Examples Of Prose Poetry
Prose Poetry combines lyrical and metric elements of traditional poetry with idiomatic elements of prose, such as standard punctuation and the lack of line breaks. Using techniques such as heightened imagery, parataxis, and emotional effects. Parataxis is a literary technique, in writing or speaking, that favors short, simple sentences, without conjunctions or with the use of coordinating, but not with subordinating conjunctions. It contrasts with syntaxis and hypotaxis. Here are our Examples Of Prose Poetry.
Poems by Alice Eaglefeather
Three moons from here
So, are all of Jupiter’s moons inhabited? Asked the explorer
Yes, but not by us. Answered the native
Who are you? Asked the captain
I was born three moons from here.
And what are you? Asked the adventurer
Can’t you tell I am a traveler? The native asked the tourist
What is travel? Wondered the pilgrim
‘Tis simply to advance! Said the native
A new opportunity, a way to expand your mind. It’s an experience.
Wanderlust never allows you to settle for who you are.
It is a constabulary power of those possessed by the spirit of freedom.
So, one day you become all that you can be.
See, traveling is akin to evolution and growth.
Where are you going? Asked the passenger
Everywhere I can, so long as I have health, time and means.
When those days pass, and I can no longer wander, like all travelers
I will read stories in the planetarium. And I, too, will write
About all the places, and the creatures I have seen.
The first day of spring
Mother is in the garden. She is watering the yellow roses that just started to bloom. She trims off old leaves and lays sawdust around the base. Busy bees serenade dancing petals under the glistening sun. Freed from the shackles of the mind, she escapes into her whimsical distraction.
It is the first day of spring, and a couple of woodpeckers are chiselling a home on the apple tree. There is a light cool breeze, which comes from the south and smells like orange blossoms.
Father is lighting a fire in the red brick pizza oven. He is giddy, in a daze over the thought of an outdoor meal. Having done most of the cooking, I lay on the silky wild grass, a couple of pages into my new book. My little brother plays with the dog under the grand apple tree, so carefree. Ever the explorer, he studies the birds and tries to learn how they fly. Mother comes closer; she starts watering the peace lilies. The musky perfume of wet soil tickles my nose and the lilies, grateful for the love, stand a bit taller.
My big sister, the artist, draws the landscape in her sketchbook. With her colors and her shapes, she owns her freedom. And like her peers, she then wears it from head to toe. As if freedom is a great piece of art, designed by fanciful feats of nature. My lover is holding our son’s hand as he attempts his first ever steps. I sip my drink and taste bliss. In hindsight, that is unconditional freedom, to be free even from oneself. Because we were caught in the moment we were, in fact, altogether free.