Aaaaah... prose poetry

[hmmnmm]

It begins to make sense now.
Everything.
All these years.

I always separated the two.
Tried to write stories,
shunned the badge of poet,
but stories didn't quite fly
Unconscious poetry dominated
while story remained weak.
Imbalance and discord.
Or something...

Prose poetry.

Hm!

 

[wildsweetone]

Prose Poetry

examples:

Psalm 93

The Lord reigneth, he is clothed with majesty;the Lord is clothed with strength, wherewith he hath girded himself: the world also is stablished, that it cannot be moved.
Thy throne is established of old: thou art from everlasting.
The floods have lifted up, Oh Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves.
The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.
Thy testimonies are very sure: holiness becometh thine house, O Lord, forever.​

The Port

A Port is a delightful place of rest for a soul weary of life's battles. The vastness of the sky, the mobile architecture of the clouds, the changing coloration of the sea, the twinkling of the lights, are a prism marvellously fit to amuse the eyes without ever tiring them. The slender shapes of the ships with their complicated rigging, to which the surge lends harmonious oscillations, serve to sustain within the soul the taste for rhythm and beauty. Also, and above all, for the man who of mysterious and aristocratic pleasure in contemplating, while lying on the belvedere or resting his elbows on the jetty-head, all these movements of men who are leaving and men who are returning, of those who still have the strength to will, the desire to travel or to enrich themselves.
--Charles Baudelaire--



personally, i think prose poetry will grow on me as my prose writing tended at times toward 'flowery' and 'descriptive'. but i cannot leave behind the impact that line and stanza breaks have on my poems. i love them too much.

let's see a prose poem from you

 

[Angeline]

You might want to check this link at Wikipedia. It has lots of information about prose poetry and many links to other resources in it.

 

[hmmnmm]

personally, i think prose poetry will grow on me as my prose writing tended at times toward 'flowery' and 'descriptive'.

That's pretty much what someone told me about my early story attempts (and the latter ones).
Thanks for the suggestions in the New Poetry thread.

You might want to check this link at Wikipedia. It has lots of information about prose poetry and many links to other resources in it.

That's where I learned just moments ago.
Came directly here, to share the news.


Nice place here.
Great swimming hole.

 

[wildsweetone]

That's pretty much what someone told me about my early story attempts (and the latter ones).
Thanks for the suggestions in the New Poetry thread.

...

you're welcome.

there's another form:

narrative poetry

it might be not what you're thinking of, but it is another option.

 

[Angeline]

That's pretty much what someone told me about my early story attempts (and the latter ones).
Thanks for the suggestions in the New Poetry thread.



That's where I learned just moments ago.
Came directly here, to share the news.


Nice place here.
Great swimming hole.

Yes it is.

I'm glad you're comfortable here. I've been to other poetry discussion forums where they hand you your head on a platter along with the critque. Yikes. I've always thought one can just as easily give constructive feedback and be pleasant about it.

 

[hmmnmm]

you're welcome.

there's another form:

narrative poetry

it might be not what you're thinking of, but it is another option.

Yeah, I see. Hm, that might be something to just read and enjoy for now.
The Baudelaire quote really rang a bell.
If I just sit with a pen and paper or a Word screen, and just play around with words, see what fits, see how it looks, how it sounds, the feel is there and right. If I think, Story, have to write a Story, then something seems to intimidate, it becomes a chore, becomes confused - which I don't so much mind, but if you consider a potential reader...
And when - as of just last night - I think of things as Poetry... boy, it just switches on the lights.
For example: I've also dabbled off and on with photography - and just this morning I looked at a few photos on the wall, and instead of thinking of them as Pictures, I pointed at them and said, "Poetry. That's poetry." And it fit!
Incredible new lights here.
Fireworks.
Thanks!
Thank you
Thank you!

 

[hmmnmm]

Yes it is.

I've been to other poetry discussion forums where they hand you your head on a platter along with the critque. Yikes.

I just don't see the point, or how anyone ultimately benefits.

I've always thought one can just as easily give constructive feedback and be pleasant about it.

Honey works wonders.

 

[fcdc]

This is certainly not erotica, but one of the best prose poems around is Carolyn Forche's 'The Colonel.' If I'm reposting it from one of the links, my apologies, but I think it is a good example because it is obvious that it is poetry, not prose, despite the form, and pretty nicely illuminates the difference.

What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck themselves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of the wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.

A non-prose poem that illuminates the difference that Forche has achieved is 'Because You Asked About the Line Between Prose and Poetry,' by Howard Nemerov.

