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Does every writer, regardless of genre, have an urge to dabble in poetry? Does the ebb and flow of syllabic rhythm entice the essayist to pay more attention to the lyricism of her own work? Is there a true difference between the cadence of a lovely line of poetry and a well-crafted sentence that leads the reader into the first paragraph of a novel?

Brooks Landon, non-fiction writer and professor at the University of Iowa, believes that all writing can benefit from understanding how sentences operate. He says:

“Sentences are shaped by specific context and driven by specific purpose, so no rules or mechanical protocols can prepare us for the infinite number of tasks our sentences must accomplish.”

By the time I got through half of his course, I understood his meaning. I could no longer look at something written and see only the story that the words conveyed. Suddenly I noticed the length of sentences, the patterns used in assembling them, and the syntax of each segment comprising them.

I also understood that poetry, for all of its forms and eccentricities, was no different from prose in its syntax and overall structure. I’ll give you an example. A couple of years ago, I wrote a small piece of creative non-fiction for specific audience. I then translated that piece into poetry, just to see if the piece suffered any ill-effects. You tell me whether I succeeded in making both versions work.

The creative non-fiction piece goes like this:

THE MOONLIGHT DANCE

Moonlight flows across the lawn’s clear center, chasing larger shadows and forming a stage with spotlight. Rustling sounds emerge from the right, loud enough to grab the attention of a watcher. Into the spotlight amble four ebony bodies. Each sports a broad white stripe.

The largest of the troupe leads the single line of dancers into position. They pause. Noses rise to sniff the cool night air. Tongues flick in and out to taste that same air.

Faint chattering escapes young throats.

Chorus dancers, small and new, follow the lead of the diva, their mother. One faint command releases them for movement. Slow revolutions begin counter-clockwise.

One. Two. Three. The line pauses.

Each nose rises to sniff the air. Tongues flick out to taste. Another faint command comes from the leader.

Again they move.

The diva pivots in place to face the line. Each small dancer echoes the movement. Slow revolutions clockwise.

One. Two. Three. The line pauses.

The command voice changes to a more enticing note. The ritual is repeated by the troupe. Counter-clockwise followed by clockwise. After three full ritual dances, the troupe stops as precisely as it began.

A low crooning issues from the diva to her dancers, and they amble off into the shadows to disappear into the night. The watcher stands entranced and questioning. Why did they dance? Had anyone else ever seen such skunk behavior?

The poetic form came out as follows:

MOONLIGH

Does every writer, regardless of genre, have an urge to dabble in poetry? Does the ebb and flow of syllabic rhythm entice the essayist to pay more attention to the lyricism of her own work? Is there a true difference between the cadence of a lovely line of poetry and a well-crafted sentence that leads the reader into the first paragraph of a novel?

Brooks Landon, non-fiction writer and professor at the University of Iowa, believes that all writing can benefit from understanding how sentences operate. He says:

“Sentences are shaped by specific context and driven by specific purpose, so no rules or mechanical protocols can prepare us for the infinite number of tasks our sentences must accomplish.”

By the time I got through half of his course, I understood his meaning. I could no longer look at something written and see only the story that the words conveyed. Suddenly I noticed the length of sentences, the patterns used in assembling them, and the syntax of each segment comprising them.

I also understood that poetry, for all of its forms and eccentricities, was no different from prose in its syntax and overall structure. I’ll give you an example. A couple of years ago, I wrote a small piece of creative non-fiction for specific audience. I then translated that piece into poetry, just to see if the piece suffered any ill-effects. You tell me whether I succeeded in making both versions work.

The creative non-fiction piece goes like this:

THE MOONLIGHT DANCE

Moonlight flows across the lawn’s clear center, chasing larger shadows and forming a stage with spotlight. Rustling sounds emerge from the right, loud enough to grab the attention of a watcher. Into the spotlight amble four ebony bodies. Each sports a broad white stripe.

The largest of the troupe leads the single line of dancers into position. They pause. Noses rise to sniff the cool night air. Tongues flick in and out to taste that same air.

Faint chattering escapes young throats.

Chorus dancers, small and new, follow the lead of the diva, their mother. One faint command releases them for movement. Slow revolutions begin counter-clockwise.

One. Two. Three. The line pauses.

Each nose rises to sniff the air. Tongues flick out to taste. Another faint command comes from the leader.

Again they move.

The diva pivots in place to face the line. Each small dancer echoes the movement. Slow revolutions clockwise.

One. Two. Three. The line pauses.

The command voice changes to a more enticing note. The ritual is repeated by the troupe. Counter-clockwise followed by clockwise. After three full ritual dances, the troupe stops as precisely as it began.

A low crooning issues from the diva to her dancers, and they amble off into the shadows to disappear into the night. The watcher stands entranced and questioning. Why did they dance? Had anyone else ever seen such skunk behavior?

The poetic form came out as follows:

MOONLIGH

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