It has been a long time dream/aspiration/goal of mine to perform at the Dodge Poetry Festival, to rub elbows with cool poets I love, to be in that catalog of (it seemed to me, all these years), who’s who. This year, I was accepted to present, and the festival launches today. I’ve recorded some parts, and will be live in some other parts over the next ten days. I am bummed to not share space with all those poets, to not rub literal elbows. But as I looked at the incredible, incredible, incredible list of poets, a knot formed in my stomach. Why was I included? I literally spent an entire hour scouring the Dodge site for information on what special program I might have been accepted under. Then I was so embarrassed by my lack of play-it-cool that I swore I’d never tell anyone. An hour later I told my whole writing group. And today I’m telling you. Self-doubt is the thrumming static under-language of my mind, and I work on quieting it, and I’m getting better about it, but when something good happens, part of me is compelled to look around to check if I’m being pranked. Do you mean me? Are you sure? I ask the person delivering the good news, who may or may not be there in real time as most of this kind of news is delivered via email or letter.

I love the poem “The Untrustworthy Speaker” by Louise Glück because the self-doubt voice is so familiar and unapologetic. It’s freeing and not inspirational. I think it’s really important to set aside toxic positivity and really hear the voice inside you that drags you down. You may not want to believe it, and you likely shouldn’t believe it, but if you just stuff it down and guilt yourself for it, you’ll never be able to deal with it. And that’s what I love about this poem. It voices, very clearly, the not-enough soundtrack–but the title is “The Untrustworthy Speaker.” You need to hear that voice, but you’d do well to remind yourself that it’s not speaking the truth. Here’s the poem.

The Untrustworthy Speaker

BY LOUISE GLÜCK

Don’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken.
I don’t see anything objectively.

I know myself; I’ve learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
that’s when I’m least to be trusted.

It’s very sad, really: all my life, I’ve been praised
for my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight.
In the end, they’re wasted—

I never see myself,
standing on the front steps, holding my sister’s hand.
That’s why I can’t account
for the bruises on her arm, where the sleeve ends.

In my own mind, I’m invisible: that’s why I’m dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless,
we’re the cripples, the liars;
we’re the ones who should be factored out
in the interest of truth.

When I’m quiet, that’s when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house, the azaleas
red and bright pink.

If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
to the older daughter, block her out:
when a living thing is hurt like that,
in its deepest workings,
all function is altered.

That’s why I’m not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
is also a wound to the mind.

Your prompt is to continue with the borrowed lines below. All of them, or some of them, or one of them as a refrain. Just get out of your way and listen. And then come to the festival. It’s going to be amazing.

Don’t listen to me;

I know myself, I’ve learned…

I never see myself…

all my life I’ve been praised for…

In my own mind…

When I’m quiet…

If you want the truth…