Prose Poem

AGENDA:

Go to and read:


https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/prose-poem-poetic-form

web.njit.edu/~ronkowit/poetsonline/archive/arch_prose.htm

The Colonel:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/carolyn-forche#about

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dXMbpFvCWMs

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/49862

www.shmoop.com/colonel-forche/

http://www.webdelsol.com/tpp/


Francis Ponge:

http://prose-poems.com/ponge.html


Nin Andrews (BOA poet):
http://www.mobylives.com/Duhamel_one.html

CINDERELLA for my daughter, Suzanne So tell me this.  Why did that prince want to marry some girl, so slim she could dance in glass slippers? And I mean, dance, not pussyfoot around. And why is it that no maiden in the entire kingdom ever shattered that glass shoe?  One step in and smasho.  Now doesn't that tell you something about women back then?  Even those mean, ugly stepsisters . . . .  They didn't carry any weight at all. The best were as light as milkweed with nothing but dreams to keep them happy.  And the beautiful were always in danger of being blown away like kites or party balloons.  But there was one, once upon a time and long ago . . . There had to have been at least one who never gazed upon her prince with silken eyes . . . Maybe it was her scent of cinders, sweat and silt that really turned men on and drove them wild. So they galloped away on silver steeds, waving their lances in the air, chanting: "Mine's bigger than yours!" Because that, my love, is what men do best and have done and will do happily ever after until the end of time. https://superstitionreview.asu.edu/issue5/poetry/ninandrews James Tate: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/list-famous-hats The List of Famous Hats James Tate, 1943 - 2015 Napoleon’s hat is an obvious choice I guess to list as a famous hat, but that’s not the hat I have in mind. That was his hat for show. I am thinking of his private bathing cap, which in all honesty wasn’t much different than the one any jerk might buy at a corner drugstore now, except for two minor eccentricities. The first one isn’t even funny: Simply it was a white rubber bathing cap, but too small. Napoleon led such a hectic life ever since his childhood, even farther back than that, that he never had a chance to buy a new bathing cap and still as a grown-up--well, he didn’t really grow that much, but his head did: He was a pinhead at birth, and he used, until his death really, the same little tiny bathing cap that he was born in, and this meant that later it was very painful to him and gave him many headaches, as if he needed more. So, he had to vaseline his skull like crazy to even get the thing on. The second eccentricity was that it was a tricorn bathing cap. Scholars like to make a lot out of this, and it would be easy to do. My theory is simple-minded to be sure: that beneath his public head there was another head and it was a pyramid or something. Naomi Shihab Nye  Hammer and Nail "Would you like to see where our little girl is buried?" my friend asks as we walk between stucco shrines and wreaths of brilliant flowers. Even a plane's propeller is attached to a pilot's grave as if the whole thing might spin off into the wind. One man's relatives built a castle over his remains, with turrets and towers, to match the castle he built for his body in life. If you stand at a certain angle you can see both castles at once, the bigger one he lived in off on the horizon. An archway says in Spanish, "Life is an illusion. Death is the reality. Respect the dead whom you are visiting now." We hike down the hill toward the acres of "free graves." Here people can claim any space they want without paying, but also risk having someone buried on top of them. In the fields beyond the cemetery, women walk slowly with buckets slung over their shoulders on poles. Black cows graze on knee-high grass. The crossbar from the marker to my friend's child's grave has come loose and lies off to one side. My friend kneels, pressing the simple blue crossbar back into the upright piece, wishing for a hammer and nail. The cross has delicate scalloped edges and says nothing. No words, no dates. It reminds me of the simplicity of folded hands, though I know there were years of despair. My friend says, "Sometimes I am still very sad. But I no longer ask, 'What if . . .?' It was the tiniest casket you ever saw." On the small plots in either direction, families have stuck tall pine branches into dirt. The needles droop, completely dried by now, but they must have looked lovely as miniature forests for the first few days.