Narrative Poem

A narrative poem tells a story. It’s almost that simple. I’ve heard it dismissed as confessional poetry, not that confessional poetry should be dismissed. A narrative poem tells a story, but it is not always about the poet who is telling it. The poet could be telling about themselves or could be recounting an historical or recent significant event. They could be telling a story about a seemingly minor occurrence. It’s not just a story though, because to be a narrative poem there must be the elements of poetry - including such effects as metaphor, rhyme, meter, or rhythm. It isn’t just a paragraph written out with line breaks. The language should be terse and carry some element of awe, possibly even a surprise. These are often written in iambic pentameter as blank verse, but not necessarily. They can be in another form such as a villanelle, but forms with a lot of repetition may not lend themselves as well to a narrative.

The first example I suggest is from Charles Bukowski.

Night School

in the drunk driver's class
assigned there by division 63
we are given tiny yellow pencils
to take a test
to see if we have been listening
to the instructor.
questions like: the minimum sentence for a
2nd drunk driving conviction is:
a) 48 days
b) 6 months
c) 90 days
there are 9 other questions.
after the instructor leaves the room
the students begin asking the questions:
"hey, how about question 5? that's a
tough one!"
"did he talk about that?"
"I think its 48 days."
"are you sure?"
"no, but that's what I'm putting down."
one women circles all 3 answers
on all questions
even though we've been told to
select only one.

on our break I go down and
drink a can of beer
outside a liquor store.
I watch a black hooker
on her evening stroll.
a car pulls up.
she walks over and they talk.
the door opens.
she gets in and
they drive off.

back in class
the students have gotten
to know each other.
they are a not-very-interesting
bunch of drunks.
I visualize them sitting in a bar
and I remember why
I started drinking alone.

the class begins again.
it is discovered that I am
the only one to have gotten
100 percent on the test.

I slouch back in my chair
with my dark shades on.
I am the class
intellectual.

Another favorite, of mine anyway, is The Moose by Elizabeth Bishop. Bishop was taking a bus from Great Village, Nova Scotia to Boston, Massachusetts. Apparently, she thought the bus was going to be more of an express than it actually was. People got on at various stops along Highway 2 and, being a writer, she eavesdropped. The bus came to a stop, though, when it drove up to a moose blocking the road. It takes five pages to print out the whole poem and the first six stanzas are one sentence, yet it reads easily - almost as if you are sitting with Ms. Bishop or knew her. A link to the poem is here.   The Moose by Elizabeth Bishop | Poetry Foundation. I am a huge Elizabeth Bishop fan and I drove this route when I visited Great Village in 2016. When I got to the main highway, I did not see a moose, but I did see a doe and a fawn.

My own example of a narrative poem is the story of what happened one day after I got off the school bus in Freedom, Maine.

Isn’t That Your Cat?

The boys pop out of the school bus as if

shot from a cannon when we get dropped off

back in the village. I take my time since

I don’t have far to walk, in no hurry

to be home. Freedom Village doesn’t have

much to see. On the left there’s an old store

known as the Boy Scout building, the little

white post office. Then there are four houses,  

including ours. On my right - the store,

followed by empty space overgrown with

weeds, all getting taller by the minute,

leading up to the old Banton Brothers

Mill. Behind that, the brook. I can hear it

if I think to listen, but, used to it,

I don’t bother to hear.  The weeds are in

the lumber yard of the abandoned mill,

a long gray building whose clapboards are in

a shapeshifting decay as they return

back into the earth itself. Two of the

boys from the bus run back - right towards me.

“Your cat! Isn’t that your cat?” “Your cat’s hit!”

I go with them into the weeds. Boys aren’t  

interested in me, so I know this

is about my cat Tareyton, named for

the white ring around his neck just like the

cigarettes have. Whenever he wants to

come into the house, he jumps up on the

living room windowsill,  but now he’s here

trembling, shaking, non-stop. I guess he did

get hit by a car but managed to get

this far off the road and into the weeds.

“That’s your cat, isn’t it?” I say nothing,

as I taste saltwater rolling down my

face, hoping it doesn’t show. Tareyton’s

head and the rest of his body are now

a gooey mess. His black and white fur is

streaked with pink and red and what looks like snot.

A few more kids gather. We all seem to

agree it would be best to put the cat

out of its misery - so one boy runs

off home to get his father to shoot it.

They return and the father, looming tall

over my pet, has a hammer because

he’s not going to fire a hunting

rifle right in the village – not to kill

a half dead cat. He hits Tarey squarely

on the head. All its cat troubles are gone.

I can’t take any more of this, so some

kids bury him close to the brook for me.

 

In my house I tell my father - who’s been

reading the paper, hasn’t noticed or

hasn’t paid any attention to the

commotion outside. I’m sad, but remind

myself it was my cat, only my cat.

My mother died a few years ago and

I’m not over that yet. The next morning

I miss Tareyton more than I expect. 

I’m sad all day at school, but don’t want to

tell anybody why. I’m not in class

with the boys from the village. I don’t need  

to talk about it if I don’t want to.

Nobody asks what, if anything, is

wrong so I don’t bother to offer up

any information. My cat got hit;

my cat died. I will just have to take it.

I suppose when I get home, my father

will tell me to get over it. If he

even talks to me, I expect him to

tell me to put the potatoes on for

supper, do something useful for a change.

Instead, when I come through the door, he seems

almost excited, he might even be

happy to see me. “I almost called the

school.” He speaks. “I couldn’t believe it,  scared

the hell out of me.” Grinning (He can grin?),

he tells me he was in the living room

and heard a noise at the window. “Your cat.

Your cat tapping on the glass to come in.”

 

Yesterday we took care of someone’s cat

or a stray, but today my cat is in

the kitchen eating from his bowl on the

floor next to the old, black cast iron stove.

“Your cat,” my father says with a gesture,

as if he’s completing a magic act.