The Prose Poem: Poetic Adventures Week 5

10 week poetry write-along, pop-in and pop-out anytime

Dear Readers,

Wow! We are here at Week 5 and I have been having a great time exploring different ways to write poetry. Haven’t you too? I love all the self-portrait poems that you wrote and shared last week. I got to know all of you, a bit more through your poems, and in some cases, gained an alternate perspective. Do keep writing and sharing with us.

Anytime, anywhere

This is for those who haven’t joined in on any of the previous week’s adventures. We are a pop-in-pop-out-anytime sort of place. Since each post is stand-alone, feel free to join in any poetic adventure that tickles your fancy, and leave out those that are not for you!

We had more people participating last week. Thank you! Do read all the poems shared with us in the comments of the SELF-PORTRAIT post.

Week 5: The Prose Poem

In week 5, we come to you with the prose poem. In The Prose Poem: An International Journal, Peter Johnson describes the prose poem as, "planting one foot in prose, the other in poetry, both heels resting precariously on banana peels." But, therein lies the challenge. Where does the prose end, and where does poetry start? What is a poem without line breaks? Can a piece be both prose and poem? I hope the poems I share today, clarify or confuse you.

ONE YEAR I LIVED ALONE by Shivani Mehta

I only had the moths for company, shared the flat with them. How they clung to every surface like brown velvet petals. How the night grew dark with their fluttering. Light filtered in as if through a thick curtain. I grew accustomed to the gloom. On cold nights we huddled in front of the fireplace, I under a coarse blanket, moths forming a dark border around it like sentinels. Sometimes I read aloud—to myself or them, I’m still not sure—the sound of my voice soothed their trembling. When I undressed for bed, their wings cast shadows on my skin. They swirled around the room as I slept, alighting on my thigh, an upturned palm, my closed eyes, like a kiss.

I found this poem haunting. The loneliness of having ‘moths for company’ and ‘their wings cast shadows on my skin’ hit harder than someone living alone in a flat, just alone, staring at the rain or perhaps the moon. This poem is memorable to me because it is surprising. Shivani Mehta’s prose poems lie at the border of surrealism and reality. You can read more of her poems here.

Next, we have the first prose poem I ever read. Read it aloud, and tell me: do you hear the rhythm of the piece? Do you notice the alliteration?

Bath

By Amy Lowell
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
       The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
       Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

Here is another prose poem I liked.

Information

By David Ignatow

This tree has two million and seventy-five thousand leaves. Perhaps I missed a leaf or two but I do feel triumphant at having persisted in counting by hand branch by branch and marked down on paper with pencil each total. Adding them up was a pleasure I could understand; I did something on my own that was not dependent on others, and to count leaves is not less meaningful than to count the stars, as astronomers are always doing. They want the facts to be sure they have them all. It would help them to know whether the world is finite. I discovered one tree that is finite. I must try counting the hairs on my head, and you too. We could swap information.

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Contemporary Prose poetry tends to dwell in the realm of absurdism and surrealism. I am not a fan of absurdist poetry but it did yield unexpected results. I have drafts of 3-4 such poems now, and it has been a freeing exercise. I guess that is why the poets who indulge in absurdist poetry, do so.

Here are a few such poems for your reading: The Reality Testing Booth , The Academic Sigh, and The Difficulty with a Tree.

Here is an excerpt from ‘The Difficulty with a Tree’

"A woman was fighting a tree. The tree had come to rage at the woman’s attack, breaking free from its earth it waddled at her with its great root feet.
         Goddamn these sentiencies, roared the tree with birds shrieking in its branches."

On first reading, these poems boggled my mind. I confess, I didn’t really like them too much. But, they keep returning to me, and I keep returning to them. And hence, I have shared a few, to dip your toes in.

PROMPT FOR THE WEEK

Write a prose poem. Try to combine surreal elements with reality as in Shivani Mehta’s poem. Use surprising imagery and infuse a rhythm into your piece. Or go another way and try to make a point with absurdism.

*Sorry! My poem for the week has been removed for a submission*

That’s all for this week! Go be a little absurd and have a lot of fun.

Be Kind,

Namratha