Punch up your Prose with
Poetry
By Lisa Janice Cohen
© 2005,
Lisa Janice
Cohen
“What do you write?”
“Poetry.”
“Oh.”
And the conversation typically stops. On
the rare occasions when it continues, it is usually with some comment about
how the other person hates poetry, hated learning about poetry in grammar
school, or can’t write poetry to save his or her life.
I am a poet. Now cringe and get it out of
your system. Next, exorcise all the demons about poetry education in the
school system and some quasi mystical connection your language arts teacher
had with a long dead poet whereby the teacher had secret knowledge of
what the poem means.
Take a deep breath. Good. Here’s a little
secret: writing poetry will improve your prose.
What is poetry?
When I teach poetry workshop with children,
I tell them that poetry is the frozen orange juice concentrate of language.
It’s the ‘POW’ and the pucker before you put the water in. Distill language
into its essence and you have poetry.
If you analyze your prose from a poetry
perspective, you will more easily see where your language falls flat. The
techniques that enliven poetry will work wonders on your prose.
Three steps to livelier language:
1. Use verbs. Strong verbs.
Verbs literally move language forward.
Adjectives and adverbs stall language. Look at the difference between these
two phrases:
The raptor’s shadow stretches over a
frightened rabbit on the stubbled field.
A rabbit freezes when the raptor's shadow
stretches over a stubbled field.
In the first example, ‘frightened rabbit’
uses an adjective to tell the reader what is happening. In the second, the
‘rabbit freezes’. The verb shows how the rabbit reacts. The reader knows
there is fear.
Here is my final version, with line breaks:
A rabbit freezes.
The raptor's shadow
darkens a stubbled field.
(from “The Healing”)
In this case, ‘darkens’ is a stronger verb
than ‘stretches’ for the action of the raptor’s wings. Ruthlessly eliminate
any forms of the verb ‘to be’ (am is was were are) in your poetry. Try to
be diligent in limiting its use in prose.
2. Make unusual comparisons.
There are three main ways to include
unusual comparisons in your writing: simile, metaphor, and
personification.
Simile—comparison of two things using like
or as.
I revel in long winter walks,
study lessons written by animal tracks
like hieroglyphs in snow.
(from “The Healing”)
Metaphor—comparison of two things without
using like or as
The male, the color of a child's
valentine against fresh snow, tucks
a single black sunflower seed
inside an orange beak.
(from “Love Notes of a Backyard
Naturalist”)
Personification—giving living
characteristics to non living things and or human characteristics to
non-human things.
Its brambles snagged
my winter scarf, scratched
nail marks along the flank
of my car.
(from “Early Morning Berries”)
3. Engage all the senses in your
descriptions
Don’t limit yourself to visual
description. Even though we obtain the vast majority of our sensory data
through the eyes, remember that senses like smell and touch are linked by
strong connections to the limbic system in the brain which ties into
memory. These senses can evoke powerful responses in your reader.
For two weeks
I let the sharp sweetness implode
on my blue tongue, stain careful
fingers.
(from “Early Morning Berries”)
A light
breeze lifts damp feathers, breathes
through my hair, brushes the invisible
down of my son's arms.
(from “Summer Requiem”)
A hot wind roils the curtains. Behind
the scent of jasmine, the acrid
residue of smoke.
(from “The Price of Memory”)
The Revision Process
When I teach the process of revision for
poetry, I ask students to mark every line: underline the verbs, circle the
comparisons, and star where there are sensory-rich descriptions. If after
completing the process, there are lines with little or nothing marked, you
have an opportunity to enliven the work. This can be a powerful tool in
evaluating your prose.
So even if you run screaming from the
thought of poetry, try some of the poetic tools at your disposal. Poetry
promotes punchier prose. I promise.
PS: Extra brownie points to readers who
can define alliteration, consonance, and assonance and can find examples of
each in this article.
Original poems used in this article:
The Healing
You knelt on the trail,
hands cradling my head
while I worried about you
worrying about me. The fear
came later.
A rabbit freezes.
The raptor's shadow
darkens a stubbled field.
They arrived quickly,
but I could see your eyes
marking the moments between
steep slope, sled, and ambulance.
Sometimes the falcon
fails, hunger
his only prize.
The patrol moved carefully,
bundling me in a rigid papoose.
Later, you told me you winced
with each turn and bump,
but I welcomed the pain.
The danger passes.
The rabbit quivers
and returns to feed.
The x-ray tech
joked with me
until the films emerged,
damage stark silver
against the black.
Five years later,
I revel in long winter walks,
study lessons written by animal tracks
like hieroglyphs in snow.
Love Notes of a Backyard Naturalist
The cardinals will not mate
until early spring, but today
I tell you about the pair in our yard.
The male, the color of a child's
valentine against fresh snow, tucks
a single black sunflower seed
inside an orange beak. He swoops
between the base of the feeder
and the hedge that hides his shy wife
to gift her with one morsel at a time.
When the babies hatch, he will feed
them also. February is far too cold
for eggs and she will not construct her
nest
until the sun lingers late in the sky.
Like the cardinals, we mate for life.
When the boys are asleep, you crush
fresh berries on my tongue.
Early Morning Berries
Its brambles snagged
my winter scarf, scratched
nail marks along the flank
of my car. Etched tattoos
on bare limbs of the unwary. It grew
tangled and dark in the driveway
that separated our houses; untamed,
unrepentant. Hard black knots
swelled in the spaces between thorns.
We waited: Sparrows and starlings,
blue jays, crows. Me with my cereal bowl,
milk in a glass bottle. For two weeks
I let the sharp sweetness implode
on my blue tongue, stain careful
fingers. I flew south
searching for more exotic fruit,
found papaya and banana, learned
to eat fried plantains
with red beans and rice.
But the tang of blackberries
lingered on my lips, teased me home.
Summer Requiem
I hold the body in cupped hands,
nascent wings tightly folded
along its scrawny torso. A light
breeze lifts damp feathers, breathes
through my hair, brushes the invisible
down of my son's arms. He wants
to touch its beak, straighten
the twisted neck. We hear birds
call from the maples that join
their hands above our heads.
In this green cathedral, my son
hums a half-forgotten lullabye.
The Price of memory
They whisper across the small bed,
brown leathered hands clasped.
A hot wind roils the curtains. Behind
the scent of jasmine, the acrid
residue of smoke. In a room
bright with pop-star posters,
a daughter strains to hear the cadence
of the past, the sing-song rhythms--
the language she only understands
in the space between wakefulness
and sleep. She clings to her pillow,
tries to put a name to what's been
lost. But her tongue was never taught
to shape the sounds of bitterness.
So many conversations broken
by the silence of denial.
She picks her way carefully;
speaks in perfect imitation
of her American schoolmates,
watches her parent's amber eyes
fill with longing and quiet pride.
(all poems by Lisa Janice Cohen)
ljcblue@aol.com
www.bluemusepoetry.com
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