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A paradox is a statement that seems self-contradictory or absurd but reveals a deeper truth. If a poet says, "The child becomes a man," it’s clear, but it’s flat. Using a paradox forces the reader's brain to stall and then restart, which makes the meaning stick. "The child is father of the man," wrote Wordsworth. You stop. You realize this isn't about biology. It's about how our childhood experiences form our adult selves.
If we want to get fancy about it, paradox creates "cognitive dissonance," which is the mental discomfort you feel when you hold two conflicting beliefs, values, behaviors, or ideas at the same time. That tension can push people to change their thinking or justify their actions so things feel consistent again.
Emily Dickinson begins a poem by saying, "I heard a Fly buzz - when I died ." She takes on the paradox of a living perspective on death.She begins another poem:
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.
There is a paradox and a negation there. In a third poem, she begins with the negative:
It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down -
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
Continue reading that poem, and see how she continues with what things are not. Using negatives (no, not, never, un-, without) is a technique often called apophasis, paralepsis, or via negativa. It’s the art of defining something by what it isn't.
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot contains the line "I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be," which highlights a paradox about identity and purpose, contrasting the speaker's ordinary existence with the grandeur associated with Shakespeare's character.
Dylan Thomas puts the negation right in the title for "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night."
In W.H. Auden’s "Funeral Blues," he writes: "The stars are not wanted now: put out every one." By "un-making" the world, he shows the vacuum left by grief. Focusing on what is missing makes the "hole" feel more tangible. The poem begins with a series of imperative commands: "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking..." These initial lines suggest a desire to halt the world, to suspend reality in the face of immense loss.
For our March 2026 issue, we are asking for poems that begin in the first line with a paradox or negation (or both) and continue down that path. But note that in our full model poems by Dickinson and Auden, there is a shift in the second half that reveals that "deeper truth" beyond the negation and paradox. You should also attempt that poetic magic trick.
See our blog for more about the strange loop of paradoxes in poetry.
Wystan Hugh Auden (1907–1973) was a preeminent Anglo-American poet whose work served as a profound intellectual bridge between the pre-war and post-war eras. Born in York, England, he rose to prominence in the 1930s as the leading figure of a generation of writers grappling with political upheaval, economic depression, and the looming shadow of global conflict.
In 1939, he made the controversial decision to move to the United States, a transition that coincided with a significant shift in his creative focus. His later work became more deeply rooted in Christianity, theology, and the complexities of the human psyche. Auden was a "poet's poet," renowned for his technical virtuosity. He navigated diverse styles—from the somber reflection of "Funeral Blues" to the expansive social critique of The Age of Anxiety, with a wit and rhythmic precision that few could match. By the time of his death in Vienna, he had redefined the role of the modern poet as both a private seeker and a public moralist.
Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) remains one of the most enigmatic and influential figures in American literature. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, she spent the vast majority of her life within the confines of her family’s homestead. While often portrayed as a reclusive "lady in white," her isolation was not a sign of withdrawal from the world, but rather a deliberate choice to focus on her "flood subject": the inner workings of the human soul.
LETTER TO LEONARD
I don't understand your lyrics,
but I love your songs,
luscious and frustrating
as chocolate melted in its wrapper.
You sing in riddles,
mix sacred and profane
like ingredients for a cake
that only the cerebral can taste.
I place your music
on the plate of my brain
and poke at it with a fork whose tines
are question marks,
savoring crumbs
of succulent sense
while my heart implodes
and tears cascade.
Susan Spaeth Cherry
A DAY IN THE LIFE
I did not die today.
Though the car
that was in my lane
going the wrong way
could have changed that.
I swerved. It swerved.
(I don't know if it was a man,
woman, young or old.)
I saw it skid and slip
in my rearview mirror.
Heart beating like a bird,
I drove home very carefully.
Here I sit, laptop in my lap,
typing this poem and drinking
mint tea with schnapps.
