Prose vs. Poetry 3

By Roxanne Smolen

Writers don't do well writing in a closet. Come out and learn from one another!

I have some writer friends who look down on poets as if poetry wasn't really writing. And I know a few poets who feel the same about novelists. The truth is, whether it takes hours or years to complete, writing is writing. We struggle with it like a difficult child and feel pride when we send it off on its own. We are writers—and we can learn from one another.

So, in the spirit of unity, I challenge you, my fellow writers, to this exercise. Pick up a book. It can be anything—fiction, cookbook, computer magazine, etc. Open it at random and jot down a passage of text. I will use my book, Mortar's Keep, as an example.

TEXT: Ente smelled a taint in the air. She narrowed her eyes against the dark. The gravelling of her lantern had fallen to dust, leaving her blinded. Stooped and aching, she shambled onward, hampered by the nearness of the ceiling, the closeness of the walls. She carried her robes balled up before her, leaving her knuckles prone to scrapes. The dust laced air filled her throat with bitterness. But not so bitter as her own misgivings.

Now break the paragraph into lines. There is no wrong way to do this—just be aware of the rhythm of the sentences and the intent of the words.


Ente smelled a taint in the air.
She narrowed her eyes against the dark.
The graveling of her lantern had fallen to dust,
leaving her blinded.
Stooped and aching,
she shambled onward,
hampered by the nearness of the ceiling,
the closeness of the walls.
She carried her robes
balled up before her
leaving her knuckles prone to scrapes.
The dust laced air
filled her throat with bitterness.
But not so bitter as her own misgivings.

Now comes the fun part—take out the extra words. Examine each line and cut as many words as you can without changing the meaning. Feel free to fudge a bit.


Tainted Air

She narrowed her eyes
against the dark.
Her lantern had fallen to dust,
leaving her blinded,
stooped and aching,
shambling,
hampered by walls.
She carried her robes
balled before her,
leaving her knuckles
prone to scrapes.
Tainted air
filled her with bitterness
but not so bitter
as misgiving.



There we have a poem. Not a very good one, but a poem nonetheless. It is concise and precise, as all writing should be. But let's cut it further, looking at the rhythm of the piece.



She narrowed her eyes,
her lantern fallen,
leaving her blind,
hampered by walls.
Tainted air filled her
with bitterness but
not so bitter
as misgiving.



Be it prose or poetry, rhythm is an effective way to control your readers' emotion. You can lull them with a plodding gait then change it. Your reader won't know what woke them up—but you will.