A License to Lie
Never assume the “I” in a poem is the poet.
My conscience speaks in my voice, but I know that it has been programmed by my mother. I am often too honest for my own good. Friends tell me I have a terrible poker face. If I’m bored at a meeting or offended by what is said, it shows, even if I’ve wrestled my inner rebel to the ground and prevented her from blurting out, “You are WRONG!” Mama also programmed Southern manners. (I marvel at how many friends run etiquette questions by me because they think I’m Miss Manners’ less famous twin.)
Maybe that’s why I love writing poetry. I treasure my Poetic License, which I interpret as a license to lie and to break rules. It’s a precious gift for an obsessive Truth Teller. I can lie all I want without my conscience yelling at me. I can even insult your political candidate without getting into a screaming match so long as I write a parody and don’t name names. “The Emperor’s New Clothes” will forever be quoted at pompous, power-hungry rulers.
Ironically, I believe the purpose of poetry is to speak the ultimate truth, but sometimes that is best accomplished by being artistic, bending the truth, or even telling outlandish lies. What fun! Fiction, of course, is a softer synonym for lie and suggests the artistry behind the deceit. When we read novels, poetry, fantasy, science fiction, or storybooks, we suspend disbelief. Lies become truths.
“Do not assume the I in a poem is the poet.” That’s advice I’ve heard from many poetry workshops, but advice that not all readers hear. Persona poems are a popular form for poets. All that means is that someone other than the writer is speaking. Usually the disguise is obvious. One of my favorite dark poems is by Margaret Atwood, best known as the novelist who wrote The Handmaid’s Tale. She is also one of my favorite poets. In “Half-Hanged Mary,” she speaks in the voice of her ancestor on the day she was unsuccessfully hanged for witchcraft. Poet William Trowbridge is well known for persona poems in the voices of King Kong and Oldguy Superhero. I have written poems from the point of view of a pencil, a book, a sea gull, and characters in myths. I have also included myself in a group of poets who unexpectedly wake up on the moon. In all these cases, you would likely not confuse the speaker with the poet. However, we sometimes use first person to talk about other people much like ourselves. We’re sneaky that way.
Even as a poet, I have to remind myself not to assume a friend is having marital problems or is suffering from depression because the speaker in the poem is distressed. We can stretch the truth in happier narratives, too, because we welcome whatever topic our Muse hands us. Why miss the fun of time travel or riding a dragon just because you’re married to Reality?
Most of my poetry is true, at least true to my vision of the world and what memory whispers. Here are two childhood poems. In one, I’m writing what I know. It happened. The other is a fiction that fell from the sky one night when I was staring at a blank page. I like to think both are emotionally true and convincing. Can you tell which one is fiction?
At Chesapeake Bay
Six inches down in still-soft
sand, I strike gold!
I pull out a three-footed
candy dish, iridescent
like shells, shimmery tones
of sunset. Not a single crack
or chip. A treasure.
“Carnival Glass,” says Mama,
who always knows things.
“Can I keep it?” I ask,
half expecting Blackbeard
to come snatch it away.
© 2015 Alarie Tennille. First published at Silver Birch Press.
Favorite Doll
I wouldn’t let Mama
return her. “I love you just
the way you are,” I whisper
to Amanda. Tucked into bed
beside me, covers up to her chin,
you can’t tell her feet and hands
point backwards. She can do
pushups in her sleep. At tea
parties, she sits looking like
a werewolf in a gauzy dress.
Sometimes I brush my hair
over my face to look like her.
“You’re an odd child,” says
Mama. Amanda takes
after me.
© 2012 Alarie Tennille. First published in Southern Women’s Review.