just fancy names for the same turn of thought that occurs towards the end of many poetic forms. Think of it like the punchline to your poem.
In a traditional Shakespearean-style sonnet, like the example above, the turn is typically found in the last two lines. (Don’t be fooled, though; not all of Shakespeare’s sonnets have as obvious a volta as this one. In fact, the volta as a turn is more commonly found in other forms of sonnets than Shakespearian.) Tommye Blount’s modern sonnet—and yes, it’s a sonnet, even if it doesn’t look like what you might expect—follows the same pattern. What re-evaluation of the pedestrian and driver did you do after reading this? What do you understand on re-reading? [Ed’s note: This is a very US-American poem. If you already know who Tommye Blount is, you may have had difficulty seeing this as a “turn” in the poem. Re-read and see how the turn plays with the presumed reader’s “default” knowledge. /RBG] Joy Harjo uses the the last line of her poem to shift the perspective from inwardly-focused to outwardly-focused, transforming the central idea from a meditation into an exhoration. Dorothy Parker’s volta takes up the entire last stanza, and is signaled by a shift in voice. As for the cow poem—the turn here is the absurdity of the last line, after the archaic formality of the rest of the poem.
So what does this mean for me?
This month’s slam is to write a poem in any style that ends in a volta.
That means you can do anything you want (yay?) as long as your last few lines change the reader’s understanding of the poem in a compact, clever sort of way.
Not sure where to start? Here are some ideas:
- Pick a form that traditionally includes a volta, like a sestina, tritina, villanelle, or sonnet (or other sonnet). That’s easier than trying to figure out where to start your “turn” so that it feels proportional.
- Start with the volta, and then write your way to it. Or, really, write your way AWAY from it, and then drop it in like the punchline to a joke.
- This is a great place to put that zinger or darling that otherwise wouldn’t fit (or stand out) in your poem. If you find yourself clinging to a phrase early in your poem, consider rescuing that phrase as your volta and rewriting the rest of the poem.
- If you’re *really* stuck, try handing your poem off to someone else to write the last lines. This is a fantastic exercise to try with a writing buddy.
Good luck, and happy writing!
About the author:
Rowan submitted exactly one piece of microfiction to YeahWrite before being consumed by the editorial darkside. She spent some time working hard as our Submissions Editor before becoming YeahWrite’s Managing Editor in 2016. She was a BlogHer Voice of the Year in 2017 for her work on intersectional feminism, but she suggests you find and follow WOC instead. In real life she’s been at various times an attorney, aerialist, professional knitter, artist, graphic designer (yes, they’re different things), editor, secretary, tailor, and martial artist. It bothers her vaguely that the preceding list isn’t alphabetized, but the Oxford comma makes up for it. She lives in Portlandia with a menagerie which includes at least one other human. She tells lies at textwall and uncomfortable truths at CrossKnit.
