Part of the fun of working on a novel is trying to enter the mind and experience of someone Not-You. Someone else. In the novel that Tim and I are making, we have set the story in 1979, in a small town in Northern California. Two of the characters are poets. One of the poets is a college student, born in 1960. The other was born in 1927 and serves as a host and mentor for the younger poet.

One way that I have tried to get into the minds of these two characters is to write poems for them. What would interest them, catch their attention? How would they convey this in a poem? So far, for each character, I have written five or six poems. Only two or three might appear in the novel itself, but…what can I say? It is fun to fashion new poems.

Recently, I became curious about other novels that have protagonists who are fictional poets. I could not recall very many. There are many delightful novels that depict actual poets and one, Baron Wormser’s The Poetry Life, depicts the effects of poetry (by actual poets) on the lives of fictional characters.

But when it comes to main characters who are poets, with no lives outside of fiction, I could only think of Swann, by Carol Shields, and the trio of young adult books featuring Emily Starr of New Moon Farm by L. M. Montgomery. (If you know of any others, please let me know!)

In the couple of years since I served as a poetic scribe for our two characters, I have wondered if their voices would be clearly discernable to anyone else. Or, perhaps, do all the poems simply sound like me? It is an interesting thought exercise, but not one I can wrestle to the ground on my own, so I thought I would ask you.

What do you think? Below are six poems. In a future post, I will reveal which poem was written by/for each character, and also (should you like to weigh in) how many correct guesses each poem received. You can weigh in (“Older Poet” or “Younger Poet”) for any or all titles either in the Comments Section below or by emailing me at winonapoet@gmail.com. Thanks, in advance, for your thoughts!

LESLIE

Study of Cloud Rapture from the Shore

            for Miles

Horizon line silver grey

tumbling, shot with plum

aquamarine, emerald

A moment imperiled

imploding and dumb

yet yearning to say

We are all rolling waves

our power about to break

on the rock-hard shore

We are all mountains of cloud

majestic with sunset ache

determined to soar

Jenny Stubtoe

Curled against leather cushions

under warm lamplight,

compact as an ammonite,

you open one eye, peer

greenly into the twilight,

twitch a single whisker,

then sink back into nine

oceans of sleep, each one

deep as a well-lived life.

Candlelight at Point Reyes

This narrow track is supposed to lead up

but I can barely see the ground beneath

my feet. Fog beads these yellowing grasses.

Fog abrades my eyes with stinging salt sprays

and muffles my ears. I came to Point Reyes

like a wounded tule elk, filled with guesses

about direction, survival, what I might bequeath

a world hidden from my sight. Now the trap

of caring is fully sprung. All I find

on this dark headland is how I am lost.

I want to lie down here. I want to be

done with striving, cease this yearning to see

ahead. This cold candle? Better to cast

it from my chilled hand, my dark mind.

My First Shasta Soda

He stands in shadows.

“Here,” he says,

“Drink this,”

hands me a dark,

foaming brew.

Like Alice, I just do.

Who am I now?

Do I grow

or shrink

into this sensation?

So maybe this is love?

Sticky and sweet,

leaving me giddy,

messy, refreshed, and

all shook up?

The Geode

There is just no telling until

one is opened.

All days appear rough,

dusty, grey, and vague

in heft and circularity,

that weight in your hand.

You have to take that

chance, have to lay down

your stone heart

daily on an altar of stone,

lift up a hammer, and allow

its swing to cleave open

your glinting center, let

this sun’s light dance

over you, permit someone

else to see your spiky radiance.

White Egret, Green Field

Balancing on one stilt,

slender, pure as salt,

you stab into rice stalks.

Minnows, golden,

glinting, circle your leg

with their swimming.

Giving a cry—

Grief? Exhilaration?—

you achieve the sky.

Water bird, white

as bone, you soar

over these green fields,

visionary,

yet alone. Always

alone.