Dare to Make Your Prose More Poetic -- Elevated language in storytelling

We live in plain-speaking times. We are suspicious of eloquence. Few people memorize, recite, or even read poetry nowadays. Big words bother us.

I think there is a justifiable rejection of pretense and a desire for authenticity. At the same time, deep within us, we yearn for elevated language. We want words worth quoting. Imagery, rhythm, and language beyond the mundane still move us.

Writers should dare to use the tools of poetry. Which means finding ways around the defenses put up by contemporary readers and audiences. But consider this:

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain... Time to die.

That’s the often quoted monologue from Bladerunner’s climax. It’s not exactly what you expect from a noirish science-fiction action film. But it’s essential. Everyday language would not have captured the change in the villain and made that tense scene believable.

The character, the situation, and the specific moment in the story can conspire to create an opening for poetry. And one more thing, which is evident in work as diverse as Serling’s Twilight Zone, Paddy Chayefsky’s Network, and The Shawshank Redemption — the story has a narrator. I suspect narrators cue people to expect something special and more meaningful, within the right context. I’ve spent a lot of years as a speech writer, and I know that there is more latitude for a speaker who holds the stage than for someone in a casual conversation. There is still magic to oratory. Now, the context matters. I have written speeches that have brought audiences to tears for occasions like commencements. But I would never even attempt using that sort of language for congressional testimony.

By the way, it’s worth noting that a narrators don’t just gain permission for themselves. They allow occasional poetry to emerge within the dialogue. Of course, the language needs to be correct for the character or it will all fall apart. But even a character who lacks sophistication can be poetic:

You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.

On the Waterfront’s Terry Malloy, a boxer, was a character who spoke simply, but eloquently. The moment was, again, critical—his confrontation with his brother. Note: though this film had no narrator, it did have the music of Leonard Bernstein and Marlon Brando playing the lead role.

Music and style can open the door for elevated language. So can a story that has mythic dimensions. For example:

America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good and it could be again.

Field of Dreams is a fairy tale. Even though it isn’t a fantasy like The Lord of the Rings, it invites us to immerse ourselves in the world of metaphors, raised above our daily lives. That gives permission to slip in monologues that are memorable throughout the story.

Network takes a different direction. The movie is a revival meeting. It is filled with sermons that touch upon the dangers of our times and our need to be vigilant and engaged. It often goes right up to the line of becoming a screed, but it saves itself with humor.

Elevated language usually is placed into stories at relatively quiet moments. Jaws is chock full of action, but the Indianapolis monologue takes place in a quiet, relaxed moment. It also comes from a character who has authority, who has power.

Deadwood seems to me to be an anomaly. I can’t easily explain how Milch gets away with language that is Shakespearean in a gritty Western TV series. It might be argued that his including legendary characters, such as Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok, primes for a mythical story, but it feels like it breaks all the rules. And still works.

I think the Coen Brothers have been the most successful in working around the barriers audiences have to poetry. They use narration (Raising Arizona) and myth (O Brother, Where Art Thou?). They deftly insert humor. And they find moments where elevated language is called for. They have a true appreciation of the power of words and seem to be forever exploring the possibilities of poetry in contemporary work.

Overall, I think our society is poorer because of our skepticism. Slick language does present dangers. Sales people, propagandists, and politicians have missed directed and taking advantage of people through the use of elevated language. The same is true for anthems and images and slogans that get past our defenses and close off critical thinking. But, used correctly, elevated language can help us find the best in ourselves and others. And even create stories that are truly inspiring.