Writing Narrative Poetry

I am, by choice, a big fan of narrative poetry. I tend to write narrative poems more than any other type. What are they? Narrative poems are poems that tell stories. The Iliad was a series of long narrative poems strung together. Beowulf. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The Cremation of Sam McGee. What makes them different than writing fiction? Narrative poems are stripped down to their bare essentials. They allow the reader to supply details the poem doesn't have time to tell. Hair color, type of shoes, breed of horse? Unless it is necessary to the poem, it's not in there. Narrative poems concern themselves with the immediacy of the moment rather than the emotional picture. They plunge you into the action, sword in hand, blood spatters on your shirt.

A good narrative poem is like any good piece of fiction. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Narrative poetry has more in common with short stories than novels, in that it focuses on a specific topic. Generally, the bigger the action, the longer the poem; the smaller the action, the smaller the poem. No one wants to read a twenty page missive on the how you learned to tie your shoes. (Trust me.) A few stanzas should be sufficient. Tell the story you need to tell, and nothing more. While thinking of your story poem this is where you bring in three important words to guide you through the beginning, middle, to the end. "What happened next?"

Narrative poems generally have a theme that runs through them. The theme helps the poet choose the words and meter that will set the tone and emphasize the theme. An important aspect of setting the tone is the choice of POV presentation. If the story is about you, or is significant to you, first person POV may be your best bet. Your narrator mirrors your personality. Third person, or storyteller POV, allows the poet to distance him/herself from the story being told. The story may even be told second or third hand for effect. Part of the advantage of writing poetry is the ability to study a topic in many different forms, through different narrators. The death of a loved one can be examined through a variety of lenses from the intimate to the distant.

One way to write narrative poems (you may want to cover your eyes, writers) is to outline them. Yep, the dreaded outline is a useful tool in organizing a narrative poem. "But isn't that like using a sledgehammer to smash a fly"? Not in my opinion. Any tool that helps bring definition to a piece of writing, and more importantly - enable me to write faster - is a good tool. You wouldn't build a birdhouse without a blueprint, would you? (If your birds are living in Dali-esque housing, no need to answer.) Even something as simple as: What is my topic? What is my theme? Whose voice do I want to tell this story in? What is my beginning, middle, end? A sentence for each. Even a word or two for each, anything to make you consider the options before you write. Then, with the objectives firmly fixed in your mind, go forth and write the first draft.

Poetry, especially narrative poetry does not spring forth complete as if a child from the head of Zeus. I really wish it were so, but one of my favorite quotes by L. Sprague de Camp sums it up. "There is no mistaking the dismay on the face of a writer who has just heard that his brain child is a deformed idiot." Revise, revise, revise, until you have the story that you wanted to tell, in a form that makes people want to read it. Lyric poetry wants to clue you in on the thoughts and feelings of the poet, hence the elegy, ode, and sonnet. Dripping, gooey with sentiment. Emotions are the driving force of lyric poems. It's a big reason Plato and Aristotle thought poets had no place in their utopias. All those messy emotional appeals. Narratives might have had a chance, for narrative poetry it's all about the story. Everything else is just gravy.

The openings to some narrative poems.

Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Casey at the Bat by Ernest L. Thayer

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast:
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that,
They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.


The Shooting of Dan McGrew by Robert W. Service

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.


And a different take on the narrative-

'Out, Out—' by Robert Frost

The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them "Supper." At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. "Don't let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!"
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

##

On The Road Again

While on last week's Outreach adventure across Wyoming, I stopped to take a few pictures for those of you wondering how I can listen to opera, talk to myself, compose poems in my head, and sing along with Stan while not driving off the road or getting distracted. This is why:

Correct! There is nothing out there! Roadkill bingo this week produced an excess of skunks, but not as many rabbits as previous trips. One dead antelope and the remains of something unidentified, but the crows were very interested in. One eagle sighting -golden, numerous hawks, and an unconfirmed sighting of a fox darting across the road in front of me. To keep me company this trip I had Sundance Mountain, where I will do Outreach in a few weeks. In case any bears need me? Ah well, maybe I'll see some wild gnomes...

Historical Fiction Preference Meme

Since I liked this bandwagon, and there were no cybertags, threats, or cookies involved, I jumped on board.

Straight Historical, Historical Mystery, Historical Fantasy, Historical Romance, or Time Travel?
All of the above, although I'm not big on mysteries. If pressed, I'll admit to preferring Historical Fantasy above others.

