Because we divine the world as broken pieces of a picture puzzle, dividing lines are drawn like pistols at dawn. Contentious at times but always highly refined - confined to this which is not that - like me and you though when it comes to we and us there is need for a them. The theme of course is clarity and quite absurd when words may be as blurred as watercolours in rain. Poetry stands aloof from prose though one arose before the other or out of the other like mother and offspring. Hence the rebellion. And neither own their past with poesy yet all belong in a bouquet of imagery metered out in musical patterns and mathematical vacancies. Just when the mist clears someone crosses the line, joins polka dots into poem adjectived by prose. But is this hybrid sterile as a mule? Without becoming prosaic can a poem be as lovely as a Kilmer tree in prose? Let them mingle since both are virtually voiced or placed in print whilst trees can catch the wind, dig the earth, stand naked and make paper for words to nest in.
Propping this up at the dVerse bar for Frank’s challenging MTB Prose Poetry
PoetryPix 