The Force Of One: Poke And Prod Prose To The Bone

[This post is an addendum to Contratimes Writing Tip #2. What follows was originally written in 2002 for a writing course I led at a small private high school. Having assigned to the senior class the task of writing an essay where only one-syllable words must be used from start to finish, I felt it behooved me to model good form. "The Sound of One" and "To Love The Sky When It Rains", the former written as a sort of rubric and the latter penned for the sheer fun of it, could be models for aspiring writers everywhere. Both pieces are offered here as an example of how powerfully one can write when limiting oneself to small words; as such, they are full of whimsy, I believe, and hence are really prose poems (another reason why they are posted here). I want to thank master teacher and "verbifore" Richard Lederer (he used to teach at the prestigious St. Paul's School in Concord, NH) for first offering this challenge to me when I attended a New Hampshire Press Association awards banquet. His challenge changed my literary life, literally. I hope it will change yours, too. What fun!]

I. The Sound of One

Oh, to write and speak with one sound, clear, pure, bright, quick to the point, not with waste of word, thought or ink. That's the bliss of speech and pen: to tell one's tale or boast of truth in the speed of words that with just one sound lend so much to those who hear; who search for the real. That's the deal!

What is left for a man if he must sift through the stuff of wit that is not one whit wit? Must he shop cheap stores for a truth stripped of the weight of too much said? Can he find a gem that gleams, not one dulled by words made to say more than what is meant?

Think of the grand size of all that is small: truth, love, joy, faith, God! Why bring more than you need on your trip to truth?

Love the loss of more than you need, and you will find that you need less than you love.

II. To Love The Sky When It Rains

I want to hold the rain in the palm of my hand; I want to hold all of the sky: the clouds, the wind, and the deep blue that comes too late. Is there no gift of grace in this dream, this wish to keep what can't be held too close to the heart?

Hear, oh soul, hear the drum of rain on the slick roofs; feel the tap of rain on brim of hat; taste the rains that quench old thirst. Take the cup's clear drink borne on wings of wind and breeze, light and cool. Is rain not made of joy?

In dark times I try to blind my eyes to all that is true. I turn my back on what is good and just, fair and kind. There are days I choose to hate the heat of sun, when I claim that I am my own, lone and strong. But in the dark, fear comes in the knock on the door. In days of hate, fear comes in a kind word or warm laugh, and then I am not so bold to think that I can be hard to the joy that taps on the roof of my soul; that taps on the hold which is my frail heart.

Oh, sweet Faith, think of the Man who is more than man, who made the rain but can't hold what He wrought, for rain falls soft through holes sin spiked through the palms of His hands. He holds the sky and storms and suns, and drops of rain, no doubt, but rain still pours through, rain which lands with the beat of a small drum; like the sound of a light knock on the door, or the slow splash of blood at the foot of a cross.

©Bill Gnade April 15, 2002/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

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