Due to a general aversion to emotion other than joy in my upbringing, I have a tendency to want to keep things light and funny. Poetry has given me a space to explore my feelings on a broader and more nuanced field, but this tendency for lightness is something that crops up very frequently in my writing. Overall, it’s something that’s become part of my voice, the “Darrington whimsy” as one of my poetry pals has described it. I enjoy writing works that aren’t overly concerned with seriousness or making a crater on a reader; I like creating poems that someone can smile at and nod along to and be entertained by, while also hopefully thinking a bit deeper about whatever subject I was talking about.
But there’s the rub: a tension between wanting to entertain and move. I believe that one can do both with a single work, otherwise I would have long subsumed to the prevailing notion that po-faced serious speakers in poems are the only way to touch people; you can be light and meaningful. In many ways other than just this one, Mary Oliver gives me hope that my writing can follow my own voice and inclinations without having to fundamentally change what I love and how I communicate.
Whimsy, though, like any other aspect of one’s voice, is a tool. But what kind of tool? This, I think, is the most interesting and illuminating question to ask. The fact that it can be efficacious is something that I think is beyond question, but how it accomplishes the work of poetry is something I haven’t thought much on. What kind of a tool is whimsy?
First, I think exploring and partially defining the definitions of poetic tools as a whole will help us have a shared foundation to work off of. A tool is an aspect of language used to accomplish the poet’s intent. Pretty broad and generally useless as far as definitions go. Trying to create a better, more informative and evocative definition is something that would take more space and time, so I’m not going to try that here. I’m going to assume we share a general basis of “tool” and jump into one major pillar of those tools: emotional tools.
These fall into two major categories: pushers/obscurers and pullers/revealers. You can use a tool to draw a reader closer to the speaker/poet, or you can use it to keep them from getting too close. Whimsy largely falls into the latter, I believe. That might seem counterintuitive; after all, what are the endless whimsical pastoral piles of saccharine nonsense trying to do but pull you into a realm of nostalgia and warm, gooey feelings? To which I say, yes, the better to keep you from even realizing there are complex emotions bubbling under the heart of any writer with a heartbeat. Whimsy is a shield for the heart, protecting against any sort of intrusion or forward movement, pushing back against anything trying to get close.
But a shield is a tool, and if there’s one thing that’s true about tools is that they can be used in ways unexpected but effective. If video games have taught me one thing, it’s that getting hit in the face with a small wall of metal or wood will do damage. Whimsy is at its worst when it is unwavering, protecting the mushy heart behind it from danger but also from being seen, being understood. The continual allure of whimsy for writers is to show depth of feeling without vulnerability, the idea that merely suggesting to others that there is something behind the shield is the same as it existing. They continually shrink away from any approach or desire to see what’s behind the whimsy, what true emotion is worth protecting, and anyone interested in knowing such a thing is going to eventually get tired of not getting an answer. The writer is passive thinking they are coy.
Whimsy can be used more … aggressively, though. It can press against the reader uncomfortably, pushing them towards a certain space. This can be just as ineffective, though, an overbearing tone that saccharinely bullies the reader into a fanciful mindspace.
What makes whimsy work as a poetical and emotional tool isn’t whether it’s passive or aggressive but whether it turns off at some point and in some meaningful way. An aggressive push of whimsy is dropped for a moment to show a heart in pain and lashing out, then pushes again with more force. A passive whimsy lapses for a line or two to show a genuine emotional reaction before being put back up with a sheepish motion. Or the whimsy is dropped entirely when the writer feels like they have won or are defeated entirely, a surrender or a glory in some victory. The existence of the whimsy, of the shield, flavors the emotional core of the poem as something worth protecting, something worth fearing to lose, and so when that emotional core is revealed, when that vulnerability is created, it can be easier for the reader to buy into that core. It’s difficult to feel bad for a friend who does nothing but complain every time you see them. But if a bright and cheerful friend shows a moment of pain, empathy bubbles up on its own.
In a short enough poem, whimsy can get away with being held up the whole time, the allure of emotion behind it enough to sustain a few lines without having to be dropped for the payoff. Real joy in a short package can also be enjoyable, but I would argue that isn’t whimsy. Small, joyful poems aren’t obscuring emotion: they’re wearing it out and obvious; their enthusiasm is infectious and engaging because it’s absolutely genuine. Being able to effectively communicate joy such that it doesn’t come across as trite or banal is certainly challenging, but that’s a topic for some other time. Whimsy is always artifice used to obscure; otherwise, it’s simply real enthusiasm or naivety.
This doesn’t mean whimsy is always constructed well. Whimsy is often used thoughtlessly, reflexively as a tool for the writer to protect themselves against, well, themselves. Digging into complex emotions, and then digging enough to be able to meaningfully articulate them on the page, is an act that is difficult, time-consuming, illuminating in often uncomfortable ways. For those less prone to introspection (or those who have first-hand experience knowing how hard it can be), the first thought of a poem will be to pull away from that exploration and leave things well enough alone. But when they take those poems to friends to workshop them, that whimsy is shown to be what it is: a defense mechanism, something that does not belong in a poem unexamined. If shared outside of a critical space, it should be no surprise if friends and family smile and nod and hand the poem back without anything meaningful to say about it or their experience with it; the shield is too firm, too steady to allow any connection or understanding. And without a real opening for connection, no amount of craft or workmanship, not even the vaunted shield of Achilles, will ever make up for the question the poem raises at the beginning and refuses to answer: what is the heart behind this feeling, and can I feel with it?
For writers who are prone to skirt around the deeper parts of human experience with a wink and a smile, the proclivity for whimsy is a tool in hand that can help to create their specific emotions, hesitations, and desires in the heart of a reader. But if taken too far or used too often, whimsy can just as easily do its job too well and keep the heart perfectly safe and sound to wither away all on its own. If you strap on this shield, do so tightly, mindfully, and stand alert waiting for the time to let it drop.
By Scott
Over/Poetry 