Though today is my birthday
it was not my day.
But it is only half gone.
You never know.
Charles Michaels
JUMBO SHRIMP
I’ve never trusted a jumbo shrimp.
Which is it? I ask the pink shell as I poke at the thin veins
dark lines of life embedded, twisting against a knife blade,
a pan of steaming water at the ready, me still wondering.
BIG or small, MAMMOTH or whimpy, both or neither?
Prawns? KING-sized. Tiger. Rock. COLOSSAL.
The way one thing can be another. And another. And still,
which is it? I’ve asked this of my loved ones, the ones who
no longer speak to me. LOVED ones born from the same
mother, and in my case, the same father, in the 1950s &
the sixties, and how it is we came together and then apart.
Why is it that we hold the tip of the knife to the thin vein
while asking which one? Which dark, squirrely line cuts
through the heart?
Patty Joslyn
ADDIE BUNDREN’S RIDE HOME
Addie: “I gave Anse Dewey Dell to negative Jewel. Then I gave him Vardaman to replace the child I had robbed him of. And now he has three children that are his and not mine. And then I could get ready to die.”
- Wm. Faulkner, As I Lay Dying
I’ll be ready when the tenses of
time blend into the direction to Jefferson.
And when each child leads the way.
Even little Vardaman, who tried so hard
to save and resurrect me from death.
Darl’s now the war that broke him.
Jewel’s pride is in loving his horse.
They both love and hate me for
the sins they are and I will
never atone for their sins or mine.
I know the truth that Dewey Dell
will never understand. I know my daughter
will live without grace in a world
full of men. She will share our
weight even though I have shorn it.
I had cared for Anse once, but
as I listen to the sound of Cash's
plane beveling coffin boards, I can’t feel
the ancient pity that Anse once raised in
me so long ago. It is gone.
That absence crosses the distance of five
children, each one a testament to my
pain and rebellion, all of which they
will never understand, even when they follow
the path of my transit to Jefferson.
Rob Friedman
NOWHERE JOURNEY
I planned a journey that did not end.
I waved goodbye to those I loved,
Plunged into a place that never existed.
Mountains and rivers, oceans, or streams were nowhere to be found.
No roads, no planes or trains, carriages or cars.
Fog obscured everything and shifted in continuous clouds of froth.
But I had my legs and feet so I began to walk across a spongy wet grassy field.
Sometimes at the edges I glimpsed a shadow in human form
If I called out, they vanished as if mirrored by my imagination.
I left no footprints in the murky grass,
I could lift my body up but could not fly.
Had I died? Where was the exit?
Was this how Alice felt in Wonderland or Dorothy in the land of Oz?
Where was the White Rabbit who could lead me, where the magic red
patent shoes I could click to get home?
I pressed on going nowhere, then realized it must all be make believe
My mind showed me the picture of my loved ones waving goodbye.
I closed my eyes and focused on them
When I opened my lids, they were there, still waving.
Back so soon? they asked. How was the journey?
Not what I expected, I confessed.
Not at all.
The story of the journey is all I have to bring back,
And the joy is finding all of you, my loved ones waving and waiting.
Susan Glenn Lampe
NOWHERE MAN
I am dead to earth; solid forms have gone.
A hollow husk remains to journey on!
I sit in the graveyard of my dreams,
Bereft of my own life, as it seems,
Silently weeping futile, stupid tears,
For friends whom I have never known
And all the chances I let pass me by
And for all the places I have never lived.
I did not live in Wentworth Street
And view Saint Leonard’s lonely church
Haloed by the setting sun,
Waiting in glorious trepidation,
For my lustful new lover to come,
Whilst idly sipping on her coke and rum.
This is the life I did not live.
I filled out endless pointless forms
And answered the insistent phone,
Forging a career of my very own,
Climbing, daily, the greasy pole,
Marching up work’s windy hills,
As managers gripped me by the throat!
