tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3407624264627208128.post5568330263994458951..comments2024-01-26T21:38:25.924-08:00Comments on Duane's PoeTree: Anne Tibbitts writesDuanesPoeTreehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053093400086634552noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3407624264627208128.post-84346545645703125622015-07-16T22:51:12.492-07:002015-07-16T22:51:12.492-07:00i love this analysis--i learned a bunch of new thi...i love this analysis--i learned a bunch of new things--which is always a good thingAnonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17502902139212332290noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3407624264627208128.post-51775020582754326722015-07-15T06:45:37.610-07:002015-07-15T06:45:37.610-07:00This is a nice example of a prose poem. It looks l...This is a nice example of a prose poem. It looks like prose but utilizes techniques that are common to poetry. Early English translations of the Bible,William Wordsworth's LYRICAL BALLADS, and some works by the German Romantics such as Novalis can be seen as forerunners, as can the fake translations of Ossian by James Macpherson, but prose poems as a distinct style of poetry started among the Symbolists in late nineteenth-century France. From them it passed on to Oscar Wilde and other Decadents. Then the form largely went out of fashion, though traces remained in the writings of Gertrude Stein and Djuna Barnes, although the fantastic stories of Franz Kafka, H. P. Lovecraft, and Clark Ashton Smith may also be seen as examples. The form was brought back into vogue by the Beats including Allen Ginsburg and Jack Kerouac. Here is "Bath," an example by Amy Lowell:<br /><br />The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.<br /> The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.<br /> Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air. <br />DuanesPoeTreehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17053093400086634552noreply@blogger.com