Historical Figures as Main Characters or Purely Fictional Characters in Historical Settings as Main Characters?
I prefer purely fictional characters as the main characters, and historical figures as 'accessories'. Sometimes historical figures as main characters comes off as Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure … Depends on the author - My fallback position.

Hardback, Trade Paperback, or Mass Market Paperback?
I only buy hardbacks on a few select authors, and for research books. I prefer Trade paperback because I can actually still read the print. Mass Market, "This book will self destruct in 3 weeks" paperbacks are getting harder for me to read, text and binding wise.

Philippa Gregory or Margaret George?
Margaret George, mainly for Memoirs of Cleopatra, which can also double as a doorstop.

Amazon or Brick and Mortar?
Amazon, because I'm a 284 mile round trip away from a real brick and mortar store. (Note: Amazon Prime is a tool of the devil)

Bernard Cornwell or Sharon Penman?
Bernard Cornwell. He writes more in eras I'm interested in.

Barnes & Noble or Borders?
If I make my 284 mile trek to a real brick and mortar, Barnes and Noble is it. Of course it's the ONLY one there, so beggars can't be choosers.

First Historical Novel You Ever Remember Reading?
Hmm… Red Badge of Courage, Little House on the Prairie, and Last of the Mohicans in elementary school I think, The Winds of War in high school. Those are the ones that stand out. I'm not sure the Iliad and Odyssey count as history novels, besides, I read them as poetry. I read every WWII and Vietnam book I could get my hands on in high school. Now I'm trying to figure out where my ancient history obsession came from. Probably all those art history classes.

Alphabetize by Author, Alphabetize by Title, or Random?
Sorted by subject matter usually. Each subject to its own shelf. (I have LOTS of bookshelves.) No alphabetizing, A) because I can't care, and B) because my child once alphabetized my DVD collection and I could never find anything. I remember titles, not authors anyways.

Keep, Throw Away, or Sell?
Keep. I keep everything. Refer to my Pack Rat post of a few months back if you want gory details. You never know when a book will come in handy. Keep. Everything.

Jean Plaidy or Norah Lofts?
Neither. Not interested in the time periods they write about.

Read with Dust Jacket or Remove It?
Dust Jacket. Then I can use the flap as a bookmark.

Stop Reading When Tired or at Chapter Breaks?
When I get tired.

“It was a dark and stormy night” or “Once upon a time”?
Once upon a time.

Buy or Borrow?
I used to borrow from the library a lot, but they frown on writing in the margins. Now I buy almost everything, I can write tirades in the margins and not worry about the books being overdue, not to mention being on a first name basis with my UPS guy. He even brings my dogs biscuits.

Posie Graeme-Evans or Pamela Kaufman?
Neither.

Buying Choice: Book Reviews, Recommendations, or Browsing?
Reviews if they are comprehensive, browsing when available. Especially for non-fiction. Recommendations from a select few people who I trust. In other words, I am not an impulse buyer.

Dorothy Dunnett or Anya Seton?
Dorothy Dunnett just because she was so darn interesting.

Tidy Ending or Cliffhanger?
Tidy ending. I want closure with the characters in the novel. Hints of future problems/turmoil are okay, just make sure THIS book finishes, or I'm apt to never pick up another one in that series.

Sticking Close to Known Historical Fact, or Using Historical Fact as Wallpaper?
Close to the facts. Wallpaper is used to cover up flaws in the walls. *g*

Morning Reading, Afternoon Reading or Nighttime Reading?
What was the question?? I read from can see to can't see.

Series or Standalone?
Either. But a series has to have a plan, not resemble an endless wheel. *cough*

Favorite Book of Which Nobody Else Has Heard?
I'd say mine, but my ego's not that big this week. *g*
Count Belisarius by Robert Graves. What can I say, it's set in Byzantium.

Got Corgis?

Well, it's one way to keep the gnomes at bay. Gnomes can't handle that much cute.

Any animals in your stories, real or created? I have horses, of courses... dogs, rats, tigers, camels and llamas of a sort. The usual assortment of edible critters. Surprisingly, no cats. Yet. My OSH cat, Anubis, has lodged a formal complaint. Of course it sounded suspiciously like his "I'm starved feed me damn it the service in this place stinks" yowl, so I'll have to investigate further. And photograph.

I Write....

Therefore I Procrastinate.

Someone To Watch Over Me

Feeling the need for inspiration? Someone to monitor your progress, nag, and cajole you into writing, even when you don't feel like it? Acme Real Gnome Headquarters (ARGH) has the answer for you! Gnome in Your Box. Your very own writing gnome to help keep you on the straight and narrow. Guaranteed to glare at you from your desktop day and night, and mutter phrases like:


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"Your characters suck, kill one! Then there will be less suckage, and more blood."


