There is this thing called prose poetry

I recently wrote a prose poem call “Tampa Raised You Up”, and it began like this:

You come to me on the 5:36 Tampa plane, suckled dry by sand and salt. You’re a husk of a boy, face drawn back across your skull after a stint as a homeless man. You’re a true criminal with beating hearts and shells in your pocket, stealing reminders of home. A second home, a third home, a never home, because I’m all you have now.

You first question is likely: what makes this a poem if it has no lines?

Well, if I am writing well, a prose poem will have poetic elements that travel to the edge of the page and only break lines when there is no more space at this proverbial end. So a prose poem is like this conglomerate of poetry and prose, as the name suggests.

Among scholarly people who sit around with monocles discussing the elements of poetry before a hearth, there is an argument:

Is prose poetry an actual thing?

What do you think?


Published by

Alexandra Stanislaw

Alexandra Stanislaw is the Editor-In-Chief and founder of Devise Literary. She is also an Assistant Editor for Hotel Amerika. Her work appears in Crab Fat Magazine ("The Good Friend" and "Tampa Raised You Up"), Ragazine, and Chicago Review of Books.

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