My two-year-old grandson and I stood watching a young girl, maybe 8 or 9, walk gracefully along a low beam in a play area. He’d been walking it, carefully, while holding my hand, wobbling on occasion, happy in his mastery. Then this young girl pivoted and leaped on the beam like a junior gymnast.
“My, she’s doing really well,” I commented.
He watched, then took another turn. The girl returned and leaped again. I heard him say, “She’s doing really well” in his small voice, parroting my observation from before.
At this age, he “tries on” various phrases he hears, often with comic effect. (I’m so tempted to say things like “Heavens to Betsy!” and see if I can get him talking like my own grandparents did, but I resist.)
Spending time with him is a living reminder of how we learn language: listening, repeating, practicing, and adapting until we find our own voices. The same holds true of writing.
If we’re lucky, we never really lose that ability to mimic, because it’s the pathway to growth.
This month’s writing experiment asks you to tap into natural mimicry to expand your writing chops.
The experiment: Read a poem first
Find a book of poetry and read a poem. It can be a short one.
On a friend’s recommendation, I picked up Mary Oliver’s Why I Wake Early. Some mornings I read one or two of her poems before heading off to write my morning pages, and something from the poems seeps into my words.
If you’re already a poet, consider reading a poem outside your usual style or genre.
Then, sit down to write something experimental and open, such as morning pages or a journal. Don’t dip straight into a novel in progress or report for work, as that voice is already gelled.
If you need prompts, try the following:
- Describe what you observe around you or out the window
- Recount the details of a moment of gratitude: a child’s smile, a sunset observed in silence, a welcome breeze
As you write, see if you can channel the experience of reading the poem. You don’t need to write a poem, unless that’s what shows up when you sit to write. Let some aspect of the poetry infuse your writing, whether that’s syntax, word choices, the quality of attention, the mood, or a single word or theme.
We use poetry for this experiment because it is such a strong carrier of voice, and less likely to absorb you in plot.
Which poems?
Read any poem you like, although I suggest sticking to shorter ones if you don’t have much time. You could browse your library’s poetry collection, look through children’s poetry books, or visit the daily poem on poets.org.
If you choose a poet with an elevated voice from a bygone era, you may be setting a high bar. Shakespearean sonnets may be harder to connect to your spoken or thought language. Or maybe not. To thine own self be true, and all that.
You might rotate through different poets—favorites and those unknown to you. We’re aiming for stretching and growth.
Why do this experiment?
This experiment reinvigorates the language-expanding capabilities that were so active in childhood and that may need encouragement later in life.
You can do this daily, weekly, or whenever you need a little burst of freshening or stretch of your voice.
If you’re not feeling particularly profound, consider writing a parody of a well-known poem, like This Is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams.
If nothing comes through from the poem, that’s okay. There’s no downside—you’ve spent a moment with a poem.
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For Fun
Here’s something I wrote after reading Mary Oliver. It started as a ranting complaint in my journal.
Why I Woke Early (apologies to Mary Oliver)
The front bathroom window was open
in hopes of a cross breeze
in the warm and humid night
and a truck’s squealing brakes
made me wonder if the roofers were already here
at this too-early hour,
but dragging myself to the window
the street was dark and quiet, and
I put on my eyeshade and hoped for sleep
and lay still and silent until
a few seconds after seven
the doorbell rang and the day began.