Sparrows were feeding in a freezing drizzle
That while you watched turned into pieces of snow
Riding a gradient invisible
From silver aslant to random, white, and slow.

There came a moment that you couldn't tell.
And then they clearly flew instead of fell.

(Sorry for all the literary responses. I was an English major once upon a time and have a terminal master's in literature.)

 

[wildsweetone]

...i think those ears are going to stay with me for the rest of my life.

 

[fcdc]

Apologies. I first read the poem in sixth grade, and I can attest that I too remember the imagery in it a decade and a half-ish later. It was the most perfect example of a prose poem that I could think of, though.

 

[hmmnmm]

.

let's see a prose poem from you

Well, I picked out a random paragraph from something suddenly several years old - again - the entire prose thing as a whole has problems, but, thanks to Champ's revelation, I see a paragraph or two, that when pulled out, and maybe touched up a bit, that paragraph/prose poem can stand on its own, and in fact, seems stronger when on its own instead of being buried in the lengthy and sometimes awkward original story.

I'll throw the sample prose poem in here, see what it does - won't bother submitting it.
By the end of the day.

This is so exciting.

 

[wildsweetone]

i read on the 'net that prose poetry is an acrobat's tightrope, one foot in prose, one in poetry, all the while slipping as if skateboarding on banana skins, their yellow insides oozing deliciously, deviously between pink painted toes intent on seeking the warmth of a waiting, wet mouth. i conclude, it's not impossible, that the twist of words can be peeled away to reveal an ideal writing, inviting the reader to browse.



whatever you write will likely be 100 times better than this, my first attempt.

 

[hmmnmm]

i read on the 'net that prose poetry is an acrobat's tightrope, one foot in prose, one in poetry, all the while slipping as if skateboarding on banana skins, their yellow insides oozing deliciously, deviously between pink painted toes intent on seeking the warmth of a waiting, wet mouth. i conclude, it's not impossible, that the twist of words can be peeled away to reveal an ideal writing, inviting the reader to browse.



whatever you write will likely be 100 times better than this, my first attempt.

If that's your first attempt, off the cuff?

You make me a afraid again, but curious too. The two feet you mentioned, certain to slip, certain to fall, hope the banana peels catch, the open insides, so slip or slide, fall or crawl, fingers gooey and sticky, happy so long as those pink painted toes... now I'm stuck. Completely stuck. Can't stand up. Stuck in the peels.

Well, the paragraph I randomly chose to redo, rework... maybe it wasn't the best, but maybe it's the challenge. Still needs attention.

Ha ha! You're right! this is fun!

 

[wildsweetone]

If that's your first attempt, off the cuff?

You make me a afraid again, but curious too. The two feet you mentioned, certain to slip, certain to fall, hope the banana peels catch, the open insides, so slip or slide, fall or crawl, fingers gooey and sticky, happy so long as those pink painted toes... now I'm stuck. Completely stuck. Can't stand up. Stuck in the peels.

Well, the paragraph I randomly chose to redo, rework... maybe it wasn't the best, but maybe it's the challenge. Still needs attention.

Ha ha! You're right! this is fun!

yep off the cuff. can't you tell? lol i wrote it in the message box and hit 'reply' before i could second think myself (which is what i do with most of my poetry )

where's yours? c'mon.

 

[hmmnmm]

yep off the cuff. can't you tell? lol i wrote it in the message box and hit 'reply' before i could second think myself (which is what i do with most of my poetry )

where's yours? c'mon.

It's coming.
It'll be a little while before I can do that off the cuff, and submit without second thought.
All that live writing... no way, yet.

 

[wildsweetone]

bah... let loose. just let it flow and hit send. the more you do it the more distance you get from your words.

hey... we're all learners in here. there is not one poet in the entire world who is perfect straight off. trust me, i know these things.

 

[Angeline]

eagleyez and I each wrote a prose poem in his "Not Sure How Many Words" thread this morning. They're, just two fifferent takes on a set of experiences we shared this morning, but I think they're very complementary, like us.

See what you think. Feedback is always cheerfully accepted!

 

[wildsweetone]

...there is not one poet in the entire world who is perfect straight off. trust me, i know these things.

eagleyez and I each wrote a prose poem in his "Not Sure How Many Words" thread this morning. They're, just two fifferent takes on a set of experiences we shared this morning, but I think they're very complementary, like us.

See what you think. Feedback is always cheerfully accepted!

okay i lied.




...apart from one tiny typo.

