Cavernous Night-a narrative poem
January 22nd 2009 01:43
“What do you think?” she asked. The fire
sputtered like the light in her eyes, troubled
by the silence of the dark. “I think I’m cold
and we’ve been out here long enough,”
he said. He never could open the door
of his soul to let the stars in. “Don’t go,”
she whispered, her voice cutting away
off the body of the doe he had shot
the week before. He stood, a tower
of fire wreathed in shadows. Midnight
dew slithered down his body like tiny
serpents. “Look, I’m tired. I just want
to get back home and go to sleep.”
The night swallowed his words whole.
“I’m cold,” he said. She stood up to face
him. “A warm bed won’t cure the kind of cold you are,”
she said. “Sleeping like a dead man
won’t solve anything.” He sighed, a rush
of air combing still lips. “And what would
you know about…” Eyeless masks,
clattering waterfalls leaping into abysses
of solitude. “You’re burnt out,” she said.
“Your fire is gone.” Pines scraped the sky,
claws of a shattered world stretching
for more. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about,” he said, turning toward the darkness.
“Do you remember when you sang to me
in the orchard?” she inquired. The fire
crackled. “Do you remember the days
on the beach?” He turned back; the fire
roared. “Do you remember?” Flames
danced in his eyes. “Can you feel it?
eyes like shards of glass piercing
the framed echoes of distant
memories. Skin on skin: fingers
crossing the great divide
of hearts torn apart by the teeth
of time. “Come back to the fire,”
she breathed. Warmth rose; his heart
swallowed firelight. “Come and sing
the song you sang when the apples
blossomed.” Screaming silence fell
dead when his music echoed in
the cavernous night.
I don't usually break from tradition, but sometimes I'll make exceptions. This poem is one of those times. I barely paid heed to meter--I edited it just so it wouldn't sound too clunky--and there is no rhyme scheme or syllable parameters. This poem relies soley on its figurative language for its poetic power. Yes, it could be read as a block of text, like prose. But I still broke it into lines at strategic places to give certain words, phrases, and ideas more emphasis than they would have gotten if it had been arranged as prose.
Instead of structural and formulaic devices, I used a lot of alliteration, precise word-choice, and elaborate images and metaphors--which evoke an almost stream-of-consciousness feel--to make the poem work. The parallel structure of the real fire and the fire in the man's heart play off each other.
This is one of my least favorite poems, simply because it's not very structured or traditional. But a lot of people have said that this is one of their favorite poems of mine, because of the imagery and metaphors and narrative feel. I suppose everyone has different tastes. If I could have the same level of complex images and emotions AND have precise meter, rhyme, and form, then I think that would be my favorite poem of mine.
I tend to stay away from writing narrative poems just because they often are very long. Not that long poems can't be good; it's just that the longer they are, the more I tend to lose interest. If a poem drags on and on, I get tired and impatient: What's the point of this poem? Where is this poem going? I like reading short/medium length poems that have a nice puncher at the end. However, I have read a couple narrative poems that I thought were excellent: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot and The Death of the Hired Man by Robert Frost.
I like the Prufrock poem more, because I feel he paid closer attention to form, meter, and rhyme while still having extraordinary images and metaphors and a haunting, thought-provoking narrative. That kind of poetry is what I would want to write if I wrote more narrative poems. Frost's poem is more prosaic, kind of like mine, except he was more clear with what was going on. I liked the Frost poem because it has a nice, punchy ending, which I felt was sort of lacking in the Prufrock poem. However, they're both very good, and I recommend them--and any other poems that Frost and Eliot wrote.
I'm currently working on making a rhymed double sestina. That is, a sestina that has an end-rhyme scheme (and still repeats the same words as a sestina should); the 'double' aspect means that instead of 6 stanzas of 6 lines and a 3 line tornada, there will be 12 stanzas of 12 lines and a 6 line tornada at the end. I have the end-words figured out. They will be: light, mold, face, grow, race, flow, cold, fight, old, know, erase, and night. Now all I have to do is fill in the slots. It will probably be a narrative poem; it's going to be difficult, but I know that with time, patience, and effort, I can make something worthwhile with it.
Good night everyone.
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