- May 14, 2018
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A foreword
“The idea is density. What one seeks with each stroke of the pen is succinct expression. And when one gains such inspiration, which builds through the glorious satisfaction of having your ideas expressed, then they may go on beyond the everyday by filling their words with dance. This is the true prose poem.”
I wrote this originally to teach others, by example, of what was a prose poem. There had been heated discussion about this very thing, of which I had been a part, and I could not help but demonstrate my point of view. Everyone today thinks it consists of one part prose and one part poem, where the writer may choose from any part he so desires. Thus, one may choose to write in stanza form but with no rhyme or meter – no poetry at all and this makes a prose poem. But this is not thus. A prose poem is specifically the format of prose with the reading of poetry; the exact opposite. Please read this, a little prelude which I have written, in verity and with the full purpose of understanding what makes for great poetry.
~Thank you
A Prelude (the actual prose poem)
On the western foothills of Appalachia, rode grim upon the sky a man who failed to see the test. The slopes fell straight. Frozen in place was everything and nothing moved for anything. She could not believe her eyes. Closer and closer now around a bending turn she turned to peel what left she had. Frozen there like stone he stayed, obscured and curled by ice.
“How can this be?” she thought, as she cleared her throat.
Here he was aloft in light, the sun now high and bright. Cleft from the cliff and frozen fast, his hand held the sun. What more was there to see? She stayed and waited for what seemed hours, frozen like everything. She did not move. She didn't breathe. She could not think a thing. Until what seemed eternity, the man woke up from sleep!
“Oh!” she cried and fell straight down, so shocked she seemed with cold. Now she returns to herself and says,
“Are you alright?...”
The man just stirred enough. He turned now around and peeled what left he had of crusty ice blight eyes and says,
“Be quiet.”
A low earth rumble mixed with spindly tines begins. And the eyes of each, fully peeled now lock in horror. The man quickly releasing his lines, kicks and all layers of ice fly like diamonds. Swinging now with desperation he rides grim upon the sky. Would he fail to meet the test? The crags sunder giving way, anything moving like everything was nothing. She reaches out, her hand holding the sun in hope he comes while she falls away.
“Hold on!” he cries aware now.
But neither returned that day.
“The idea is density. What one seeks with each stroke of the pen is succinct expression. And when one gains such inspiration, which builds through the glorious satisfaction of having your ideas expressed, then they may go on beyond the everyday by filling their words with dance. This is the true prose poem.”
I wrote this originally to teach others, by example, of what was a prose poem. There had been heated discussion about this very thing, of which I had been a part, and I could not help but demonstrate my point of view. Everyone today thinks it consists of one part prose and one part poem, where the writer may choose from any part he so desires. Thus, one may choose to write in stanza form but with no rhyme or meter – no poetry at all and this makes a prose poem. But this is not thus. A prose poem is specifically the format of prose with the reading of poetry; the exact opposite. Please read this, a little prelude which I have written, in verity and with the full purpose of understanding what makes for great poetry.
~Thank you
A Prelude (the actual prose poem)
On the western foothills of Appalachia, rode grim upon the sky a man who failed to see the test. The slopes fell straight. Frozen in place was everything and nothing moved for anything. She could not believe her eyes. Closer and closer now around a bending turn she turned to peel what left she had. Frozen there like stone he stayed, obscured and curled by ice.
“How can this be?” she thought, as she cleared her throat.
Here he was aloft in light, the sun now high and bright. Cleft from the cliff and frozen fast, his hand held the sun. What more was there to see? She stayed and waited for what seemed hours, frozen like everything. She did not move. She didn't breathe. She could not think a thing. Until what seemed eternity, the man woke up from sleep!
“Oh!” she cried and fell straight down, so shocked she seemed with cold. Now she returns to herself and says,
“Are you alright?...”
The man just stirred enough. He turned now around and peeled what left he had of crusty ice blight eyes and says,
“Be quiet.”
A low earth rumble mixed with spindly tines begins. And the eyes of each, fully peeled now lock in horror. The man quickly releasing his lines, kicks and all layers of ice fly like diamonds. Swinging now with desperation he rides grim upon the sky. Would he fail to meet the test? The crags sunder giving way, anything moving like everything was nothing. She reaches out, her hand holding the sun in hope he comes while she falls away.
“Hold on!” he cries aware now.
But neither returned that day.