Poetry, Prose Poem, Prose, and Gord Downie

Gord Downie, lead singer of Canada’s The Tragically Hip, has been referred to as a poet. Yes, he’s published a book of poetry, but I wanted to read the lyrics to his songs to confirm this kind of writing. I admit that although I loved the sound of the band in my high school years, the words he sang were not entirely clear (I did not pay attention to lyrics back then) so I never really knew what he was singing about.

Fast forward to his last concert a few weeks ago. Gord dazzled me. And now I had the internet to look up all his lyrics! I did not recognize his words as “poetry” as I understood poetry to be. Here’s more that I discovered.

Poetry is a language that isolates feelings. Poetry came first, before prose, as in children’s verses and music. It is decorative, more expressive than prose. Poetry uses rhyme and rhythm, and when read aloud a poem carries an emotional sound and feel. Poetry is primarily used to provoke thought. Lines in poetry can be very long or as short as one word in keeping with an intended rhythm or to emphasize an idea. Lines may be arranged in stanzas.

Come in, come in, come in, come in


From thin and wicked prairie winds come in


It’s warm and it’s safe here and almost heartening


Here in a time and place not lost on our imagination

(from The Tragically Hip’s “The Darkest One”, 2002)

Prose is a straightforward delivery of an accumulation of ideas arranged in sentences and paragraphs. The first word of every sentence is capitalized. Prose is what we read in everyday writing. Large blocks of words communicate thought and information. Novels, essays, short stories are all prose. Some prose can read lyrically which leads to a third form, the Prose Poem.

Prose Poem is writing that appears like prose but reads like poetry. Writers who are part of literary circles have been innovative in developing their own styles. Prose poem can be a few lines or a few pages and utilizes techniques typically associated to the form of poetry. Techniques such as fragmentation of lines, repetition, and rhyme are vehicles that enable greater expression in writing.

 An example of this is from Campbell McGrath’s “The Prose Poem”:

On the map it is precise and rectilinear as a chessboard, though driving past you would hardly notice it, this boundary line or ragged margin, a shallow swale that cups a simple trickle of water, less rill than rivulet, more gully than dell, a tangled ditch grown up throughout with a fearsome assortment of wildflowers and bracken. There is no fence, though here and there a weathered post asserts a former claim, strands of fallen wire taken by the dust. To the left a cornfield carries into the distance, dips and rises to the blue sky, a rolling plain of green and healthy plants aligned in close order, row upon row upon row.

I’m wondering what form Gord Downie’s work resembles more closely. Poetry? Or Prose Poem? Maybe a bit of both? His thought-provoking lyrics tell true stories, offer unwavering opinion and truths, and tug at the emotions. I am reluctant to pin his style down to one thing or another.

If there’s a goal that everyone remembers


It was back in old ’72

We all squeezed the stick and we all pulled the trigger


And all I remember is sitting beside you

You said you didn’t give a f*ck about hockey


And I never saw someone say that before


You held my hand and we walked home the long way


You were loosening my grip on Bobby Orr

(from Tragically Hip’s “Fireworks”, 1998)

  

Late breaking story on the CBC


A Nation whispers, “We always knew that he’d go free”


They add, “You can’t be fond of living in the past


‘Cause if you are then there’s no way that you’re going to last

(from Tragically Hip’s “Wheat Kings”, 1992)

Whatever style it is, it’s Gord’s. He is a poet. And a story teller, and a lyricist, and a musician. An artist. And so much more. Thank you, Gord Downie, for being Ahead by a Century.

Vacation – Just Do It

Bernice-photo-Aug 2016

Black smoke billowed from the car as we sputtered to a stop on the side of the road directly under the Kirkfield lift lock east of Fenlon Falls, Ontario. Hubby and I managed to move the vehicle to a shady spot in a restaurant parking lot a hundred yards away but it clearly wasn’t getting us any further. Not the best way to start a vacation.

The breakdown was a distant memory though as, several days and sixteen hundred kilometers later, we turned on to Took Titch Road in the northwest part of the province, and wound our way down a narrow lane to our own little beach on Rainy Lake. An old log cabin with red shutters and cedar deck would be home for the next week. Read more

First Million Words

‘The first million words are never very good.’ says Brian Henry, editor and creative writing instructor who also publishes Quick Brown Fox, the hugely popular Canadian blog for writers.

