Movement in Poetry, Part Two

Now a Noun, Then a Verb

By Patty Zion, Staff Editor

The act of writing poetry challenges us to overcome the static nature of the word on the printed page.  Ink on paper - it sits. It goes nowhere, and the reader also sits while reading it .  We know we want movement to happen for our poems, but achieving the impression of movement without actually animating the words and letters - there lies the  poet’s challenge. 

As we discussed in last week's article, Get Busy with Active Verbs, verbs reign as the most vital factor in creating movement.  When we choose verbs for our writing, we can choose to stay in one place (with passive verbs such as am, are, is, was, be) or to take the reader places (with active verbs such as swim, run, drive, carry, slide). 

But nouns also play a role.  A strong noun can suggest movement simply by existing on an active plane. 

For instance, the noun, tree, usually does nothing beyond standing in a field.  But a similar noun, palm tree, sways in the breeze.  Likewise, willow weeps, and cherry blooms (a slight movement, but a movement nonetheless). 

The connotations of these words include movement, because, in our language, they have long been associated with a type of action.  In fact, we don't even need to say the willow weeps; it would be almost redundant.  Instead, we could say the willow wipes her eyes on a cloud.  (Weeping is implied.)  We don't need to say the palm tree sways.  Instead, we could say the palm conducts the wind's concerto.  This gives us the opportunity to conserve words and space - a plus that makes our poetry more refined, more subtle, and more focused. 

Since we already know that specific nouns sound more powerful than general nouns, it should come as no surprise that specific nouns also imply more movement.  The reason is that the reader cannot truly imagine tree or house existing in a vital scene.  These words are too general, too bland, to take on a life of their own. But when we provide a bit of detail with a maple, a birch, a log home, or a mansion, we give the reader a running start.   

Think about the following words.  What movement do they imply?

legs

wheel

fingernail

printer

trout

heron

As you read through this excerpt from my poem, On Reading Lynn Doiron, note the way the nouns and verbs work together to create action.  I have placed the action-oriented nouns in bold print. 

It's just her words,

bouncing echoes in my brain,

rolling around my hoop earrings,

and then on down,

slipping on my “Mostly Mauve” lip gloss,

then jumping onto my shoulder.

 

Just those Lynn-legged words

that keep on going,

skidding super-sly down my sleeve,

stopping for a cliché-split-second

at the wrist.

Well, the pause is so brief,

it scares the briefs off me. 

Exercise: 

Choose one page of the dictionary.  Select and write down every noun you can find on the page that implies movement.  (A walk through page 580 of my dictionary produced these words:  soccer, socialite, soiree, soldier, and solenoid.)  Write a few lines of poetry using at least three of the words you identified.  Try to use the implied movement without actually mentioning it.  For instance, a soldier marches; instead of saying so, use another verb, and allow the reader to assume the marching action.   

The soldier tripped on the cadence in his boots,

remembering socialites, drunk on fumes of their own soiree,

who danced the beats of San Juan.

These lines of poetry may or may not appear in a finished poem, but they will stretch your mind and your poetic voice.  Like most writing exercises, this one will train your mind and your ear to work together.  The result – action on all levels. 

Listen carefully for the plot in your poetry; bring it to life with active verbs and energetic nouns.  Your reward will show up soon - now a noun, then a verb, and finally, a poem that lives. 

Staff Editor Patty Zion welcomes your editing questions and comments.  You may reach her by e-mail at

dazzleu@alltel.net