Take 1 prose piece you’ve written and recast it with line-breaks two ways — as a 1) narrative poem (a poem that tells a story) AND 2) lyric poem (a poem that uses language to evoke). You are not required to adhere to any metrical or formal elements or structures — both poems should be free verse.
6 responses to “Prose–>Poem (Weds)”
I chose to recast one of my Short Talks, but I think it was already Prose Poem like already.
Narrative Poem
The Standardized Test
She sits;
one foot on the chair
the other on the ground.
Mismatched socks and a scattered brain.
Is her hair thinning from the stress?
Will her grades be good enough?
Is it A, B, C, D, or E?
And–
time.
Lyric Poem
She sits;
one foot on the chair
the other on the ground.
Mismatched socks represent and a scattered brain.
Long, black hair behind the ear;
hand to chin
hand to pencil
pencil to anxious mouth.
She’s worried–
about her body
about her grades
about this stupid fucking test.
In truth I cannot discern the differences between these two forms, so I only have one piece. Hopefully I will learn in the coming weeks!
***
Half of the siding
Peels –
Moss & a black
Something
Living
In the crevices, the corners
Of the small world.
Half
Imperfect, defiant
Purple paint job.
Old ladders lean tired and sighing against the building
With their gallons of paint, screwdriver
Hammer. Brushes from the beginning of time.
The door screams when it opens, so
It’s always open, especially now:
Early September
The last warm, dry days.
The grass just regaining its green after the swarm
Of July, August
Dry patches where animals have picked away at the earth.
—
it is full of living things –
a few past their prime,
horses gray
at the muzzle
leaning
against beams, eyes
content
and glazing
white.
the birds
too well-loved
and unafraid.
a guardian dog rests
a spirit in the underbrush
giant
and matted
and muddy
and it too
loved
despite the killing
it must do
loved –
around the back
a small city
of pigs
civilized
clean
& dry:
eating, happily.
lyric version:
I think you will find
we exist under slot machines
Like lucky pennies to be
lifted from our eternal daze
and drunkenly shoved
into church pews
Rows of white wood pointed
East, the direction
of freedom,
of a red Ford F-1
waiting to be christened
as we kiss
even more drunkenly
your earlobe under my nose and so and so
Everywhere we shouldn’t be
we are,
like fire ants,
burning our pennilike shadows
into state lines
and checking off boxes
so we can say we’ve
been everywhere.
narrative version:
I’m drunk on absynthe
and wearing a powder blue suit
that tapers before hitting my wrist
the night you say the words
I thought I wanted to hear
you say.
Elvis is between us with a
cigarette trapped in his teeth
and a script written on his forearm,
and he tells you to kiss me.
I have the fierce and unbearable thought
that I don’t want you
to have to be told.
Just like
back in the hotel room
eyes burning & stomachs green
where you carve roadmaps
into my back with your fingers
and blame it
on the red velvet walls.
*Note*: I am struggling with the lyric version but I do want to try and see how this would go
Lyric Version:
3:14, time of death
Death
End of life, but not my own
Why is it them? And not me?
What did I do? What did I fucking do?
I don’t understand
How could this happen?
Why did this happen?
Why did death happen?
Narrative:
He stepped back.
A body was in front of him.
A cold lifeless body,
cut open with a pool of crimson blood
covering all of the organs and seeping out.
the body was lifeless and dead,
yet the blood was still moving, seeping out.
The man looked at his gloved hands.
He stepped back and took a deep breath
that shook like an earthquake.
“Time of death,” he said, “3:14”.
When you move 40 times before age 40
the security of a home gets lost,
or maybe you never even had it.
When you move into your forever home at age 39,
it takes times to feel safety and security.
It’s a matter of trust.
You learn to trust that every year in the winter,
the inside of the half-circle driveway will fill with water
and freeze into a beautiful pond.
You learn to trust that each year,
the bush in the front yard will turn a fiery red
and the apple tree in the side are will turn a blush pink.
And, when you look at the same giant elm year after year,
you start to see people in the branches looking over you,
and you recognize them,
and they recognize you.
This is both narrative and lyric.
Narrative poem-
It’s 2021 in Michigan.
The air is foggy and misty
I sit on a faded bench watching the lake,
So still and quiet.
The calm lake is interrupted by a gust of wind
Causing a ripple
from one side of the lake to the other.
The trees pick up their movement
leaves rustling loudly.
My eye pinned
To the dark object
emerging from the lake
My boyfriend is calling,
Everyday we call
Since lockdown started.
My eyes do not leave
The dark object.
The phone stops ringing.
The calls stop coming.
The more I watch the lake, the less I notice the calls.
Lyrics poem-
It’s 2021 in Michigan.
The air is foggy and misty
I sit on a faded bench watching the lake,
So still and quiet.
The calm lake is interrupted by a gust of wind
Causing a ripple from one side of the lake to the other.
The trees pick up their movement, leaves rustling loudly.
I can’t stop watching the lake.