Picture a professor, with loafers, some hip 90s style jeans, and a blazer, sitting on top of a desk and absolutely charming a bunch of kids from the Midwest with his southern lilt and impish smile.

Night class, poetry, Morningside College. It was Dr. Steve Coyne, Esquire. Caretaker of the squirrels (which he fed from his office window!), asker of the questions that changed our lives and our writing. For the better.

Now that I teach creative writing at a high school, I can tell you how I integrated this dude’s wisdom. First in college, and then to my own students. It was a series of feedback questions he asked us to answer as we, the poetry students, read each other’s work:

1. Who is the speaker?

2. What images do we have?

3. How many beats per line?

4. What is the conflict? Is it resolved?

5. And this, the golden goose of a question: What is the transformative moment?

It is hard for me to explain the power of these simple questions, or the impact it had on my, and everyone else’s, writing. Recently I was lucky enough to grab pizza with Coyne after 5 years since our last meeting, and a shocking 15 years since I graduated. I am lucky enough to say Coyne is one of my readers, and I hope to read his novel when he finishes it!

But anyway.

Upon googling the concept of the transformative moment, I now know more. And I’m HAPPY to report it has utterly transformed my high school students’ poetry into something sophisticated! Not only was a class of over 30 students able to identify the transformative moments in a dozen poems, but many were able to write their own. To me, this speaks to the potency of the transformative moment.

My definition:

A transformative moment is a shift in perspective in which the reader, speaker, or character within a poem sees something a new way. This shift may change the entire theme of a poem, resolve the conflict, increase empathy, add irony, or more. It gives a poem a satisfying ending, much like dessert following a good meal.

After I researched it, I learned it has a much older tradition than I’d realized.

The volta is a moment in poetry, which comes from the Italian word for ‘turn.’ Think of the moment a door opens, on its axis, fulcrum, what have you. That turning opens our eyes, world, and perspective to a new way of seeing things. Isn’t that the whole point of writing?!

According to the Poetry Foundation, “in a sonnet, the volta is the turn of thought or argument: in Petrarchan or Italian sestet it occurs between the octave and the sestet, and in Shakespearean or English before the final couplet.”

Consider Sonnet 130, in which the speaker basically says his lady is not that hot:

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; 
Coral is far more red than her lips' red; 
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; 
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. 
I have seen roses damasked, red and white, 
But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 
And in some perfumes is there more delight 
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. 
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know 
That music hath a far more pleasing sound; 
I grant I never saw a goddess go; 
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. 
   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare 
   As any she belied with false compare.

And yet, the ending couplet says in spite of her imperfect looks, his love for her is precious, that nothing else comes even close. This fresh perspective is what it's all about: she's not perfect, neither is he, but that's why loving each-other is worthwhile.

Consider this contemporary poem, which my high schoolers loved last week:

I Wish in the City of Your Heart 
by Robley Wilson

I wish in the city of your heart
you would let me be the street
where you walk when you are most
yourself. I imagine the houses:
It has been raining, but the rain
is done and the children kept home
have begun opening their doors

Wilson’s final two lines “the children kept home have begun opening their doors” shows us the transformation the speaker desires: for their beloved to open their heart to them. And how perfect is it that the opening of doors fully encapsulates the spirit of the volta, a term which means ‘turn?’

In my own writing, the transformative moment often happens by accident, unconsciously, which I like. Often, it provides a break in tone; if my poem is ethereal and frivolous, it will be a sudden, nightmarish shift, revealing a truth that was lurking in my mind’s depths. If it is a poem about political rage, it is a sudden statement of tenderness or unity.

There are so many more possibilities for the transformative moment: it could be the speaker stepping into a different character’s perspective, an image which shows the meaning or lack thereof, of the conflict of the poem, or an extreme close-up of an image that puts everything in perspective.

For example, in my poem “A Monster is Not Behind You,” what starts as a vaguely humorous, dark, comedic poem about an imagined apocalypse reveals that really, I was writing about my existential horror of what’s going on in the United States this month.

Here’s the poem; I’ve put the transformative moment in bold. Have a lovely apocalypse and wonderful day, dear readers. <3

P.S. And remember, human beings tell stories all the time— we build narratives about our lives whether we’re aware of it or not. The more we practice identifying and writing transformative moments in poetry and fiction, the more we will live them in our waking lives.

A monster is not behind you 
breathing on your neck. 
An 8 tentacled squid man is not crunching 
on bones of people fleeing the 7-11.

No epic last stand was had here
at the remnants of the rebel base 
that did not exist; 
Paula and Tony didn’t share 
their last kiss 
then go out in a blaze of glory, 
sacrificing themselves so 
their comrades could flee.
I’m almost disappointed; 
that sounds kind of sexy. 

And they definitely didn’t wear 
red bandannas
and have a secret handshake 
and leave one last microchip 
in case the humans ever rise

again.

This never happened. 
But I wish it did.
I wish we would all fight 

til the end. 

A monster is not behind you 
but it is before you. 
What will you do?

Audrey Anderson is creative writing teacher, tarot reader, and author; founder of the first ever poetry slam at Morningside University and former editor of The Kiosk literary magazine; her poetry attempts to capture the mystical experience and her fiction reflects themes of social justice, inspired by her travels during the Arab Spring.