Last time, we discussed the narrative line as an essential element of good poetry, the kind of poetry that might find a publisher. That narrative line brings drama into the poem, and, to rephrase Robert Frost again, anything written is only as good as it is dramatic.
Drama more or less equals movement, and movement comes mostly from verbs and “verbals,” those words made from verbs–particularly present participles and infinitives (sounding like the Grammar Lady again). During the past several days I’ve written a poem that I’ll still probably polish somewhat. It falls into that category called “narrative poetry,” because it tells a story, so it certainly should feature a narrative line. Let’s take a look at it and consider the elements that–I hope–work together to bring drama into the poem.
Stone and Water
She comes here often, now that she's found
the place, eases her thin body
between strands of barbed wire
at the pasture's edge, then straight from the fence
into woods to walk a hundred paces,
maybe, seeking the smooth, gray bark
of a stout beech, her sign to turn
left, to head for a game trail
and there turn right and walk that path
until it crosses another path,
there to pause and listen, waiting
sometimes for a breath of air to nudge
the chimes together, making them sing.
From where two winding game trails cross,
that tinkling call of wind chimes draws
a straight line to the broad slab
of beech-bark colored rock that slopes
down to and under the narrow stream
that patiently has gurgled out
the notch it slithers through to splash
against another stone and then
two more beyond before it calms
itself upon a loamy bed
and curves a little, out of sight.
How did it come to this? she wonders
once again as her two hands
interlock behind her head
and she lies back on the cool stone
and looks up at a parceled sky
quivering past the waving leaves.
The diesel drone of her husband's tractor
long past earshot, here she rests,
not from any work she does
but from her life beyond that work,
a narrow rut like the cows make
from pasture to the water trough.
She's like the stone, she thinks sometimes,
unmoving, yet sometimes she thinks
she's water searching for a stone.
Neither makes a sound until
they come together. Then they sing.
But for her footsteps and her breath,
here, she never makes a sound
to mar the duet sparkling. Here,
sometimes she thinks of the wind chimes
that jangled from the porch's eve,
lulling her asleep at night,
of how he took them down one day
because they wouldn't let him rest.
She stashed them under the kitchen sink.
Walking alone, she found this place,
then lost it when she tried to return
but on a third walk found it again,
that day angling through the trees
from where two paths met and crossed.
Her knees on the rock, her fingers wet
in the stream, within the limpid chirp
of stone and water she recalled
the ting and clatter restless air
had conjured with her hanging chimes.
Where water makes its way upon
its self-dug rut she took some solace
in the music of the earth
and vowed to hang her wind chimes where
their sound would steer her from two paths
to where a narrow stream complained
and none would hear them, ever, but she.
Okay--I mentioned participles and infinitives. Present participles are the words with "ing" added to them--speaking, writing, listening, etc. In the classroom, I used to refer to them as "ing words." That way, students could picture them. ("Participle" is a rather abstract word.) Infinitives are the form of a verb that uses the word "to"--to speak, to write, to listen. To make them less abstract, I called them "to plus verb" expressions. When used in sentences, they provide action just as do true verbs that work with subjects.
Let's look specifically at verbs, ing words and to plus verb expressions used in the poem's first stanza. I'm using the word "stanza" here knowing that if the Grammar Lady and her colleague the Poetry Lady, who sleeps under a portrait of Emily Dickinson and can tell us all about poetry but is not a poet herself--yes, if those two ladies find this blog, they'll purse their lips and shake their heads in a blend of pity and disdain, both of them fully aware that a poem divided into sections of random length is properly said to be written in strophes or, perhaps, verse paragraphs. Well, I know that too, but having sat among dozens of groups of poets as we shared and discussed our poems, I can say that it's quite rare to hear a poet make such fine distinctions. So, with your permission, let's refer to the first 24 lines of my poem as a stanza, and let's catalogue the verbs, ing words and to plus verb terms, sometimes commenting on them.
