folio : (further) short takes on the prose poem
My favorite quote about the prose poem
comes from Mary Ruefle. In an interview with Washington Square she says:
A three-hour class on what is a prose poem is? A waste of time. That doesn’t mean it can’t be prose, or that prose can’t be poetry—but for all practical, speaking purposes, it’s right-flush margin or it’s lineated. It’s so simple. What is all this postmodern complicated bullshit?
That squares away the what. But why? The prose poem is like a trick shown on a how-to guide for magic VHS tape: the assistant still gets sawed in half, but does so lying in a glass box. We know how sentences and paragraphs work, their rules. Can’t buy a thrill. But infused with the idiosyncrasies of poetry, its cadences, attention to detail, and penchant for bending in light, what was once banal becomes possessed. There’s magic that can’t be explained, despite what the tape claims.
There are frequent stops when traveling by prose poem; for me, this is one of its unique charms, maybe thee charm that keeps me coming back. Unlike another poem that can move between a line that spans across the page and a zig-zag all within the same piece, I know, and the reader knows, the prose poem will start and stop, then start and stop again. Being invited to sit with sentences, poetic sentences in no particular hurry, is a pleasure. Furthermore, the tendency for the prose poem to wind around surrealism (neosurrealism?) is a nudge to the reader to stay with sentences longer—the associative leaps lend themselves to contemplation (this is a whole other essay). The “radicalness” of the prose poem still lies in its form, but the beat has changed. And when the poem does end, either at one paragraph or a few pages, if it goes especially well, the accumulation of sentences stirs a reader, which is what all good poetry should do (even still, Charlie, I didn’t mean to make your mom cry).
The Way You Laugh When Something Goes
Wrong
We had more time to pursue extracurriculars.
You: Historians can generally pinpoint when the boner comedy lost its charm.
Me: Would you call your cape moderate to severe black?
Me: Does knowing six things that may or may not be personal qualify as true romance?
A sudden increase in wind speed knocks thoughts of my ancestors
right out of my head and onto David’s baked potato en route.
Instant Classic
Oldsters versus youngsters at the
karaoke contest.
If I thought too much about the future or power ballad love, I got a nosebleed for my trouble.
Next time you work on your tan, congratulations!
Bismarck re-mapped.
The county surveyor was just pulling my leg, the son-of-a-bitch.
Already we’ve run out of ways to reminisce on our exes, failures at sea, etcetera.
Will your head fall off if I name my raincoat after you?
Maybe it’s a low-budget remake?
Staying in character even when bored out of my mind.
There’s no shortage of blessings.
Nate Logan is the author of Wrong Horse (Moria Books, fall of 2023) and Inside the Golden Days of Missing You (Magic Helicopter Press, 2019). He lives in Indiana.