I cry salt tears for those days, remote,
For memories I can never have,
And for all the deathless poetry
I never wrote.
As existence elapses and the sands of time
Flow rapidly towards the gap,
A fathomless sorrow grips my soul!
Each grain of sand is a friend unmade,
An open goal I cravenly missed.
I should have done so much more with my life
Than this!
John Botterill
JOYFUL IN MY EMPTY NEST
Innocent laughter echoes
from my son’s room,
light fans out from the space
under his door.
I love you momma
No one asks me to make
their favorite dinner
no dishes are clean,
no one asks me for another
twenty dollars
no one wakes me up at 2 am
with the thunder of slamming doors
no one yells in my face
You’re so fucking stupid!
The drugs are talking now
we say, as not to
acknowledge the truth.
I sit in group.
We all have that child,
we laugh at the same stories
of burnt foil pieces
found under mattresses
spotted with blackened scars;
We laugh louder at the tales
the addict charms us with,
we laugh deeper as the tears
rolling down our faces
blur the intricate pattern
in the carpet all our eyes
are focused on.
=
After the laughter—
my empty nest full
of broken eggs
Leslayann Schecterson
THE STORIES WE BELIEVE
I believe in nothing.
Faith used to live in me
to breathe
even when I barely could.
A wretchedness I hadn't the words to convey,
a child steeped in intrinsic guilt, like no one had ever sinned before.
I wore shame and despair like a hair shirt -
like hearing over and over, you are unworthy -
like learning that the world's most beautiful story
is one where someone had to die
to make you worth anything at all.
And that made sense to me.
Didn't I know I was all wrong?
Didn't I know there was a hole in me
that swallowed all the worth people thought I possessed?
Oh, I believed.
I don't cling to that story anymore.
It came with too much baggage.
But that meant the void inside needed another explanation
a different story.
The new story is this:
there is no meaning
except what we make.
My wife's smile.
Sunlight through rain showers.
Green shoots, winter lights
spices in my kitchen, the touch of a friend.
There is meaning all around
in every tender moment
enough to fill the darkest void
or at least to light a candle in the depths.
Now, this is what I try:
I believe in everything.
C.L. Halvorson
THE JANITOR
Seemingly furthering hours
Oddly come nowhere but closer
Other days before closing- time scrubs and scours
Unchangingly everchanging, immutably so
Time, ever presenting a humble power
Of erasing itself-- every one and thing it's sown
James Wildes
DO NOT PUT OUT THE WELCOME MAT
Do not put out the welcome mat,
don’t call and leave a word.
Do not sit alone at home at night
or mope in dudgeon with the cat.
What’s done is done; all regret
is as gauze to fire.
Lust is what it was, just that,
and soon we’ll heal, forget.
We made our bed in Chaucer’s May,
delved at summer’s noon.
Raised a child in October’s rain,
parted on a winter’s day.
Now the bitter years have blown
browned and yellowed leaves
Onward through a tattered world
as we seek our peace alone.
Do not put out the welcome mat,
don’t call and leave a word.
Do not sit alone at home at night
or mope in dungeon with the cat.
Robert Miller
PERPLEXED
They say you're not the cancer but call you by its name
Progress notes and billing codes identify your stage
If your PSA is positive, that's not good news for you
The same holds true for MRIs, CTs and PET scans too
To be labeled a survivor, simply means that you're not dead
You could be running marathons or in a Stryker bed
You're told that you should talk about whatever's on your mind
But, though they try to listen, they just don't have the time
The treatments you're subjected to are painful at their best
The drugs that keep you going have nasty side effects
True friends will gather round you, loved ones will have your back
But though support is what you crave, you fear you can't give back
At some point, if you are lucky, things begin to turn around
You acknowledge your mortality, accept you're giving ground
You're not the person that you were, will never be again
This is more of a beginning, less of a dismal end
Less time spent in grieving, leaves more time left for fun
Less somber rumination, sends depression on the run
It's not that things are peachy, not everything is great
But good times breed complacency, hard times invigorate
What's left becomes more precious when there is an end in sight
With less time left to squander, what remains is worth the fight
It's only in their absence, life's gifts are understood
Consenting to misfortune, you embrace the good
Frank Kelly
ANOTHER WAR
The dawn is dark as night
without its stars or moon,
the lights of heaven all burned out
by fires here on earth
and the coal-black smoke-black
question, What have we done?