Without doing the math, I imagine a million words would be equivalent to at least ten novels or a legion of short stories. Couldn’t hazard a guess where I might be on the continuum but the target is a long way off. Read more

A Sense of Place

 

20160528_083639The world is a sensual place and our job as writers is to grab those senses and give our readers enough of a taste to spark their own imaginations. How do we do that? First, by being good observers. All artists must observe the world around them in order to translate it into their art. But there is also a deep inner world, a resource full of memories, not to mention the internet; to help us imagine our world without leaving the house.

There’s also the place you write in. And here on this fine May day, there’s no better place for me then on my screened-in porch, or on the attached deck. The breeze is blowing through carrying the perfume of the lilacs at the base of the step. I can see their purple blossoms bobbing in the breeze against a backdrop of multi-shades of green. May is our reward for suffering through the pains of winter: the silence of white, the quiet absence of life now broken by this overabundance, this bursting forth. The crows are cawing, the sweet tweet of the chicadees, the incessant questioning of the mourning doves: whoo, whoo, whoo; and the twittery chatter of the rest of the bunch. When the Grosbeak shows up, then we’ll really have song! The hummingbird hovers by my window wondering when the feeders are coming. Read more

Getting Past Your Own Preconceptions

Two Roads
Divergent Creativity

So I’m working with some of my writing colleagues on an anthology of short stories.

We agreed on a common theme to give the stories context and cohesion, and the ideas were brilliant and coming fast and furious. As anyone who belongs to one knows, the best thing about being in a writers’ group is it inspires you to hunker down to your own work. As soon as they come up with ideas out loud, you find yourself spurred to create and contribute your own. So many ideas – it whets the appetite of the imagination.

I made an outline; I made notes. Copious notes. Dialogues. I could see the characters in my head, I could imagine where they lived, the routes they moved along on. The words came, the pages filled up. Read more

Behind the Thoughts of a Contest Judge

Judge's Contest Sheets
Judge’s Contest Sheets

 

Truthfully, I’m a writer most of the time, sometimes I’m an editor and occasionally I judge writing contests.

I’ve judged numerous contests, but during the past few weeks of May, I’ve had the honour of helping judge both, a short story contest and a novel contest. I’ve discovered some important things that make a winning submission and also a few things that turn judges off immediately.

Here are a few things judges check for when judging a writing contest: Read more

A Writer’s Dream

And What Happens When You Find Yourself Without Time to Write.

               Beware! Your Dream Self may have Plans of Her Own.

                               This is based on a true story (more or less). 

                                             While sleeping Friday night…  

I’m enjoying a fantastic ride along a vivid dreamscape. My dream self, with my dream sisters, impulsively decide to charter an enormous cargo boat to cross the Atlantic Ocean to Europe. Excitement runs high and they dance along the decks, giggling and high fiving each other as the boat cruises through the water.

The Captain, a wire thin man with a hunched shoulder, occasionally removes his eyeball to nibble on the backside, like a nervous habit whenever he’s stressed. After, he slips eyeball back into the socket with a sucking sound, chewed end towards his skull so no one can notice. There’s a First Mate, but he’s sly and mute fellow, never quite seen clearly, like a shadow. The only other person on board is The Engineer, who drives the boat like he’s drunk, often getting it stuck in shallows and taking the curves at high speed so he could bank the boat on its keel (I know, we’re technically in the ocean, but dreams tend bend reality). With all the twists and turns, he ends up getting them lost.

They come upon an unknown land. On the cliff banks, there’s a semi-deserted town, half in ruins. Children hide in doorways and cats lick their paws on cinderblocks. They discover a back laneway leading to two-story building that sells scraps of junk.   The owner has a short beard, a kind voice and invites them to wander through his yard of wonders. As they trudge deeper into fray, it extends on and on like an unwinding skein of yarn.

This is when my dream self slips away from the others, on the excuse of looking for a bathroom. She enters a steel constructed building and in its depth, she discovers a windowless room. Inside, there’s a tub holding a sleeping baby. Like in the historical pictures of Inuit children, the child is bundled in layers of fur and circle the face giving the baby an owl like appearance. There’s a tiny toilet – which my dream self uses – slightly disturbing to me, but no, I didn’t pee in the bed. And where a counter and sink might be, instead is a desk with a flat screen computer.

Read more