things i wish i knew before writing poetry pt III: the art of simplicity: diction

keep it stupid simple

If you are like me, you might reach a point where you find yourself trying too hard to sound poetic rather than be poetic.

You know what I mean. Maybe you shouldn’t force every poem to be beautiful, or at least not that kind of beautiful.

Or maybe you’re saying too much. Or trying too hard.

Or maybe you just need to simplify.

I’ve been studying some seemingly "simpler" poems and what I’ve learned from them is how often less really is more—

But not without intention.

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words, words, words

The Two-Headed Calf by Laura Gilpin gets me. Every. Single. Time. It’s a two-stanza, nine-line poem that literally brings me to tears whenever I read it. But why? It’s so simple!

This poem’s strength is what it does not say.

It tells us of the farm boys, the dying calf, its mother, the field. Plainly and simply. No fancy words, no elaborate metaphors or complicated imagery.

But the simplicity of it is where it makes its impact.

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Tomorrow when the farm boys find this

freak of nature, they will wrap his body

in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north

field with his mother. It is a perfect

summer evening: the moon rising over

the orchard, the wind in the grass. And

as he stares into the sky, there are

twice as many stars as usual.

–The Two-Headed Calf, Laura Gilpin

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I like to use this poem to consider the potential power of diction—it does so much heavy lifting behind the scenes!

For example, let’s look at how Gilpin refers to this two-headed calf in the first stanza: a freak of nature. It’s harsh, cold slang.*

Freak and nature are common words most English speakers know, and combined into this phrase, we feel its heavy negative connotation.

If she referred to the calf as this innocent baby or this flightless jewel, we are being told to feel pity or see beauty.

Instead, Gilpin makes us witness reality.

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Calling the two-headed calf a freak of nature makes me, as the reader, almost defensive—it’s not a freak! It’s just an innocent baby!—which is entirely the point. Gilpin is drumming up this defensiveness in the reader by almost accusing us of agreeing with this notion.

We are experiencing it in real time.

The animal is not asking for pity; the writer is asking for your defense of it.

So this seemingly straightforward term becomes not only immediately understood but also nuanced and complex.

*I also want to note: this poem is from 1977. Language is ever-evolving, but while connotations and definitions change, the word choice here is still doing the proper work. Point remains.

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In the second stanza, the word choice now tells us how this moment is for the calf: we are told he is alive for tonight, with his mother.

It's described as perfect.

This gentle, simple language creates a tone that contrasts strongly against the harshness of the first stanza—

We go from calling the calf a freak that will die and be wrapped in crumpled paper and dropped off at a museum like a prop, to watching that same calf be in awe of the universe and wholly—if briefly—loved.

This subtle but powerful emotional shift transports me with each read.

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This juxtaposition speaks to the entire purpose of the piece—how an entity seen as undesirable or less-than can still find its own beauty, and that any time spent in love is worth living

And all of this is wrapped up nicely with the final line:

there / are twice as many stars as usual.

The calf's unique flaw creates for him an expansive beauty.

A punch to the gut disguised as a simple, elegant, short-worded poem.

My goal is to some day write a poem this powerful.

Until then, I will continue to study the poems that are and figure out exactly how much work each word is doing.

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I could go on and on but I want to quickly look at some other amazing examples of simple language and powerful surprises:

Take this line from Bough Down by Karen Green:

The garden and the husband, well, I was confused about what I was keeping alive.

Note how she orders her syntax; if the line began with I was confused about... the twist wouldn’t work.

When we see her grouping garden with husband they are a myriad of comparisons your brain could fill in—at least until we realize she’s talking about dying things.

Then we go oh. Then we know.

I like when poems make me go oh.

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Or consider literally any line from Hera Lindsay Bird by Hera Lindsay Bird—but here’s one from PAIN IMPERATIVE:

It's a bad crime to say poetry in poetry / It’s a bad, adorable crime / Like robbing a bank with a mini-hairdryer.

Or The Last Dinosaur by Ocean Vuong:

When people ask me what it’s like, I tell them / imagine being born in a hospice / that’s on fire.

Or Despite My Efforts Even My Prayers Have Turned Into Threats by Kaveh Akbar:

I believe my courage / will expand like a sponge / cowboy in water.

Each line is fun and surprising and they say so much with so little.

Though I will note, these are doing more than playing with diction; these are all metaphors, with surprising imagery to boot, so...

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...maybe that’s what I’ll talk about next: surprising imagery. Or syntax. Or subject.

There’s a lot, really.

But I hope this maybe inspired you or gave you some ideas for your own writing—or things you might want to look for in others’.

Exercise: Try writing a poem with only common one- or two-syllable words and see what happens.

Have fun! Surprise yourself. □