"You think *Insert hated/loved author here* is surfing the Net? No! He/She's WRITING. Get to work, you slackard!" *pokes writer with pointy stick. hard.*


"A real writer wouldn't let a root canal stop him/her. He/She'd turn it into a trilogy, an epic ballad, or at least a sonnet!"


And dozens of other rude and unintelligible phrases sure to motive/terrify the writer in you to get off his/her collective ass and get to work. Best of all, Gnome in Your Box is cheap. Will work for Dark Side cookies, and drops of blood. What are you waiting for? Get Gnome In Your Box today! * (Click HERE for 1600 x 1200 Gnome In Your Box Wallpaper)





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Marmion and Other Deceptions

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive!"

Back when I was that odd kid in high school and college that read Shakespeare for fun, I rummaged around for other authors of interest. In one of those strange coincidences, a friend recommended Sir Walter Scott. "You have to read Marmion," he said, "It mentions your name. And that quote you like? It's not Shakespeare, that's why you can't find it. It's Sir Walter Scott." So I secured my copy of Marmion, A Tale Of Flodden Field and off I read.

Marmion is a very long narrative poem written in six cantos and published in 1808. It's about the battle of Flodden Field in 1513, where the English army killed King James IV and slaughtered the Scottish army. It has enough operatic overtones to keep even Gabriele happy, I think.

The poem talks of Lord Marmion, who is interested in Clara de Clare, who is already engaged to Ralph De Wilton. Not to be thwarted, Lord Marmion forges a letter to get De Wilton in deep trouble. He is helped by his present mistress, Constance De Beverley, who breaks her vows and helps with the letter in hopes of winning Marmion. De Wilton claims the right to face Marmion in combat, and is defeated. Clara de Clare runs and hides from Marmion in a convent. Constance was walled up alive as punishment for breaking her vows, but manages to get a letter out proving De Wilton's innocence. De Wilton is reinstated as a knight after proving his innocence, and heads off to find Marmion and demand justice.

Meanwhile, Marmion heads for Scotland to supposedly talk peace. While he is there, the Battle of Flodden Field takes place, and Marmion is eventually killed in the battle. (Very nice, drawn out death scene) Ralph De Wilton arrives just in time to take part in the battle, fights with honor and regains all the status he lost because of Marmion's treachery. De Wilton marries Clara and you assume they live happily ever after...

(from First Canto – description of Marmion)

Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode,
Proudly his red-roan charger trode,
His helm hung at the saddlebow;
Well by his visage you might know
He was a stalwart knight, and keen,
And had in many a battle been;
The scar on his brown cheek revealed
A token true of Bosworth field;
His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
Showed spirit proud and prompt to ire;
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and counsel speak.
His forehead, by his casque worn bare,
His thick moustache, and curly hair,
Coal-black, and grizzled here and there,
But more through toil than age;
His square-turned joints, and strength of limb,
Showed him no carpet knight so trim,
But in close fight a champion grim,
In camps a leader sage.


(Canto Two – Constance speaks to the Abbot)

“I speak not to implore your grace,
Well know I, for one minute’s space
Successless might I sue:
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain -For
if a death of lingering pain,
To cleanse my sins, be penance vain,
Vain are your masses too.
I listened to a traitor’s tale,
I left the convent and the veil;
For three long years I bowed my pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride;
And well my folly’s meed he gave,
Who forfeited, to be his slave,
All here, and all beyond the grave.
He saw young Clara’s face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the heir,
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore,
And Constance was beloved no more.
’Tis an old tale, and often told;.
But did my fate and wish agree,
Ne’er had been read, in story old,
Of maiden true betrayed for gold,
That loved, or was avenged, like me."

(Canto Sixth)

The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,
A sudden light on Marmion broke:
“Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!”
He muttered; “’Twas nor fay nor ghost
I met upon the moonlight wold,
But living man of earthly mould.
O dotage blind and gross!
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust
Had laid De Wilton in the dust,
My path no more to cross.
How stand we now?—he told his tale
To Douglas; and with some avail;
’Twas therefore gloomed his rugged brow.
Will Surrey dare to entertain,
‘Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain?
Small risk of that, I trow.
Yet Clare’s sharp questions must I shun;
Must separate Constance from the nun –
Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive!
A Palmer too!—no wonder why
I felt rebuked beneath his eye:
I might have known there was but one
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.”.