That Poetic Voice We Sometimes Use

The premise of a New York Times piece titled "What's With That Voice People Use When Reciting Poetry?" is that there’s a distinctive, stylized way many poets read their work aloud.

This is often called “Poet Voice,” and the article digs into what it is and why it’s so common. If you attend poetry readings and if you yourself read poetry aloud, you probably have encountered this Poet Voice.

It can be a slow cadence, with dramatic pauses, a lilting or monotone delivery, or a sing-songy inflection. It is not that person's natural speaking voice. Poet Voice is not meant as a compliment.  

On the page, poetry is quiet, private, and intimate. There is some "voice" in our head when we read silently. Is that the voice we use when we read aloud?

Do you hear this different way of reading as comforting and familiar, or as awkward?

We know there are poets who turn reading into a performance rather than language meant to connect.

Poets aren’t generally "performers," but still can fall into this same vocal pattern.

That article isn’t arguing for or against Poet Voice. It’s asking: what is this “weird poetic monotone rhythmic thing,” why does it persist, and how does voice change what a poem means when it moves from page to performance. The general takeaway from the article is that Poet Voice isn’t tied to one generation or school of poetry. It shows up at “the open mic and the Pulitzer podium alike,” and many poets admit they dislike it even while using it.

Here are a few poets who get mentioned as examples of “Poet Voice,” either in the *NYT* piece’s broader conversation or in the related analysis it draws on:

Louise Glück reads her poem "The Wild Iris." The Nobel laureate’s readings are frequently described as having that “precious, lilting cadence” with down-slurring line endings

Robert Bly is a poet who certainly reads his poem in an interesting way. I've heard him at reading read the same poem several times in a row, as if he thought we missed something the first time. Bly’s readings are faster, more emphatic, and less singsong. It's unusual but probably not what is meant as Poet Voice.

Robert Pinsky also has a distinctive way of reading. Is it Poet Voice? Here he reads "The Forgetting."

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Only Rhyme with Nicholson Baker

I just finished listening to Nicholson Baker’s 2009 novel, The Anthologist. It is a meta-fictional exploration of the creative process and really gets into the technicalities of poetry, particularly rhyme. 

The protagonist, Paul Chowder, is a poet. Baker has said in interviews that while he isn't a poet himself, he shares Chowder’s obsession with rhyme and meter. Through Chowder, Baker delivers highly technical "lectures" on the 4-beat line, the history of iambic pentameter, and how these things are used by certain poets. Paul is a middle-aged, moderately successful poet tasked with writing the introduction to a new poetry anthology titled Only Rhyme. But he is stalled by procrastination. He has selected the poems, but he cannot seem to write a single word of the introduction.

His struggle is mixed with his personal life. His long-term girlfriend, Roz, has recently moved out because she is tired of his inability to move forward with his work and his life.

Poets should enjoy his deep dives into the lives and techniques of poets like John Dryden, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Louise Bogan, and Elizabeth Bishop. He treats these historical figures like personal friends or neighbors. 

I'm not a big fan of rhyme in modern poetry, but I liked the lessons and anecdotes about poets. His introduction becomes a meditation on how we use art to make sense of our failures and our loves.

After I finished the book, I stumbled on "Endymion" by John Keats and took a closer look than usual at the rhyme.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases, it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
Its loveliness increases,
it will never pass into nothingness
but still will keep a bower quiet for us

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made of our searching; yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits.

The rhyme still doesn't work for me the way it does for Paul Chowder or Keats.

I have read almost all of Baker's books. Here are 4 that I enjoyed. 

The Fermata (1994) is my favorite of his novels. A provocative and controversial story that blends magical realism with erotica. It follows a man who can stop time by snapping his fingers (a move he calls "The Fold"). While time is frozen, he moves through the world unobserved, and spends part of his stopped time (Can you spend stopped time?) doing what any adolescent male would do with that power - though the protagonist is an adult - and that's why the book is frequently debated for its "ethical implications" and its "voyeuristic" premise. One reviewer called it a "X-rated sci-fi fantasy," which will either intrigue you or turn you off.

U and I is non-fiction about Baker's obsession with John Updike, though he hasn't met him. I am a big fan of Updike's writing, so I could identify.

The Mezzanine (1988) was Baker’s debut and is known for its hyper-focus on the mundane details of daily life. The entire novel takes place during a single lunch hour as the narrator, Howie, buys a pair of shoelaces and returns to his office via an escalator. It has Baker’s signature style of minute observations (here, footnotes) —such as the mechanics of a straw, the design of a paper-towel dispenser, or the philosophy of office etiquette. I know it doesn't sound like a page-turner but it will surprise you.

Vox (1992) was a commercial success. That might be surprising as it consists entirely of a single phone conversation between two strangers on a pay-per-minute erotic chat line. It was a New York Times bestseller and gained some notoriety when it was revealed that Monica Lewinsky had given a copy to President Bill Clinton. But more importantly, it shows mastery of dialogue and human connection through technology decades before AI was all the buzz.

