I know I make a lot of these threads, and I know some must be thinking I over-think/analyse these things (and they'd be right) but they do help me get a better grip on things. Many of my poems have been criticised for being nothing more that prose with line breaks - which I'm not here to try and defend - but I would like to know what defines prose-sounding poetry as poetry (prose poetry is something else, which I will also address). I've been reading a lot of Andrew Motion and would like to cite one of his as an example of a poem which reads exactly like prose, while having the form of a poem (as opposed to prose poetry which is, as I understand it, formatted as prose while displaying attributes associated with poetry). Maybe what I'm reading could be classed as prose poetry, formatted as a poem?? Anyway, onto the poem: A Dying Race The less I visit, the more I think myself back to your house I grew up in. The lane uncurled through candle-lit chestnuts discovers it standing four-square, whitewashed unnaturally clear, as if it were shown me by lightning. It's always the place I see, not you. You're somewhere outside, waving goodbye where I left you a decade ago. I've even lost sight of losing you now; all I can find are the mossy steps you stood on - a visible loneliness. I'm living four countries away, and still I think of you driving south each night to the ward where your wife is living. How long will it last? You've made that journey six years already, taking each broken-off day as a present, to please her. I can remember the fields you pass, the derelict pill-boxes squatting in shining plough. If I was still there, watching your hand push back the hair from her desperate face, I might have discovered by now the way love looks, its harrowing clarity. ------------------------- If I were to write a passage of prose as beautiful as this - like I might try to when writing standard fiction - and then simply broke it into equal-lined stanzas, each line of a similar length - would I not have the same thing?
I in no way have the answer, but I am very intrigued as to what the answer is, as I've had a similar question on my mind lately.
The daft thing is if I was to read this, written as a passage of prose in a work of fiction, I would be thinking, Wow - that's sheer poetry, that is!
It doesn't read exactly like prose, you can find more "music" in it. And as you've noticed, there's the format, ie. certain words work better when put in certian places. In the simplest form of poem, those places are the end of the lines (one two/Freddie comes for you, three four/lock your door). Those line breaks have their function in a poem, they are not random. If you try to change the lines and put the break someplace else, it doesn't work.
I really like all the threads you start. Keep 'em coming. I think we can all sort of learn things from each other, maybe? To me, the example reads like poetry. In poetry we pause at the end of the line rather than the end of a sentence. Here we have a tempo of sorts that is consistent throughout the poem. There is prose poetry, but I don't see the example as that. I could be wrong. It's just my opinion or first thought.
I think this is debatable, and have read opinions to the contrary, namely that we don’t pause at the end of a line unless there’s punctuation there to suggest so. I’ve heard people read poetry who clearly believe a line break indicates a pause, and quite frankly it sounds ridiculous when the next line is a run on from the first. You’re certainly not alone in this opinion, but it’s not one I subscribe to.
That's just how I was taught to read poetry when I took a class on it. It really helped me in terms of both reading and writing poetry. But if you've got something that works for you, that's great. I don't think there is a right or wrong way to read poetry. I just needed that extra guidance.
I've looked into this a little more and it seems my view on it is of the minority, with most sources indicating there should, indeed, be at least 'something' in your speech pattern to signify a line break. In truth, on the first reading of a poem, it's almost impossible not to pause because your eyes and brain need time to feed down onto the next line, but for me that pause is never anything more than the pause I give when reaching the end of any line of text. I've heard people read poetry where they put a ridiculous pause at the end of each line, almost as though there were a full stp there, and it sounds horribly awkward.
I'm with you on this, OurJud. My own stuff has been accused of being prose or flash fiction disguised as poetry. All I can say is, consider these two treatments" The less I visit, the more I think myself back to your house I grew up in. The lane uncurled through candle-lit chestnuts discovers it standing four-square, whitewashed unnaturally clear, as if it were shown me by lightning. and The less I visit, the more I think myself back to your house I grew up in. The lane. uncurled through candle-lit chestnuts. discovers it standing four-square, whitewashed unnaturally clear, as if it were shown me by lightning. For me, the words are the same but the voice is different. That's what makes it poetry. I contend that if a person can't tell the difference between the two, it's no use debating with that person about what defines poetry. Interesting thing about this: in the New Hacker's Dictionary, there appeared a poem called "The Story of Mel, a Real Programmer." http://outpost9.com/reference/jargon/jargon_49.html#SEC56 The curious thing is that a footnote reveals this: 1992 postscript -- the author writes: "The original submission to the net was not in free verse, nor any approximation to it -- it was straight prose style, in non-justified paragraphs. In bouncing around the net it apparently got modified into the `free verse' form now popular. In other words, it got hacked on the net. That seems appropriate, somehow." The author adds that he likes the `free-verse' version better...
Nice poem, eh. ... Well, sometimes I re-configure prose as poetry in an attempt to make it more accessible. Or it's a stage in draft, and I might head back again? I have one piece in particular, and I can 'act it out,' read it all Desmond Spurlock - whatever his name was, or match the beauty of the little nasal guy off the radio with his twee New Yorker stories - whatever his name is, but I can't quite unlock the door when I post it away...although to be sure, they were crap versions 1 to 6... so rejection saved me in that respects. I've only truly got one piece of 'crap' published to date, real crap, imagine if a really awful write gets published? Most of my other big P's I can still look at and go 'ahh, what a good boy...' and 'thank god the magazine has 12 readers.' Where was I - distracted myself - so prose heading prose poetry breaks it up a little, if you're very dense in your prose it might aid, help shine a light upon our great densities, heh, a theory... Still, I studied poetry rules and everything, but still intimidated by the rules - my secret - feet and trochees and olympic pentameter et al - hoping obsession with form is preserve of equivalent/book types a la plot/arc/3 act structure/'Strudel says...' - they're like the TEFL of English lit, a poison, heh heh. [Great EDU PHIL theory requires unravelling, unscrambling & more clarity] ... Oh - the other answer is - it doesn't matter...it's not important, call it what you will, puff out your chest, and on...
[wakes up, checks midnight post from day before, 'oh mi god, oh mi god...and breathe...'] Well, here it is Andrew Motion: poet laureate to pervert in 12 words or so, yes, comma is critical. The less I visit, the less I think myself back to your nest I grew up in. The lane uncurled through candle-lit roadworks discovers it standing four-square, whitewashed unnaturally clear, as if it were shown me by painting. It's always the face I see, of you. You're somewhere outside, abusing a bush where I left you a decade ago. I've even lost sight of finding you now; all I can find are the mossy slippers you stood in - a visible creepiness. I'm living four counties away, and still I think of you driving south each night to the brothel where your harlot is living. How long will it last? You've made that journey six years already, taking each broken-off day as a present, to please her. I can remember the girls you pass, the derelict pill-boxes, squatting in shining streets. If I was still there, watching your hand push back the hair from her desperate face, I might have discovered by now the way love looks, its harrowing clarity.
When it is a tree with no Poe. IDK...Epic Poems exist and they are kinda more like shorts than ordinary poems.