You Can Write Poetry - Jeff Mock [13]
Because the word is the basic building block of the poem, you should invest in a good dictionary. I don't mean the pocket-size kinds. They're good to a point, but you give up much for the convenient size. I mean a thick dictionary, one that offers brief commentaries on the history of the English language, grammar and usage, word derivations, a dictionary that runs fifteen hundred or so pages with more words, pronunciations and definitions than you know exist. Pick up a good thesaurus, too, one thick with synonyms and antonyms. It will give you options when you search for that one just-right word. The thesaurus on my desk lists over seventeen thousand individual entries, and I've used a fair number of them.
Learn your way around the dictionary and thesaurus. Get them feeling comfortable in your hands. Consult them, even when you don't think you need to, because you'll find that they speed you on your way. The dictionary and thesaurus are reference tools, but they'll also spark ideas by offering words you didn't know you needed. They'll help you over rough spots, offer you options and teach you about the language. You'll use these tools frequently, so select good ones. The sheen has worn off the covers of both my dictionary and thesaurus. Their spines are heavily creased. Some of the pages are dog-eared and some are smudged, but this is all as it should be. They show their use, which means these tools are serving me well.
Whenever I open my dictionary, I'm ready to be surprised by a word. I have a fondness for strange and exotic words—words that make unusual sounds, words that get to the heart of things and words that have multiple meanings. There are, for instance, two listings for cleave, both verbs. One cleave means "to split or separate, as with an ax." The other means "to adhere, cling, or stick fast. Used with to." Among strangers at a party, I may cleave to Joan until I feel comfortable enough to mingle. Or I may cleave the crowd to reach Joan's side. Or I may write a poem that uses both words. I jot it down in my journal and write a sentence or two using cleave, just to practice.
The Irish poet William Butler Yeats said, "Our words must seem inevitable." He meant that every word in a poem must be the right word. The reader of a poem shouldn't have to stop in the middle of the poem and wonder why the poet used a particular word. Why that one and not this one? The poem must inspire the reader's trust. It must take the reader straight through and be completely convincing the whole way. Each word must seem inevitable, the only word for that spot. This precision depends on each word being exactly the right word. Mark Twain said it in a slightly different fashion: "The difference between the almost-right word and the right word is really a large matter—it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning." The almost-right word gives off a little glow, but the right word lights up the sky (and the poem), illuminating everything around it. So I collect words to have the right word available when I need it.
While I'm fond of exotic words, they can overwhelm a poem: azure, shard, paramour. They're like spice in the poetic stew. Simple, everyday words are the meat and potatoes, and the poet sprinkles in the spice. Too much spice—too many exotic words—and that's all the reader notices. The spice overwhelms the poem. Make the poem as you would a hearty stew. Use everyday