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To see our past prompts and more than 300 issues,
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Prompt: Travel

Odysseus on the road

Our June issue will be about travel. It seems appropriate for that time when school ends, and travel and vacations usually increase.

Travel is a very old theme for poets. Ancient writers like Homer didn’t treat travel as leisure or self-improvement in the modern sense. In works like The Odyssey, travel is fate-driven, dangerous, and morally revealing. It is something that happens to you as much as something you choose. Travel was not leisure but an ordeal. Odysseus journeys and longs to return home, facing storms, monsters, and the wrath of Poseidon. It is a test of survival rather than comfort.

Each stop becomes a moral trial because Homer's travel reveals character under pressure. Central to his journey is nostos — the drive to return home. Travel also means entering the unknown. Travel shapes identity, and Odysseus defines himself by recounting his adventures and turning experience into reputation.

In modern poetry, the best travel poems don’t just describe travel but interrogate it from different angles. "Ithaka" by C. P. Cavafy interrogates Odysseus' travels.

"As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery...."

The poem makes me think of a well-worn adage about travel of all kinds: "The journey matters more than the destination."

Perhaps your personal journeys are not as mythic. Perhaps your travel doesn't ead to wisdom. In "Questions of Travel by Elizabeth Bishop, she seems to be asking, "Why do we travel at all?" It is a poem that debates itself.

"...Continent, city, country, society:
the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there... No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be?"

"The Journey of the Magi" by T. S. Eliot takes a very famous journey and is somewhere between Cavafy and Bishop. Travel transforms you, but at a cost. It is more about the aftermath than the actual experience of traveling.

"...We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death."

I chose as the main model for this call for submissions "Traveling Through the Dark" by William Stafford, from The Way It Is: New and Selected Poems, because our poetic travel does not require going very far from home or for very long. Here, travel forces moral confrontation. In this concrete situation, there is ethical weight. His focus is on a single moment rather than the whole trip. This travel is grounded in a specific, dramatic action, not abstraction.

You might begin by selecting one trip and asking: Why did I go? What did it do to me? What did I face there? Was it worth it?

Your travel poem can contain the breadth of an Odyssey or be as specific as a stop on a drive not far from home.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE: May 31, 2026

William Stafford (1914–1993) was an American poet known for his quiet, contemplative voice and his belief that writing should be a daily, attentive practice.

Born in Hutchinson, Kansas, he grew up during the Great Depression, an experience that shaped his sensitivity to ordinary lives and moral choices. A committed pacifist, he declared himself a conscientious objector during World War II, working in civilian public service camps. He earned his Ph.D. from the University of Iowa and spent most of his career teaching at Lewis & Clark College in Oregon.

He published his first major collection, Traveling Through the Dark (1962), at age 48. The book won the National Book Award and established his reputation for spare, plainspoken poems that carry ethical weight. The title poem, one of his most anthologized, reflects his characteristic blend of narrative clarity and moral tension. His essays on writing are collected in Writing the Australian Crawl (1978). He was appointed U.S. Poet Laureate (then titled Consultant in Poetry) in 1970.

Stafford continued publishing until his death in 1993, famously writing a poem the morning he passed away.

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Senryu and Haiku Compared

Senryū (pronounced, sen-ryoo)  are 3-line, 17-syllable (5-7-5) Japanese poems. I know that sounds like haiku, but, unlike haiku, these poems focus on human nature, irony, and humor rather than nature. They often highlight life's daily foibles with wit. 

Senryū comment on aspects of everyday life, often in a humorous or ribald fashion. These were usually composed by townsfolk and submitted to poetry competitions run by professional judges or tenja. The best would be awarded prizes and compiled in anthologies. The most famous tenja was Karai Senryū (1718-1790), and it is from him that the poems take their name.

Two senryu by Karai Senyru

I grab the robber
and find I’ve caught
my own son.

As a man fond of both
loose women and senryu —
please remember me.

Some masters of haiku also wrote senryū.

A woman showing
a charcoal-seller his face,
in a mirror
  -  Buson

In those three lines, you should expect the occassional surprise.

The stone saint
is kissed on the mouth
by a slug.

Haiku is described as “17 syllables” in English because English speakers substituted syllables for the Japanese unit on (also called mora), which is the actual building block of Japanese. A haiku is traditionally 17 morae, not 17 syllables. 

In comparison, senryu uses the same 3-line 5/7/5 pattern, but it does not include a seasonal word (kigo) and uses a more colloquial language. The last line holds the meaning of the poem and is funny or surprising, a bit like the punchline of a joke. 

A butterfly
that goes straight
has free time.

No matter how
sorry you are,
the teacup is broken.

Ecstatic at being
set free,
the bird collides with a tree.

Watching a plane
the kid playing third base
misses the ball
     — Sandy J. Anderson

combing my hair—
the face in the mirror
is my mother's
  - Sharon Peeples

I’m told I look young
That’s how I know
I’m not young anymore

It is difficult for an English speaker to "see" the morae. Take the Japanese word for book: “hon.” This word has one syllable for us but two morae, the “ho” and the “n.”

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Follow this blog for all things poetry.
To see our past prompts and more than 300 issues,
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