Pen & Page Prompt #13
This Week: The Silence That Starts the Poem
Pen & Page: Withholding versus Saying
Tension begins before anything happens. In the upcoming prompt, let the room do the speaking: allow setting, objects, light, and small movements to hold the pressure without explanation. Resist naming feelings or relationships; let implication gather in the margins. Time should be felt, not announced—through the pace of lines and the sense that something is about to shift. Hold back the reason and build the weather. When the first words finally arrive, they should feel earned by everything the room has already said.
Prompt #13: The Room Before the Conversation
Core Prompt
Premise:
A chair slides. A heater ticks. A mug leaves a faint ring on the table. We are in the moment before words, the breath-held space where setting, objects, and posture carry all the meaning. I’m interested in what a room can say when the people haven’t spoken yet. This week we’ll write inside that hush. Let setting behave like a character and let objects carry the unsaid. Hold back the backstory; let the room earn it. End with the first actual words spoken.
Prompt:
Two people are about to talk. The poem happens before the first sentence. Describe the room and the bodies within it. Consider light, temperature, objects, small movements. Finish with one short line that is the first words spoken.
Craft Menu:
Objects as subtext: mug ring, crooked frame, unwatered plant.
Posture verbs: lean, hover, fold, angle, notch.
Sound as clock: heater hum, hallway footstep, kettle whistle.
Color & light: choose one precise color or light quality to set mood.
Distance & breath: short lines = pressure; one long sentence = release.
Shape Options:
Modern sonnet (14 lines): last line = first words.
Pantoum: let the held-breath echo through repeated lines (3–4 stanzas).
Prose poem: one tight paragraph ending on the first words spoken.
Free-verse vignette: 12–18 lines, one hinge line where the light or sound changes.
Constraints:
For the first 8–10 lines, no abstract nouns (no “love,” “fear,” etc.).
Don’t name the relationship; let objects and spacing imply it.
Include one time slip (last spring, next week, “before the move”).
Final line: ≤ 5 words and spoken aloud.
Quick Version (10 minutes):
Write 10 lines: lines 1–9 build the room; line 10 is the first words.
Share Back (solo-friendly):
Read your draft aloud twice—normal, then slowly. Circle the one object that best holds the tension; cut two weaker details and upgrade two verbs.
Reflection:
What changed the room’s temperature—light, sound, or posture? Which single detail did the most emotional work?
Take your draft for a short walk—off the screen, into your pocket, into the next hour. Let the room you built keep whispering as you move through real rooms. When you return, keep those images that still hum. cut explain-y lines. If this prompt opened something, pass it along to a friend who might write beside you—two rooms, one quiet beginning. Collaboration!
Coming Next Week: Frame & Phrase — Negative Capability, Practically Speaking
Next week, we write into what we don’t yet know. We’ll practice negative capability—delay naming, hold tension, let objects speak. We’ll take a look at modern mentors, Glück, Phillips, Limón, Diaz, for example, plus I divulge some concrete steps you can steal. If you’d like the full deep-dive, consider becoming a paid subscriber.
Looking forward to catching up with you next week.
Write and thrive,
Robbin



Hi! Thanks for checking it out. It's helpful for avoiding the trap of explaining!
Her Hair is Weather, Her Mouth is Frost
A hard glow settles on the table like spent metal.
The air chills the tongue with iron and the ghost of smoke.
An old image tilts back, its cracked face refusing him.
He pins his own hands to the grain and keeps them meek.
She stands by the glass, narrow as oath-song, wide as hurt.
Her hair is weather, her mouth is frost, and the room shifts around her stillness.
The curtains quiver; the boards stir once and fall quiet again.
A cup surrenders its last warmth and the room takes it in.
Their silence measures them with the sure weight of blades.
“You never left.”