Taylor Graham
NOWHERE JOURNEY
I planned a journey that did not end.
I waved goodbye to those I loved,
Plunged into a place that never existed.
Mountains and rivers, oceans, or streams were nowhere to be found.
No roads, no planes or trains, carriages or cars.
Fog obscured everything and shifted in continuous clouds of froth.
But I had my legs and feet so I began to walk across a spongy wet grassy field.
Sometimes at the edges I glimpsed a shadow in human form
If I called out, they vanished as if mirrored by my imagination.
I left no footprints in the murky grass,
I could lift my body up but could not fly.
Had I died? Where was the exit?
Was this how Alice felt in Wonderland or Dorothy in the land of Oz?
Where was the White Rabbit who could lead me, where the magic red
patent shoes I could click to get home?
I pressed on going nowhere, then realized it must all be make believe
My mind showed me the picture of my loved ones waving goodbye.
I closed my eyes and focused on them
When I opened my lids, they were there, still waving.
Back so soon? they asked. How was the journey?
Not what I expected, I confessed.
Not at all.
The story of the journey is all I have to bring back,
And the joy is finding all of you, my loved ones waving and waiting.
Susan Glenn Lampe
THE SHARK IS MAN’S BEST FRIEND
What has the dog ever done for us, except manipulate us
With those big brown eyes and cuddly fur to provide him
With food and lodging for life? The Shark on the other hand,
Is the human’s forever herald and guide. And as the
Ocean’s doctor, her goal is to do no harm.
We must give no credence to foolish movies who
Project our friend as a monster. Her ancestors populated
The Earth’s seas hundreds of millions of years before
Human forms finally emerged from the water and
Evolved as earthlings. After hiding her eggs in coral
Crevices to keep her species alive, the shark continued
To swim. Her brain did not expand like the humanoids,
But she trusted the gifts she had been given—a strong
Massive jaw, the sharpest teeth that could re-grow
If they were torn out while defending herself
From an orca, and a sense of smell that never failed
In her ever-focused search for food. She never
Targeted anything that she did not wish to eat, never
Squandered her precious teeth on stones, never schemed
For more than the generous ocean offered her. Over the
Millennia, she became the apex predator, free to eat
Anything she wanted. Her preference is the fat
Juicy seal, and she doesn’t bother with bony little fish.
When we humans, whose only gifts are big brains,
Opposing thumbs and feet that can balance the whole
Body upright, started to appear, uninvited,
Into the sea, she had no interest in eating us,
Scrawny and bony as we are. Today, the black-tipped
Reef sharks ignore the scuba divers in the lagoon,
And the shark swims on in her silence,
Mentoring us, with her jaws, her teeth and her
Miraculous sense of smell. What have we done
With our brains, our thumbs and our heavy feet?
Rose Anna Higashi
APHRODITE
I am not your Aphrodite,
though I am not hideous.
Though I am a little bit cute,
my hair is no silken waterfall,
my eyes, no brown gems.
I have curves,
yet I am not voluptuous.
There's no green spark in my gaze,
borne of the deep sea,
propelling you to me,
reassuring you to proceed.
My lips and cheeks
do not glow with sensuality.
Still, you pursue me,
as if I were the love goddess
from Mount Olympus.
Perhaps I give you
the impression of beauty
from afar.
So come closer,
shake my hand,
and you will see that my skin
is mottled with age spots.
Jackie Chou