Line 1--comes, 's found (has found)
"Comes" is not the strongest verb possible. Generally, look for the verb that supplies the best picture of what you mean. Eventually in the poem we learn that the "here" she comes to is a long walk from the house. Normally, "hikes" instead of "comes" would be a great word choice, with "walks" being not quite as good because "hikes" suggests a long walk, but it also suggests that she travels with some enthusiasm. We eventually learn that the woman moves mostly with a sense of depression or, at best, resignation. In that case, "trudge" would be a good word, but I didn't want to start the poem with such a heavy mood, so I'll stick with "comes," knowing that it's only the second word of the poem and I can make up for its lack of vividness in the lines to come. In a way, this explanation seems like a lot of words about a fairly small matter, but it does illustrate something: in a poem there are no unimportant words, and we should consider and reconsider every choice we make--especially in our verbs and verbals because those words convey all of the action.
Line 2--eases
Line 5--to walk
Line 6--seeking
Line 7--to turn
Line 8--to head
Line 9--(to) turn, (to) walk
Line 10--crosses
Line 11--to pause, (to) listen, waiting
Line 12--to nudge
Line 13--making
So far, all 15 of these action-providing words have come in only one sentence. Also, only lines 3 nd 4 have no such words.
Line 14--cross
Line 15--tinkling, draws
"Tinkling" is used as an adjective here, but it suggests movement (and sound) nevertheless.
Line 17--slopes
Line 19--has gurgled
Line 20--slithers, to splash
Line 22--calms
Line 24--curves
That's 34 action-providing words in 24 lines. Those 34 words supply the narrative line that creates the skeleton of the poem's first stanza. I've already polished the poem to a great extent, but crucial to any revision is looking at all verbs, present participles and infinitives, always considering appropriate alternatives to provide more precise, more vivid, more dramatic wording. At this point, I think I'll probably stick with the verbs and verbals now in the stanza. Also, I'll let you find the action words in the poem's other two stanzas, if you're so inclined.
In fiction, a backstory is usually revealed through a flashback or a subplot. Both flashbacks and subplots involve something like calling time out within the major narrative and adding a paragraph, block of paragraphs or even a chapter. Poems tend to work on a smaller scale than fiction, so any backstory included in a narrative poem is usually more implied than actually discussed. Think about "Stone and Water." It tells the story of woman whose unhappiness takes her repeatedly on a walk to a specific spot along a stream, well hidden in a forest. It implies another story, one about the state of her marriage, and it's all bound up in the wind chimes.
Here's the backstory. At some point in the past, the woman hung wind chimes on her porch simply because their sound made her happy. Likely she didn't consult her husband about the wind chimes; likely she didn't think wind chimes would matter to him. But the wind chimes made him unhappy, and he removed them. Evidently, he told her why. Beyond that, if the matter was discussed at all, the discussion didn't lead to a middle ground that left both parties satisfied. We can easily image that this is a pattern within the marriage, one that the husband might not even be aware of but one that brings great dissatisfaction to the wife. Thus, the backstory (which is created with just a few words) gives meaning to the main story--a minor narrative within a more major narrative line.
Chances are that you have a collection of poems you've written, some of which you're pretty happy with some of which you rather regret. Why not pull out one that you're not happy with and give it a good examination? Can you strengthen the verbs and other action words--the present participles and the infinitives? Also, consider some other revisions that might make the poem more dramatic. Here are a couple of suggestions.
Many poems are written in first person, meaning that the speaker is identified as "I" and the poem is about one's own experience. What about changing to third person? In doing this, you make the poem about a person who can be identified as he or she and maybe even given a name. That person can be described, can possibly be shown acting out whatever the "I" in the original version might merely be thinking. Writing in third person offers dramatic possibilities that first-person writing sometimes doesn't offer.
Another possibility is to change the setting or, in the case of a poem without a specific setting, add a setting. If the reader can't see it in his or her mind's eye, it isn't dramatic. And remember that a person sitting alone in a room being miserable is not as dramatic as a person being miserable alone among people. If you think it's bad enough just to be heartsick, imagine the high school majorette marching in a founders' day parade who has to keep up appearances even though she just passed her boyfriend shamelessly making out on he sidewalk--in front of the majorette's entire world--with the school's most notorious vixen. That's a poem that just might get published.
I hope you've gained something from this and that the read has been worthwhile. Thanks for your time, and may all of your poems be dramatic. Take care.