Prose poetry is a type of poetry that is written in a prose format instead of using verse. This type of poetry is written in prose but still retains the qualities of verse poetry, such as vivid imagery and emotional effect. This type of poetry isn't quite prose on its own but isn't quite poetry; rather a unique mix of the two mediums. It breaks some of the normal rules associated with prose discourse, for heightened imagery or emotional effect, among other purposes.
A prose poem may be written about any one subject that the author chooses, but is written in a different form than most poems are written, focusing more on a prose style over a traditional poetry style. This form of poetry should be considered an entire genre of its own, not fitting into a complete prose category nor a complete poetry category. This style of poem is somewhat difficult to write, though is enjoyed by many for its unique form, flow, and storytelling ability.
Arguments continue about whether prose poetry is actually a form of poetry or a form of prose (or a separate genre altogether). Like poetry (intense, sculpted) but without line breaks.
Prose Poetry Examples
Out of the golden West, out of the leaden East, into the iron South, and to the silver North . . . Oh metals metals everywhere, forks and knives, belt buckles and hooks . . . When you are beaten you sing. You do not give anyone a chance . . .
You come out of the earth and fly with men. You lodge in men. You hurt them terribly. You tear them. You do not care for anyone.
Oh metals metals, why are you always hanging about? Is it not enough that you hold men’s wrists? Is it not enough that we let you in our mouths?
Why is it you will not do anything for yourself? Why is it you always wait for men to show you what to be?
And men love you. Perhaps it is because you soften so often.
You did, it is true, pour into anything men asked you to. It has always proved you to be somewhat softer than you really are.
Oh metals metals, why are you always filling my house?
You are like family, you do not care for anyone.
[Kills bugs dead.]
Kills bugs dead. Redundancy is syntactical overkill. A pin-prick of peace at the end of the tunnel of a nightmare night in a roach motel. Their noise infects the dream. In black kitchens they foul the food, walk on our bodies as we sleep over oceans of pirate flags. Skull and crossbones, they crunch like candy. When we die they will eat us, unless we kill them first. Invest in better mousetraps. Take no prisoners on board ship, to rock the boat, to violate our beds with pestilence. We dream the dream of extirpation. Wipe out a species, with God at our side. Annihilate the insects. Sterilize the filthy vermin.