A poem with a plot invites eavesdropping. Poems are a celebration of beauty – an appreciation of the awe of transcendence using equally romantic ways of expression. All poems are voices trying to tell stories of places. These places may be moments in time, sparks in the neurons of perception, or whole universes in the confusion of an atom. Some poems may be perceived as more eloquent than others, yet all poem-speak is a love language. Narrative poems love a story.
Sara Teasdale’s, The Kiss, is the lyric that comes to mind even right now,
Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.
Strephon’s kiss was lost in jest,
Robin’s lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin’s eyes
Haunts me night and day.
Narrative poems were centuries past, the preferred media of storytelling in a number of cultures. West Africa is ever entitled of her griots, just as Europe, her epic ballads. When Troy lay rabbled in her own conceit’s folly, I sat staring at the screen, wondering, ‘What next for Odysseus?’ The fullness of joy was, when I discovered Homer.
Read – Structured Poetry: Villanelle by Chipo Chama (Zambia)
While narrative verse has traditionally been structured, contemporary settings prefer it unfettered by this limitation. Some poets take writing as a chore, others, their whole existence. As it could be anything, it often presents itself as a sort of meditation. You show up, slow your breath and wait. The subconscious might replay or remind of experiences that affected it most in the straits of per-happen.
Here’s some Wole Soyinka:
TELEPHONE CONVERSATION
Wole Soyinka
(b.1934)
The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. “Madam,” I warned,
“I hate a wasted journey–I am African.”
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
“HOW DARK?” . . . I had not misheard . . . “ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?” Button B, Button A.* Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis–
“ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?” Revelation came.
“You mean–like plain or milk chocolate?”
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. “West African sepia”–and as afterthought,
“Down in my passport.” Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. “WHAT’S THAT?” conceding
“DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS.” “Like brunette.”
“THAT’S DARK, ISN’T IT?” “Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused–
Foolishly, madam–by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black–One moment, madam!”–sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears–”Madam,” I pleaded, “wouldn’t you rather
See for yourself?”
I perceive the writing of any literary work as a time, an experience of intimate confidence.
First, find or grip, or indulge that story that has been flirting with your thought faculties. Heed the whispers of that anecdote that giggles at that place between sleep and wakefulness. Lend her some empathy. Ask her who hurt her, or why her favourite place is the purple of your guilty conscience. Or even, whether she has a friend who is reincarnated as a waterfall.
Read – Introduction to Structured Poetry by Christina Lwendo, Tanzania
Second, own the story. Decide the form that would most suit her personality. Choose a voice, point of view, style and length. Retell the story to her like the good shrink you are. You could ask her how she feels about it, but I prefer you don’t.
Tell it then, to the journal or diary, notebook, or the sands of a coastal beach. Write in chronological order of events, arrange the events however you want to, however the mistress would have you do it (though at this point she may be so pleased already, and half asleep.) Most narrative poems have a sense of humour. They are inclined to wander off in cheeky digressions and love the company of illusions. Poems however, strive to be succinct.
Read – Basics of Literary Review and Critique by Akinrinade Funminiyi Isaac, Nigeria
Let the work breathe for a moment. Then edit. And edit again. And edit again when sleep cannot come in the small hours.
Endings can be ‘happy ever afters’; the whole project can be a sojourn where the reader pulls off the hood/veil at a destination of wonder or shock; they could be a cruel cliffhanger.
Here is an Achebe narrative poem:
ANSWER
Chinua Achebe
I broke at last
the terror-fringed fascination
that bound my ancient gaze
to those crowding faces
of plunder and seized my
remnant life in a miracle
of decision between white-
collar hands and shook it
like a cheap watch in
my ear and threw it down
beside me on the earth floor
and rose to my feet. I
made of their shoulders
and heads bobbing up and down
a new ladder and leaned
it on their sweating flanks
and ascended till midair
my hands so new to harshness
could grapple the roughness of a prickly
day and quench the source
that fed turbulence to their
feet. I made a dramatic
descent that day landing
back ways into crouching shadows
into potsherds of broken trance. I
flung open long-disused windows
and doors and saw my hut
new-swept by rainbow brooms
of sunlight become my home again
on whose trysting floor waited
my proud vibrant life.
Born in Nairobi and raised in the Kenyan countryside, Isaac is a lover of artistic expression, seeker of beauty, and a believer. Most of his poems have been published by Writers Space Africa and Mwanaka Media. Some have been hosted by the Kalahari Review, and Dreich magazine. When not writing, he loves to teach and stare at rivers.
