Poetry Writing Lessons: Following the Thread in Sara Eliza Johnson’s "Fable"

Kaecey McCormick
Oct 21
5 min read

Greetings, creatives!

An apple on stacked books, colored pencils, and ABC blocks on a wooden table. Blurred abstract art in the background.

I’m excited to share something new I'm trying on the blog: a monthly series called Poetry Writing Lessons.

Each month, I’ll take one published poem and use it as a jumping-off point to explore a technique you can borrow for your own writing.

This is often how I write a poem when I feel stuck, and I'm hoping these posts will be equal parts close reading, craft talk, and practical exercise—always with the goal of helping you fuel your creativity.

To start us off, I turned to Sara Eliza Johnson’s poem "Fable," which opens her collection Bone Map, which I discussed in this month's Poetry Books I'm Reading post. (Click the link to read the poem, which I can't copy here in full due to copyright regulations; scroll down below the interview to find the poem.)

I wanted to begin this series with this poem because it embodies mystery and resonance—qualities I think so many of us can learn from when trying to write poems that feel alive.

At first glance, the title makes you expect a clear moral, like a traditional fable might. But instead, Johnson leads us somewhere much stranger and more mysterious: a world built of associative leaps, vivid imagery, and layered sound.

It’s a great reminder that poetry doesn’t always need to explain itself—it can ask readers to feel their way through, to trust the images and the music of the language.

In this post, we’ll explore how "Fable" creates that effect, and then I’ll guide you through an exercise so you can try the technique in your own writing.

Ready? Let's get started on the first lesson!

Analysis:

(1) The fable with no moral

A wolf howls at the moonlit sky near a tree where birds perch. A rustic house and fence are in the background. Blue monochrome palette sets a serene mood.

Johnson has said in interviews that the title "Fable" is a misdirection.

In other words, there’s no tidy moral here—only a series of linked images that resist resolution.

The poem begins with a cry in the forest, then moves into hands, bones, moons, cities, animals, and fathers. Each image feels charged, but none add up to a single “lesson.”

Takeaway for writers: Sometimes what makes a poem powerful is its refusal to tell us what to think. Consider how a title that suggests one thing (fable) can open into something entirely unexpected.

(2) Taking associative leaps

Rather than explaining each transition, Johnson moves associatively: an owl’s cry → holding a hand → hearing bones sing → the moon inside someone → a war-shadowed city.

These shifts are quick, intuitive, and dreamlike.

Takeaway for writers: Don’t be afraid to leap. Poems can be built less on logic and more on resonance—the way one image hums against the next.

(3) Imagery that layers the body and the world

Hands cradle a newborn animal with bones, under a full moon on a black background, creating a serene and mystical atmosphere.

In "Fable," Johnson gives us a masterclass on imagery. Hands, bones, the moon, a newborn animal—physical and cosmic images are layered together.

The personal (a hand, a boy, a father) is intertwined with the vast and mythic (a city before war, the moon rolling through a body). This blending collapses boundaries between the intimate and the immense, making the private feel universal and the universal feel personal.

The result is a dreamlike world where the body becomes a map for larger forces, and where everyday relationships resonate with mythic weight. This layering lets readers experience the poem on multiple levels—intimate, cosmic, mythic—without ever being told what to feel.

Takeaway for writers: Let your imagery mingle scales: the intimate next to the immense. It creates a sense of mystery and magnitude.

(4) Sound as a guide

Even without rhyme, this poem relies on sound to carry momentum.

"In the forest, the owl releases a boneless cry..."

The opening “owl releases a boneless cry” echoes with long vowels that set the tone for the poem’s strange hush. Later, phrases like “a newborn animal / shakes the dust and stands” create a hushed rhythm, almost like breathing.

These sound patterns don’t just make the language beautiful—they also shape the emotional atmosphere. The drawn-out vowels slow the reader down, while the clipped consonants quicken the pace, mimicking the push and pull between stillness and movement.

In this way, sound becomes both guide and mood-setter, steering us through the poem’s shifting landscapes. In other words, it's the invisible thread stitching the associative leaps together, guiding us through even when logic loosens.

Takeaway for writers: Pay attention to how vowels and consonants control tempo. Sound can be as important as image when it comes to creating atmosphere.

Step-by-step writing exercise:

Here’s your guided exercise, inspired by Sara's poem “Fable.” Set aside 20 minutes and work through the steps to see what emerges:

Spiral notebook on wood table with black pen. Doodles: moon, cityscape, owl, teddy bear on lined paper. Simple, playful style.

Choose a title that misdirects. Pick a form that sets up an expectation by promising something familiar: “Prayer,” “Recipe,” “Fable,” “Confession.” But know that the goal is to subvert it. In other words, you're going to write a piece that resists the expectation.
Leap associatively. Start with one strong image. Instead of explaining that image, jump to something that feels connected by mood, sound, or intuition. Challenge yourself to include at least one image from the natural or cosmic world (an animal, a star, the weather) and one from the body (a hand, a scar, a breath). Let them converse in your poem. Keep going for at least 10–12 lines.
Blend scales. Try mixing bodily images (hands, scars, voices) with large-scale ones (planets, weather, cities, animals). Let them speak to each other.
Follow sound. As you revise, read aloud. Notice where consonance, rhythm, or repeated sounds naturally link images. Strengthen those places.

Final thoughts on poetry writing lessons for October

Sara Eliza Johnson’s "Fable" shows us that poems don’t always need to resolve into morals or tidy explanations. Sometimes their power comes from mystery, from asking the reader to inhabit leaps and listen to the sounds that stitch them together.

I'm going to end each month challenging you to try something new in your writing. So here it is for October: try writing your own “fable with no moral.” Start with a title that misdirects, follow your images as they leap, and trust that sound and resonance will carry the reader forward.

Book cover: The Everyday Writer's Guide to Starting a Writing Practice by Kaecey McCormick. Black background with bold yellow and white text.

If you enjoyed this poetry writing lesson and want more guided prompts and exercises, you might love my workbook The Everyday Writer's Guide to Starting a Writing Practice. It’s packed with step-by-step activities—perfect if you want to keep your creative spark alive through the busy holiday season and beyond.

This is just the beginning of the Poetry Writing Lessons series. I’ll be back next month with another published poem and a new exercise to keep your writing fresh.