You Can Write Poetry - Jeff Mock [46]
4. Write a draft arguing with a poem you dislike. At some point in the draft, have the sun shine through an attic window.
In Medias Res and Other Beginnings
In medias res is a Latin phrase meaning "into the middle of the story." A poem beginning in medias res begins in the middle of an event. The situation is already established. The action has already begun. One of my favorite poems, "The Closet" by Bill Knott, begins, "Not long enough after the hospital happened." Such a beginning puts the reader directly in the action, involved in an ongoing situation, and it creates a dual mystery: What happened before, and what happens now? Knott's first line also begs a third question: Who did it happen to?
A good first line of a poem captures the reader's attention and imagination. It presents a sense of mystery, as Knott's first line does, or it makes sounds that interest the reader's ear, or it creates motion—literally, a movement to or away from something—or it notices something new, a fresh sight, perception or idea. The first line also establishes the patterns of the poem, its language, sounds, meter and tone. Tone is similar to tone of voice, although in printed poems we don't have the inflection of the spoken voice to reveal tone. Instead, we work with the words and syntax. From Knott's first line, we know the poem is serious, and the repercussions are ongoing: "Not long enough after." We know more time must pass for the wounds to heal, and "The Closet" will tell us about both wound and healing. But not all poems are serious. Tone may be playful, ironic, wry, somber, highfalutin, intimate, slangy, formal, suave or however you want the poem to sound. Tone tells the reader how the poet feels about the subject. "The Closet" is painfully serious. Whitman's "A Boston Ballad" (which in the original version of Leaves of Grass begins, "Clear the way there Jonathan!") is boisterous, full of energy, excited. W.H. Auden's "Miss Gee" begins, "Let me tell you a little story," and so establishes an intimacy with the reader, as though the speaker were whispering in the reader's ear.
In his essay "The First Line," Howard Moss, a poet and former poetry editor of The New Yorker, notes three types of first lines. The first is a line "which is, in itself, a complete statement"—in other words, an end-stopped line. Three of my favorite end-stopped first lines are Robert Hass's "In the life we lead together every paradise is lost" (from "Against Botticelli"), Kathleen Halme's "With fur and teeth the pushy guests moved in" (from "Something Evermore About to Be") and William Matthews's "It would be good to feel good about yourself for good" (from "Self Help"). Notice that both Hass's and Halme's first lines establish a situation already in progress, in medias res. They draw the reader in to find out the what, how and why of these situations. Matthews's first line begins a meditation, his speaker musing on the nature of self-esteem. Notice the tones. Hass's first line is serious and grand. Halme's is playful, making use of overstatement: The guests are likened to wild animals. Matthews's is playful, too, in a sly way: Why, yes, it would indeed be good to feel good about yourself for good. What these lines share is that each encapsulates the gist of the poem. They announce the subjects.
The second type Moss notes are "first lines in which the second line already holds sway, in which the thing to come is part of the originally given words"—in other words, an enjambed line and the line or lines immediately after. A couple of my favorites are Maxine Kumin's "Blue landing lights make / nail holes in the dark" (from "Our Ground Time Here Will Be Brief") and Pattiann Rogers's "We could sit together in the courtyard / Before the fountain during the next full moon" (from "A Daydream of Light"). Again, these beginnings establish situations already in progress. Kumin's is a literal situation, a plane landing at night. Rogers's is a hypothetical situation, a daydream: "We could." Both make use of