 

[hmmnmm]

Laid over in Fargo the north Dakota​

Everything about you, in you, over you, under you, heavy, leaden. Wanting nothing, but escape, trance, away, relief, anything. Conscious action, none thank you, another time another place but not in the station, Fargo of the north Dakota midnight

Oh! if only she were here like she was the other time, a face you would know. She won't recognize or remember you, but you have words, words you wrote for her about her to give her - not to mention the picture. It came out okay, surprise, since it was inside minus flash.

if she were here​

you know you believe in conversed stimulation, if she did not mind, of course she’d not mind. You may blurt she marry you, why not, only show her the passage, you made for her.

She wonders, smiles, if you meant serious or if her imagery was only for fantastical, unmentionable pleasures, no longer private. Maybe she hopes, or maybe she is afraid. She needs no situation uncomfortable, in the station, the Fargo station, Fargo, of the north Dakota. Neither shall mention the adult store outside, across the street, stone’s throw,
because you both know its existence, because only a look, a step, a walk, from the station entrance, and it is

the bookstore,
magazines, flicks,
cum-coated theme
Cheap yes, yet it thrives,
here in Fargo of the north Dakota

​

Maybe she laughs, maybe she blushes when you show her your picture of her, the other time, the first time; and a trigger clicks, she remembers; that you asked about getting off before Minneapolis. A room, a rest, only a reason to strike up conversation although you learnt a little after all, that St. Cloud is nice.

But what would she say or do when you had not only the picture, her picture, but also the written words, your words about her, innocent alludes, though nothing near the fare found in the adult store just across the street. After all, you boldly dreamt marriage, and without metaphor, reveled in the way her mere presence lifted you, when you were most down.

Oh and then?

She stifles the sniffles, same as you, destinations lamentations, ahead of you, the sorrow of missing conversational coffee and maybe more, after her station work be complete. You then pull from your pocket your special Pass. This Pass allows stopovers, and really, you had no such urgent destinations… loves comes like a song and you never leave Fargo, of the north Dakota
but it wouldn’t matter, because you’re in love, and
you almost no longer notice
the adult store
after all,
you exit the station
and you see it.

 

[wildsweetone]

oh good grief. fancy explaining to me why on earth you were holding back?

wow

 

[hmmnmm]

oh good grief. fancy explaining to me why on earth you were holding back?

wow

Well, as I said, the actual paragraphs from whence this came - and especially the entire work wherein those paragraphs originally appeared... the potential to cause a poor reader undue anguish is rather likely. So it was almost like writing something new - more like remodeling maybe. Rearranging.

So... this passes for prose poetry? Really?

Still looking at those live writing and off the cuff pools.
Still not quite yet.
The feel of putting better clothes on the neglected children is the right one for now. Get a few of them off to face the world, then settle in the bed, splash in the pool, practice making new babies, or at least share seed - cream of seed soup.
Good morning!

 

[wildsweetone]

i think you're close to prose poetry.

i'm not sure about the layout - i think it is meant to have the total look of prose but you've included a mix here which i think looks kinda neat.

i think also, prose poetry includes poetic devices/tools like rhyme/assonance/alliteration/etc... do you feel this writing contains these things? can you add any in?

you have some repetition which seems to work well.

off to workies now. will catch up soon. (and might spend some time writing prose poetry when i should be filing papers ).

 

[Angeline]

okay i lied.




...apart from one tiny typo.

Awww go on with you!


Really?


REALLY?

I thought his was good, mine was meh, but they did support each other well. I submitted it this morning so it'll be an official poem tomorrow.

And Hmmmmm? You are a lot better than you claim. A lot. Surely you recognize this.

 

[hmmnmm]

To be honest, I never really studied a lot of straight up poetry (it probably shows, and I must move it to a top priority). But I loved reading the old stuff that would likely stand no chance of publication today if it was presented as straight prose. Hesse comes to mind for one. The hour is early and others don't click... maybe Proust, even Faulkner... Miller's Tropics...
You know, the kind of stuff that you can just open to a random page and the language is so beautiful - if the tools of poetry are implemented, they are so subtly woven or balanced with the prose that you don't notice unless you really look for them, or it doesn't even matter. It doesn't even matter if it tells a story, maybe it's just an abstract scene or maybe the reader doesn't even uderstand what the writer really had in mind. The words themselves matter for their own sake and they even change depending on the light you read them under.

Now, whether that's prose poetry or just beautiful prose? Maybe it was beautiful prose then, and today we'd call it prose poetry?

I guess, to me, for now, to use contrasted examples, prose says, "just get to the point, spit it out" while prose poetry says, "why not take the scenic route"

And that's what I thought of with the Baudelaire example, and the May Outing poetry reminded of the same idea.

.......ah! forgot the point. If if comes later.... need more coffee.

And Angeline? thanks for the beautiful words of May.