It’s the first day of National Poetry Day, so what better day than today to post a new poetry pairing?
I’ve been devouring everything I can find about prose poems lately. I’ve been writing a lot of them, too. A couple of weeks ago, I asked people to share their favorite prose poems on Twitter, and while I had a few people favorite my tweet, only one person responded–but that’s ok–because he then graciously sent me a link to a poem of the poet whose prose poems he so loves. And now I want to share it with you:
Here are the last few lines of this stunning poem:
…One night when I was working on a piece I thought I’d call Symphony, Symphony, the shapes began to slip out of my hands. At first, as Mrs. Greenaway remembers, the sound of broken glass. Then the trumpets. Then the terrible music of all those babies I once seemed to be suddenly having, marching, like soldiers, in rows. Then their round wet bellies coming towards me. Mrs. Greenaway still talks about how expertly they gathered me into their tiny arms. And how they took me away not like a prisoner. But like a mother. Into a past I still swear I never had.
The prose poem is a home where everything is in exile, and where exile is where everything belongs. It is a home where emanation and limitation (or retreat and propagation) share the same breath. A haunted home because there is a feeling that someone has been here once before.