Thank you very much Dr Wolfgang, your clarification of the issue is so professional and it really consolidated my understanding of the genre and subgenres related to the use of narration in poetry. I will really appreciate and be happy if you can provide me with a translation of your article in English because my Deutsh is still in beginner level as I studied it in my secondary school, but unfortunately I discontinued learning it when I started university studies. 

Danke shon:)

Kind Regards

Rafik

I appreciate the contribution of Dr Wolfgang. Further, kindly see the given link, which I hope will provide assistance to Mr Rafik for the clarification of his idea.

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/264855426_Plotting_the_lyric_forms_of_narration_in_poetry_1

Article Plotting the lyric: forms of narration in poetry 1

Dear Sabah,

I have downloaded the given article & I have had a look at it; it really hit the bull`s eye! Thank you so much Sabah. I appreciate your cooperation. By the way the Wordsworthian poem analysed in the article is so subtle and exemplary. It is worth quoting here:

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

We all know that poem, poetry can use everything it's about the inward eye: what means the brainwaves in neuroscience.

Science can only look at the form and the compositions of the words but the sense of poetry can never translated in scientific terms. 

We need something else to deal with all this and first of all a new paradigm.

Dear Dr Schwarz and  Mr  Massoudi  ,

It was long time ago , I would think poetry is a kind of narration so that it is appreciated for its flow and expression of emotions (say melancholy ) in a very rich language.

Dear Aparna,

Thank you for the contribution, you added a new insight to our discussion.

Dear Dr Wolfgang,

thanks again, your contributions are really very professional! Coleridge`s "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" may be considered a story narrated in poetic form. In this respect, I think that poetry adds an epic tone to the narration of stories, especially stories about heroism. For instance, in my Tunisian culture there are many folk (popular) poems narrating the stories of heroes who lived in a particular time in history such as poems about `Mohamed Daghbaji` who was a resistance militant against the French colonization. The most famous poem "The five who followed the trace" was made a song by the popular singer Ismail Hattab. You can listen to it using the following link, but sorry in Arabic:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOmBQhttdVY

Thank you very much Dr. Wolfgang for the new link; I really appreciate that.

Dear Rafik Massoud, 

Have you investigated the question of time in the narrative and poetry?

All the best,

Dionéia Monte-Serrat

Dear Dioneia,

First, thank you for your question that has drawn my attention to something so important in poetry and narratives which is time. As a matter of fact, what I have done in so far as a research in relation to time and poetry is the negotiation of the past time or, otherwise, `tradition` in postcolonial poetry and my focus was on the Irish poets: W.B. Yeats as well as S. Heaney. To sum up my findings, the Irish poets use the past events such as `the Great Famine` or `Irish Troubles`, in order to defend their people, historicize the Irish memory and anchor an Irish independent identity..Moreover and on the other hand, the poets aestheticize politics and history using their verse. So, time here as, basically, a past time is `reterritorialized` in the present in such a way to achieve the poet`s aims behind writing poetry.

To further understand my point you can read my article: "Narrating Irish Identity: `Retrieving` Irishness in the Works of William Butler Yeats and Seamus Heaney"

I hope I have given you a fulfilling answer.

Kind Regards,

Rafik

Dear Rafik,

Congratulations to your research! You wrote about past tense, but you can see time in another way. Have you ever searched on the way a narrative can be read? Can even be performed? These variations take place on time (and not only in syntax or morphology). It's another look at the same thing. Maybe you can be surprised by new discoveries.

I wish you much success!

Dionéia

To Karl Keller, "Whittier has been a writer to love, but not to belabor". His "Norsemen" is devoted to the ancient past, but wisdom is eternal.It's a "gift from the cold and silent past"

The Norsemen ( From Narrative And Legendary Poems ) - Poem by John Greenleaf Whittier

GIFT from the cold and silent Past!

A relic to the present cast,

Left on the ever-changing strand

Of shifting and unstable sand,

Which wastes beneath the steady chime

And beating of the waves of Time!

Who from its bed of primal rock

First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block?

