Have you ever finished reading a poem and thought to yourself, “How did I end up here?!” The poem starts one way: say, the speaker is walking around their neighborhood. Then, suddenly, they’re walking around the top of the Matterhorn talking to mountain goats. One of the possible answers is that the poet employed a volta.
If you have ever wanted to illustrate a theme by juxtaposing it against something else, you should experiment with the volta. In this article, we will discuss what it is, how it’s typically used, and how to apply it to your own writing.
What is the volta?
The volta is the point in a poem where the direction shifts. In fact, “volta” is the Italian word for turn. You have likely come across turns in poems before, like shifts in time, in which the narrator is speaking to the past or into the future. Another common type of turn is a tonal one, where the speaker outlines all the worries of the day, only to end in defiance, declaring that those same worries will not be their downfall.
Historically, the turn is found in a sonnet, a poetic form dating back to the thirteenth century. Primarily, there are two forms of the sonnet: Petrarchan or Italian, and the English or Shakespearean sonnet. Both consist of fourteen lines and a strict rhyme scheme. However, the structure—and, therefore, the turn—comes at different times for each.
In the Shakespearean sonnet, the turn occurs near the end with a couplet or the last two lines.
The Italian structure is made of the first eight lines, known as the octave, followed by the next six lines, known as the sestet. The turn is nestled right in between the two halves.
Since there is a cleaner distinction between the halves in the Italian form, we will focus on that one to understand what the volta is doing.
Understanding the structure of the volta
When you hear words like “shift” or “turn,” you might feel compelled to write something shocking to make the volta effective. However, the secret to a good turn lies in the octave.
The deeper you build the stasis of the poem, the more the volta has more to turn against. After that, the last lines, or the sestet, can then settle the turn and explain where the new direction is taking us.
For example, take a moment to read Claude McKay’s poem “To Winter.”
Notice how the first eight lines make it sound like the narrator is welcoming spring. We get words like “sweetness,” “gaily,” “boisterously,” and “gladder.” Then, we come to the turn:
“I read these pregnant signs, know what they mean:
I know thou art making ready to go.”
With the use of “pregnant,” you can feel the cliffhanger at the end of that line, which then is followed by the narrator acknowledging winter is leaving them. You can feel their disappointment.
The sestet then further explains the new direction, that the narrator fled a land where it was always warm, looking for the cold to ease the flames of their distress.
The volta’s application to modern writing
“Make it new” is a quote attributed to Ezra Pound, and it calls for writers to eschew the outdated traditions of the past to forge their own way. Modern interpretations of the sonnet are having a moment (think Frank: Sonnets by Diane Seuss). How can something taken from an older prescriptive structure be applied to modern writing?
The easiest thing to do is forget the line requirement and rhyming scheme. You can be as succinct or expansive as you like. You can rhyme if you choose to, and if you want to employ slant rhymes, go for it. You can still use a turn in your poems.
However, without the predictability of the structure like an octave and a sestet, you need to remember what the structure was doing. The beginning of the poem before the turn needs to set the scene, building something to turn against. You won’t be relying on the predictability of the sonnet, where you start in one place and know that you will shift and end up somewhere else. The transition needs to seem natural, while still surprising the reader. That’s the art involved.
Think of it like a murder mystery movie, where all of the suspects are huddled around the detective while they finish their monologue—only to find out the murderer is someone we’ve never seen before and that it happened off-screen. That would feel like a cheat. The fun is showing how the culprit—or, in our case, the turn—was in front of them the whole time.
For an example of this, let’s take a look at Ada Limon’s “The Conditional.”
Upon first reading, there is a flow to the piece, underscored by the repetition of the word “Say.” There isn’t a defined break where the turn happens. It simply reads as a natural progression of ideas. But can you spot where the turn is?
The turn occurs in the line, “Say we never meet her. Never him.”
The first few lines are wide in scope: celestial galaxies and the animal kingdom. However, the speaker narrows their scope and shifts the focus from the expansive to the intimate. Instead of the speaker asking what if all these things happen in a far-off place, they speak of not meeting a specific person.
Why did your first reading seem like a natural progression? The repetition of “Say” in the line “Say we never meet her. Never him” mirrors the same device used in the first few lines. In addition, later after the turn, Limon includes lines like “watching the sky burn,” which reaches back to some of the first lines.
The creative voice in your head may be thinking of previous drafts you can try this on, or brand-new poems where you want to shift your reader’s perception. In any case, I hope it gets your pen moving, or your fingers typing.
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