Fare Thee Well, National Poetry Month

Has April yet nearly passed us by?

My how the days did fly!

Merely one day more

Til we close the door

On National Poetry Month.

But do not fear!

For today you'll hear

Something to rehearse

It's all about a verse,

We call prose poetry.

Prose poetry is, well, poetry that is free of outward trappings of rhythm and rhyme scheme, of stanzaic patterns, of line length and syllable counts. They contain more natural speech and word patterns than other forms of poetry. Although free of the outward strictures, the poems contain a hidden, inner discipline that mold and shape them.

They are prose and they are poetry all at the same time. Beautiful concept, isn't it?


Following is a prose poem by Oscar Wilde:

THE ARTIST

by Oscar Wilde

ONE evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image
of THE PLEASURE THAT ABIDETH FOR A MOMENT. And he went forth into
the world to look for bronze. For he could think only in bronze.

But all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere
in the whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the
bronze of the image of THE SORROW THAT ENDURETH FOR EVER.

Now this image he had himself, and with his own hands, fashioned,
and had set it on the tomb of the one thing he had loved in life.
On the tomb of the dead thing he had most loved had he set this
image of his own fashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the
love of man that dieth not, and a symbol of the sorrow of man that
endureth for ever. And in the whole world there was no other
bronze save the bronze of this image.

And he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great
furnace, and gave it to the fire.

And out of the bronze of the image of THE SORROW THAT ENDURETH FOR
EVER he fashioned an image of THE PLEASURE THAT ABIDETH FOR A
MOMENT.

And following is a prose poem freshly penned by Bernice Seward:

A POEM IN PROSE

by Bernice Seward

A poem in prose is a poem indeed, unfettered by external bonds. Of rhyme scheme, of meter, of stanzaic compaction. Not compelled to march by corporeal command.

A poem in prose is a poem indeed, engendered from a glorious seed. That sprouts, that grows; roots reach down, tender leaves stretch out--to be and become, to blossom, bear fruit, with cadence and structure, God-breathed, found within.

 Have you ever tried your hand at prose poetry? I'd love to hear about it. Or hear about newly inspired verses!