Write a poem that tells a story

by John Hewitt on 9/11/2008

30 Poems in 30 DaysIn the earlier days of this site, I used to host a fast fiction exhibition. Every week I would post a prompt and people could write a very short story in response to the prompt. It was a lot of fun. A story told in 100 or 200 words starts to read a lot like poetry. All of the excess thoughts have been eliminated. There is no room for wasted words when the count is so tight. To me, that is one of the advantages of good poetry over prose. Every word matters.

A poem doesn’t have to tell a story. The pantoums that Jenn just wrote about, for example, don’t feel like a story. The use of repetition makes them feel more like a thought that simply won’t go out of your head. There are also nonsense poems, chants, list poems, imagist poems and a variety of other forms and approaches that are not about the story. Even the prose poem, which takes on the look of a story with its use of paragraphs and other prose structures, generally reflects thoughts more than story.

If you choose to tell a story with your poetry, you will find yourself looking at a narrative that winds through your poem. Events happen in succession. There are some poems in which a line or a stanza can easily be moved because the poem doesn’t progress along the lines of a plot. If the poem tells a story, however, there is generally a flow between lines and paragraphs that only makes sense in order.

People are comfortable telling stories. They do it naturally. Poets write about moments from their lives. Poets make up stories that are realistic or fanciful. They do all the things that prose writers do. They just do it in a different way.

Today’s Poetry Prompt

Write a poem that tells a story. For an added challenge, use a word count. Write four stanzas, each with 30 words.

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{ 5 comments }

Key September 11, 2008 at 3:27 pm

I’m looking forward to trying this! Might take me a couple of days, but I love writing stories so this will be fun.

Sheer September 12, 2008 at 11:05 am

Not by chance

I went to the riverside this afternoon
With my trusty notebook and lovely parasol
Strolling along casually in stunning maroon
With a red red rose in my dark dark hair

The brilliance of the shinning sun
Reflected clearly on the calm surface of the river
Like the lovely blood red rose in my bun
Appeared strikingly against my black locks

I sat solitarily on the riverside bench
As the sun continued its relentless marching
Scribbling random thoughts aimlessly in romantic French
Seemingly oblivious to everything and everyone that surrounded me

But the red rose in my locks
Reveals my secret as clearly as the brilliant sun
Cos I’m not here by chance, the fickle lady
But for you, stranger you.

Maryellen Grady September 14, 2008 at 6:07 pm

Sunday, Late Afternoon

“The black room took us like a cave” – line from a poem by Anne Sexton

We’d been having drinks on the porch but the rain was coming down in torrents.
We moved slowly, intuitively towards the den, like animals going to the pond at sunset.
Something was odd, off center, cold, but I was distracted by my heart’s ache.
Like an Alzheimer sufferer, my heart daily broke at sunset.
The pain again felt freshly inflicted: “I don’t want you in my life any longer.”
Fiona was talking about her suicide plans again.
I knew some day she really would take those pills, spill that wine.
James wasn’t working to cheer her this time.
He scared me by talking about his own proposed date with his car exhaust.
The black room took us like a cave.

Maryellen Gradys last blog post..LORD, THERE’S JUST ONE SET OF FOOTPRINTS THANKS TO SARAH PALIN

John Hewitt September 24, 2008 at 6:26 pm

I Don’t Camp

I didn’t pack a coat or jacket
Just a flannel shirt
Three t-shirts
Jeans
Tennis shoes
And two pairs of socks
So by seven that night
I was wearing
Everything

The fire was more for cooking
Than for basking
So I crowded close
With the other
Smarter campers
To keep my front half warm
While my back half frosted over

Instead of ghost stories
We talked about Vegas
Swapping tales of big wins
Bad beats
Negotiations with strippers
And staggered drunken ramblings
Like so many fish that were
This big

The heat in the camper was broken
The blankets like suggestions
I got up around midnight
Sat in my car until I stopped shaking
Then drove my cold ass home

Akhristin October 31, 2008 at 3:27 pm

an artist wants to capture
the true essence of beauty
and so he paints what he feels inside
an artist creates dementional imagery
of contour contrast of exuberant triatory color
within nature within natural elegance
refraning emotion of love for life
an artist is within art itself

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