This week: Writing Against the Obvious Edited by: Jayne  
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| Hello, I'm Jayne! Welcome to my poetic explorations. My goal with these newsletters is to take us on a journey through the forms, devices, and concepts that make poetry so powerful. Sometimes, a series of newsletters will interconnect, while other issues will stand alone. I strive to ensure they are informative but fun and do my best to spark your curiosity. Don’t forget to check out this issue's curated selection of poetry! |
If you're having déjà vu right now, don't worry—you're not losing your mind.
Yes, we just talked about subverting obvious prompts in short stories "One Prompt, Infinite Possibilities" .
No, this is not a copy-paste job. But it is related.
Just like when you see a prompt and default to the obvious interpretation, in poetry the temptation to reach for the familiar can be even stronger than in fiction.
After all, poetry thrives on resonance. Rain feels like sadness. Broken glass feels like heartbreak. A rising sun feels like hope.
And that's the trap.
The obvious emotional connections are comforting. But if every poet stopped at the first association, every poem would start sounding the same. More importantly, you would miss the chance to develop your own voice.
Writing against the obvious means challenging yourself not just to say something beautiful, but to say something beautifully surprising.
The Problem With the Obvious
The first image or emotion that pops into your head is usually the one the reader expects too. Using that first idea is a little like pulling the first book off a shelf without checking the others—you might find something good. You might not. It might be readable, but it might also sound exactly like the last book you read.
Obvious poems are comfortable. Memorable poems are unsettling, honest, and unexpectedly sharp.
You don't have to avoid resonance. You just have to tilt it a little bit.
Challenge the Obvious (Obviously)
Challenging the obvious is not only understanding what the obvious is, but also coming up with alternatives. Here are a few examples:
1. Push One Step Past Your First Idea
What does rain feel like? Tears? Despair? A cleansing shower? Yep. Everyone recognizes it feels like these things.
Instead of defaulting to the obvious, try asking yourself:
 What else could it feel like?
Is it a warning?
Is it trapping sound inside the earth?
Is it writing secret codes?
Instead of grabbing the first thread, unravel a few more.
1.1 Speaking of Tears
Tears don't have to mean sorrow—and they don't have to fall like rain, rivers, or waterfalls. Tears can stem from rage, frustration, pride, or exhaustion. There are happy tears. Sick tears. They could even be mechanical, meaningless, like a body glitching without permission. Question your automatic symbolism to sharpen the story your poem is telling. Tears could be:
A form of currency.
Parasites feeding on old grief or anger.
Teeth that bite your cheeks as they slide down your face.
False witnesses, offering sorrow but demanding surrender.
2. Question the Emotion Itself
Getting to the heart of the matter is a bit of a Jedi mind trick. Question how you're tackling your subject, and ask yourself if you're nailing the root of the feeling. You'll often find the answer is, "These are not the emotions you're looking for."
Anger often covers fear or grief.
Sadness sometimes curdles into anger (and often rightfully so).
But does an angry or sad poem have to stay angry or sad? What if the emotions bubble across a spectrum? An emotional turn can reframe an entire poem.
3. Break Your Own Metaphors
I'm one of the worst offenders here. We all have metaphors we fall back on, often because they work. But if they're doing all the work, across all the poems, your writing risks becoming repetitive—or worse, boring.
It's normal (and sometimes necessary) to spend swaths of time digging into particular motifs. (Full disclosure: I went through my Poetry-Emo stage in 2017, and I think my Seussical stage hit later that same year.)
What I'm talking about is writing comparisons that keep surprising you.
For example, maybe love isn't a flame:
It's a borrowed coat that's too tight (or too big).
It's a crow's nest built from stolen things—shiny, but not yours.
It's a crowded city at night, with everything competing for attention and easy to lose your way.
Twisting ideas keeps the reader awake and hungry for what's next.
Quick Example
Obvious:
"The rain slid down the window like the tears I cried this morning."
Against the Obvious:
"Frantic seams laced the glass, stitching the morning shut."
Same setting. Same sadness. Completely different texture.
Trade Your Zig for a Zag
When you dodge the obvious, you'll find your real voice—the one hiding underneath the echoes of everyone else.
You don't have to abandon the path completely. Sometimes, adding just one unexpected layer to your first instinct is enough to open up everything.
Now go poke the obvious with a stick and tell it to do something.
As always, happy writing!
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Poetry: April 30, 2025 Issue [#13113]
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