High Concept Poetry

Sometimes I wish poetry were more like the movies.

For one thing, the movies have comedies, thrillers, science fiction, western
s, and a whole posse of other genres. Most times these days it feels like poetry has two: experimental and lyric. Now of course you can write about nature with free verse, prose poetry, villanelle, and several other forms, along with a slew of rhythmic schemes. Same goes for writing about love, family and death. And the experimental poets have an ever expanding arsenal of forms in lieu of having anything to say. Despite this, it often feels like poetry has a paucity of subgenres.

At the same time, people criticize the genres of film because they are shoddy replicas of real life. Film genres embody formula and repetition and are antithetical to originality and art. And yet they still manage to get us excited on a regular basis. Is this because film appeals to our baser selves – the selves so many poets try to escape in graduate creative writing programs?

Does my interest in poetry and film create a conflict between the subtle and nuanced vs. the hit-you-over-the-head simplicity? Can a person who has studied poetry still want to see a movie like Snakes On A Plane?

That movie in many ways sums up the differences between some films and most contemporary poetry. Ask any poet what his latest poem is about and you will likely get a fairly lengthy answer that doesn’t let you know what the poem is about. In fact, if you ask again what the poem is about, the poet might even get testy and say something like, “A poem doesn’t have to be about anything. It’s an experience, a journey with no destination.” Meanwhile, ask the guy who first pitched the concept of Snakes On A Plane what the film is about and he’ll just excitedly repeat the title at you.

This type of film is what’s known as high concept. High concept means many things, but it’s the kind of film you can sum up in one or two sentences. For example, an archeologist must stop the Nazis from obtaining an ancient artifact (Raiders of the Lost Ark). Man disguises himself as an actress and becomes a better person (Tootsie). And my very favorite for its succinctness, Jaws – underground (Tremors). You can actually hear the guys in the studio exec’s office blurting out their ideas this way and then fleshing them out. And you know the story right off. You know the stakes. You know what train you’re on for the two-hour celluloid trip.

Your first reaction might be that poetry just isn’t about that kind of oversimplification. Let’s see. Pilgrims of all walks of life tell their stories on the way to a shrine (The Canterbury Tales). Fallen from grace, Satan seeks revenge against God (Paradise Lost). A man discusses the former wife he may have murdered (“My Last Duchess”) If you want more evidence of this kind of useful reductionism, just refer to Shakespeare’s plays: Man and woman from rival families fall in love. Man hesitates in avenging his father’s death. Man suspects his wife of an affair and murders her. Man plots with wife to kill the king and assume power. People stranded on an island encounter strange forces and must atone for their pasts (okay, this one could also be the pitch for the TV series Lost). You see, Shakespeare was high concept from the start. That makes me think if he were alive today he’d be in the Biz.

I have a few high concept poems myself. Rival female Mafia groups shoot it out in modern day Italy (based on a true story). Man falls in love with a Valentine’s Day card. Man gives a lift to a mysteriously silent young female passenger. Mother unknowingly takes underage son to see topless dancers at the Moulin Rouge. Man discovers there are ancient books for each of the seven deadly sins. Man seeks operation to change him into a cartoon. And, finally, I have an entire manuscript that can be summed up with: tribal queen of Briton stuns and defeats the Romans in bloody struggle.

So what I’m proposing for any poets out there is that you not be afraid of what I’d like to call high concept poetry. Keep some poems like that in your personal repertoire so that when someone asks you what you write about you can toss out a few one-liners to get your interrogator interested. You want some poems that can hook people before you even read a line. Sometimes we can get lost in the craftsmanship of making every single line of a poem mean volumes. This type of poetry is rewarding for the careful reader. But sometimes it’s fun to try and bring an entire poem down to one line. A single unified effect that conveys the gist of it all.

My next poem? On the paper’s broad white space, no one can hear you scream.