Once prose and poetry existed side by side, <br />two styles of literature of distinct boundary <br />jealously guarded by the literati <br />lest prose masquerades as poetry. <br /> <br />The First World War smashed all the fetters, <br />soldiers wrote heart-rending poetic letters <br />to sweethearts, friends, fathers and mothers. <br />Newspapers published their anguish and horrors <br /> <br />The literati classed them as prose <br />and turned up their nose <br />at such new trend of mongrelised poetry; <br />but the public gave it name and identity: <br />Prose-poetry began to gain respectability. <br /> <br />Prose-poetry is a contradiction in terms, <br />an oxymoron; a paradox of many forms; <br />when well written, words flow as though in rhyme; <br />thought and syntax together dance with rhythm. <br /> <br />Some pen few lines haphazardly, <br />string words together arbitrarily, <br />flit between thoughts randomly, <br />structure their poems casually. <br /> <br />They want to be seen as thinkers, <br />in fact they are wearing blinkers. <br />If only they could see their folly <br />they would stop abusing prose-poetry.<br /><br />Isam Hussain<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/prose-poetry-2/