Whose hand, of curious skill untaught,

Thy rude and savage outline wrought?

The waters of my native stream

Are glancing in the sun's warm beam;

From sail-urged keel and flashing oar

The circles widen to its shore;

And cultured field and peopled town

Slope to its willowed margin down.

Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing

The home-life sound of school-bells ringing,

And rolling wheel, and rapid jar

Of the fire-winged and steedless car,

And voices from the wayside near

Come quick and blended on my ear,--

A spell is in this old gray stone,

My thoughts are with the Past alone!

A change! -- The steepled town no more

Stretches along the sail-thronged shore;

Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud,

Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud:

Spectrally rising where they stood,

I see the old, primeval wood;

Dark, shadow-like, on either hand

I see its solemn waste expand;

It climbs the green and cultured hill,

It arches o'er the valley's rill,

And leans from cliff and crag to throw

Its wild arms o'er the stream below.

Unchanged, alone, the same bright river

Flows on, as it will flow forever!

I listen, and I hear the low

Soft ripple where its water go;

I hear behind the panther's cry,

The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by,

And shyly on the river's brink

The deer is stooping down to drink.

But hard! -- from wood and rock flung back,

What sound come up the Merrimac?

What sea-worn barks are those which throw

The light spray from each rushing prow?

Have they not in the North Sea's blast

Bowed to the waves the straining mast?

Their frozen sails the low, pale sun

Of Thulë's night has shone upon;

Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep

Round icy drift, and headland steep.

Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters

Have watched them fading o'er the waters,

Lessening through driving mist and spray,

Like white-winged sea-birds on their way!

Onward they glide, -- and now I view

Their iron-armed and stalwart crew;

Joy glistens in each wild blue eye,

Turned to green earth and summer sky.

Each broad, seamed breast has cast aside

Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide;

Bared to the sun and soft warm air,

Streams back the Northmen's yellow hair.

I see the gleam of axe and spear,

A sound of smitten shields I hear,

Keeping a harsh and fitting time

To Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme;

Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung,

His gray and naked isles among;

Or mutter low at midnight hour

Round Odin's mossy stone of power.

The wolf beneath the Arctic moon

Has answered to that startling rune;

The Gael has heard its stormy swell,

The light Frank knows its summons well;

Iona's sable-stoled Culdee

Has heard it sounding o'er the sea,

And swept, with hoary beard and hair,

His altar's foot in trembling prayer!

'T is past, -- the 'wildering vision dies

In darkness on my dreaming eyes!

The forest vanishes in air,

Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare;

I hear the common tread of men,

And hum of work-day life again;

The mystic relic seems alone

A broken mass of common stone;

And if it be the chiselled limb

Of Berserker or idol grim,

A fragment of Valhalla's Thor,

The stormy Viking's god of War,

Or Praga of the Runic lay,

Or love-awakening Siona,

I know not, -- for no graven line,

Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign,

Is left me here, by which to trace

Its name, or origin, or place.

Yet, for this vision of the Past,

This glance upon its darkness cast,

My spirit bows in gratitude

Before the Giver of all good,

Who fashioned so the human mind,

That, from the waste of Time behind,

A simple stone, or mound of earth,

Can summon the departed forth;

Quicken the Past to life again,

The Present lose in what hath been,

And in their primal freshness show

The buried forms of long ago.

As if a portion of that Thought

By which the Eternal will is wrought,

Whose impulse fills anew with breath

The frozen solitude of Death,

To mortal mind were sometimes lent,

To mortal musing sometimes sent,

To whisper -- even when it seems

But Memory's fantasy of dreams --

Through the mind's waste of woe and sin,

Of an immortal origin!

https://www.poemhunter.com/poems/narrative/page-1/520607/

Dear Irina,

Thank you for the comment; that`s absolutely a salient example of narrative poetry. This poem by Whittier foregrounding the past and `memory` reminds me of Seamus Heaney`s bog poems, especially his masterpiece `digging` where memory and identity are intertwined:

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner's bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I'll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney