Writing poetry makes you intensely conscious of how words sound

Hear the voice of Helen Dunmore, poet of clarity and song, who taught: “Writing poetry makes you intensely conscious of how words sound, both aloud and inside the head of the reader. You learn the weight of words and how they sound to the ear.” In this saying she reminds us that poetry is not only about meaning, but also about music, texture, and presence. A word is not just a sign pointing to a thing—it is a living sound, carrying rhythm, tone, and weight, pressing upon the ear and the heart alike.

The meaning is profound. In ordinary speech, we rush through words, treating them as tools for communication. But in poetry, every word matters, every syllable is chosen. The poet becomes like a sculptor, shaping not clay but sound, ensuring that each word strikes the ear with its proper force. This is why Dunmore speaks of weight: words are not weightless; they have density, gravity, a heaviness or lightness that determines how they fall upon the soul. To write poetry is to learn this weight, to know not only what a word means, but what it feels like when spoken or heard.

History itself offers witness. Consider Shakespeare, who did not merely tell stories but carved sound into music. “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow”—the repetition is heavy, dragging, carrying the exhaustion of Macbeth’s despair. Or think of Dylan Thomas, whose “Do not go gentle into that good night” resounds like thunder, the sounds themselves carrying defiance. These poets knew that words are not silent signs but resonant bodies, carrying meaning in their echo as much as in their definition.

Even beyond literature, leaders have known the power of sound in words. Martin Luther King Jr.’s speeches live in memory not only for what they said, but for how they sounded. The rhythm of his “I have a dream” was pure poetry—measured, rising, falling, thundering into the heart. The words themselves had weight, not because of syllables alone, but because their sound struck like music upon the soul. Here we see Dunmore’s truth alive: the sound of words matters as much as the meaning they carry.

This truth is also a challenge. It asks us to slow down, to respect the life of language. Too often, we use words carelessly, forgetting their weight, forgetting their music. But to the poet—and to the wise speaker—there are no wasted words. Each is a stone in the bridge of meaning, each must be placed with care. To hear this is to be reminded that words can wound, or heal, or inspire, depending on how they are chosen and spoken.

The lesson is eternal: master not only the thought of your words, but also their sound. Read aloud what you write, and let your ear be your judge. Ask yourself: does this word strike like a bell, or does it fall flat? Does it carry the weight of truth, or does it crumble into emptiness? To become conscious of words is to become conscious of power, for every phrase you utter shapes the world around you.

Practical actions follow. When writing, whisper the words aloud, and feel their rhythm in your mouth. When reading, listen not only for meaning, but for music. Train your ear to hear the subtle differences between heavy and light, smooth and harsh, flowing and broken. And in daily life, speak with awareness, remembering that your words are not feathers in the air, but stones cast upon water—each with ripples, each with impact.

Thus Helen Dunmore’s words endure: “Writing poetry makes you intensely conscious of how words sound… You learn the weight of words and how they sound to the ear.” Let us take them as both guidance and warning. Words are living powers, capable of shaping hearts, building bridges, or tearing them down. To honor their sound is to honor their spirit, and to do so is the beginning of wisdom in both poetry and life.