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Hi, I'm Jayne.
This year we're examining how to escape the 'sameness' that creeps into our poetry. Whether it's repetition within the broader body of poetry or simply copying-pasting our own internal tropes, we're sussing out the difference between how we write and what we want to say. Using practical methods of identification, we'll delve into effective ways to interrupt the patterns we default to.
Last month, we talked about sameness—how poems can be competent, polished, and technically sound, yet still feel interchangeable. I had asked you to observe yourself as you generated new poems and try to identify any of your own “literary crutches.” I discovered I have several, and I don’t know about you, but I found it a bit uncomfortable.
But uncomfortable doesn’t always mean bad. Identifying those repetitive quirks is a net positive in the long run, as you’ll be able to find new ways to say what you want to say on the fly.
Now, a weird thing happens when you go looking for something: you tend to find it (unless it’s the glasses sitting on your head).
It’s a lot like when you want to buy a blue car—suddenly you see blue cars everywhere. With our poetry exercise, is it possible you noticed patterns because your brain was in pattern mode? Human brains love patterns. Is what we noticed true across our work?
This is where poetic forensics comes in.
So, before you “fix” anything, before you experiment, before you deliberately break a rule, you need to learn how to read your own work like evidence.
What the Heck, Poetic Forensics?
I know, I know. It sounds a little “out there,” and it sounds a lot like work, but hear me out.
Poems leave fingerprints. You can change what you’re writing about, but how you arrive at meaning tends to remain stubbornly consistent. The evidence is the repeated choices that show up whether you intend them to or not. They persist across subject matter, tone, and even form.
And to be clear: this is not about your voice. This is about the writing behaviours that bring your voice to the page. Writing behaviours are the mechanism of voice.
When I talk about dissecting your work, I’m not asking you to decide if a poem is good or bad. I don’t want you to aggressively revise, nor am I sending you on some spiritual journey to find your “true self” on the page.
This is practical stuff, not existential drama.
How to Read Your Poems, CSI-Style
If we consider poetic forensics as:
Treating poems as evidence, not expressions Looking for repeatable markers across multiple poems, such as conventional imagery, familiar arcs, repeated words and phrases, and “safe” topics or resolutions Identifying when those markers survive revision, genre shifts, and subject or mood changes
we can objectively look at our own poems without judgment. You were probably your own worst critic twenty minutes ago, and you’ll probably still be snarky with yourself twenty minutes in the future. But for now, tell that version of you to take a seat, because this isn’t an opinion column. It’s a fact-finding mission, and nothing you discover is a problem.
It’s just data.
Take a small handful of your poems—let’s say five if you’re hesitant and ten if you’re all-in. Don’t revise them. Don’t rank them. Don’t judge them. Simply look for patterns:
Sentence Behaviour
Do they sprawl or compress? Do they over-explain themselves and dilute the core message? Do they circle an idea, meander, or barrel through a straight line and stop abruptly? Do they withhold too much and sabotage the reader?
Imagery
Do your images tend to embody the same metaphorical phrases and concepts, or are they more concrete but still repeated? Are they tactile, visual, abstract, domestic, or something else?
Structure and Timing
When do “feelings” come into play? Do your poems always resolve? How? Do they end on bright notes? Do they comfort the reader, even if the poem dictates otherwise? Does it make you uncomfortable to end poems without a “proper” finish? Do you insist there must be no mistaking the meaning? Do you trust the reader?
Notice I didn’t list “theme.” You can write about the same underlying theme(s) your entire life. It’s the gulf between concept and execution that we’re dealing with.
Despite their different subjects, they feel unmistakably authored by the same hand. Something persists across both poems that makes them unique and avoids sameness. It’s not the topic, but the way meaning is made.
Keeping Your Voice While Refining Your Methods
Remember, it’s not that your poetry is bad. It may simply be a bit rote in its delivery, which can flatten its meaning. If it sounds the same as a thousand other poems on the same subject, it becomes forgettable.
I get it—it can be confusing to reconcile that how you write isn’t the same as what you say. They’re intrinsically linked, but when you rely on defaults, you’re not engaging the core message or emotion you want to communicate. But how on earth is “writing” not “voice?”
If we take Dickinson’s “Because I could not stop for Death” and compare it to Sylvia Plath’s “Lady Lazarus,” we can see that the same topic does not mean “sameness” of execution. Your voice will survive common themes once you recognize your own writing behaviours.
I promise you, your voice is already in your work. It may be hidden under a few “safe” mechanisms, but it’s there.
Don’t rip your poems (or your self-esteem) apart. Simply notice what you’ve said, how you’ve said it, and whether it matches what you were seeing in real time.
Once you can do that, the fun starts: interfering with the scene and distorting the evidence.
Next month: what happens when you interrupt your own habits?
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Poetry: February 04, 2026 Issue [#13582]
