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.
10 thoughts on “Prose–>Verse”
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Lyric:
America, the four-step to disappearance
the moment to moment upheaving
the trampling breath
the rush
any minute now
backwards into ocean
the use myself up
the now the now the now
the dream: the punish what is soft
the kill what is small
America, the bending and the break
the world between and
the world deserved and
the world unearned and
the world made shell made placeholder
made moment misfired
made bird swallowed you whole
America, the heat the hearth the heart
the world unwanted
the uninvited
the promise
the push the pull
the plane cross-stitched
with steel into my inner wrist
the wound the holes
the threaded limbs
the leave now? you’ll bleed out
the what is left to return to?
not you
America,
step, spin, shrink, —
Narrative:
On winter nights, the winds. They don’t tear your roof off out here but they do leave you cold.
Narrative:
Lone seagulls exaggerated a walking gait as they traversed the sand. Others stood passively along the shoreline with closed eyes and one leg tucked. Small biting flies bothered mothers on the shore, too slow for the remaining children running to and from a beach blanket and the water. Low, sloping dunes grew long fronds of green. They provided cover over invisible crickets, beginning to practice for their dusk drone. Small spiders sped in different directions, disrupted and disturbed, quickly disappearing behind divots and dips left from footprints. The movement of the animals is negligible. Never noticed unless keenly observed. A waning moon posits itself over the tallest of the beach grass. Solitary and separated from the dim heavenly bodies beginning to show themselves high in the sky.
Lyric:
Lone seagulls exaggerated a walking gait as they traversed the sand
While others stood passively along the shoreline
With closed eyes and one leg tucked into themselves.
Small biting flies bothered mothers on the shore,
too slow for the remaining children running to and from a beach blanket and the water.
Low, sloping dunes grew long fronds of green
that provided cover over invisible crickets,
beginning to practice for their dusk drone.
Small spiders sped in different directions as they’re disrupted and disturbed,
quickly disappearing behind divots and dips left from footprints.
The movement of these animals is negligible,
never noticed unless keenly observed.
A waning moon posits itself over the tallest of the beach grass,
solitary and separated from the dim heavenly bodies beginning to show themselves
high in the sky.
NARRATIVE:
It is raining but it always rains here.
The temple glows by candlelight
a golden Buddha smiles down on us.
It’s grandiose,
all red pillars and gilded edges.
We stand next to each other,
strange and new,
my twin sister on one side,
my best friend from home on the other.
A monk walks by
The length of our shorts feels sacrilegious.
Lightning flashes
it does not deter those who have come to seek comfort amongst the deep red-blue-greens of the temple walls
the lanterns that flicker above.
On the steps above us, they bow.
The more bows, the more devout their wish.
In each of our hands is a colorful votive
carved with the animal zodiac from the year we were born.
They beg us to write our wishes on them,
We are too shy to respond to their calls.
I hold the ram’s head in my hand,
knowing exactly what is written on my heart.
I hide it anyway and write down something paltry,
a deformed wish about getting good grades.
Still, I turn it away so they can’t see.
Lyrical:
It rains; the rain never stops
The temple glows by candlelight
a golden Buddha smiles
red pillars and gilded edges.
We are strange and new
A monk walks by
We are suddenly sacrilegious.
Lightning flashes
Amongst the deep red-blue-greens
of the temple walls
the lanterns flicker above.
On the steps above us, they bow.
The more bows,
the more devout their wish.
We hold candles we are too afraid to light,
they ask for our wishes
My heart is bare on my face.
Still, I turn it away so they can’t see.
The Chef’s Dance:
She shimmies through the kitchen,
aromas of fresh baked bread,
lobster, potatoes all around.
Grips the wine glass, it is her life line, her breathe
of freedom.
The kids bicker upstairs, she sighs,
“Alexa turn up three levels”.
Dancing through the smell of fresh food,
cooked with love,
she sips her wine,
finally smiling.
The Chef’s Dance:
Mother dances around the kitchen.
The kids are fighting again, it never ends.
Alexa plays best of the 80’s and mother sips
her wine.
This is her haven.
This kitchen. The smells. The food. The mess.
The food is cooked with care.
She plates it like art and takes a moment
to appreaciate,
what others won’t.
“Time to eat”, summoning the others.
Freedom, over.
1. Narrative
Snow, cold, downhill.
Boarding across the hill.
Angling towards the tree ready for the jump.
Prepping for the landing.
Where did I go?
I can’t breathe
Where am I?
Someone needs to help me.
How do I get out?
I’m in a tree.
2. Lyric
Cold, wet, tired
Wind whips across my face
Jumping is the goal
Feeling free in the air
Bend and push
Breathe
Darkness, cold, immobile
Where can I go from here?
Stuck, scared, alone
Lyric:
Cinnamon. Cloves. Chilies. Star Anise.
Sizzling and crackling,
the smell of garlic and onion
floating in the air.
Shrimp flying in the air,
eggs being cracked.
Her excited face behind the wok,
waiting for her turn to come.
Narrative:
Cinnamon. Cloves. Chilies. Star Anise.
Some of the ingredients
that the man had just thrown into the wok.
Her mouth was salivating,
thinking of the shrimp and the eggs,
and the garlic and the onions.
Dreaming of the moment
when those sizzling noodles would hit her mouth,
as she stood close around the wok,
waiting for her turn to come.
Narrative Poem:
Inauguration, a new beginning
Preparation for a new beginning is always long and tiring
Cut 3 pounds worth of carrots, onions, peppers, and garlic
Making sure there is enough for every dining hall
I take my dirty cutting board and knife to the student worker
Who is on dishwash duty
But the student worker is grunting and struggling
All of a sudden there is a gush of blood all over the walls and floor, and in a second, she is on the ground with only one arm
Lyric Poem:
Chop, Chop, Chop the carrot
Chop, chop, chop all the vegetables
As if Boldo is coming alive
Showing us all the deliciousness of what food should be
BOOM
AHHH
SMASH
Only 5 feet away, and chaos
Dark red substance oozing everywhere
Limbs flying around
And so, the end is near
Sunday
The door opened early during Sunday services,
a sliver of light chased Diana through the entryway.
She closed it softly behind her,
pausing
diffused sunlight of the cloudy morning
falling into the dim, low nave.
She plunged her hands into the stoup, focused on
ritual instead of the religion.
The rinsing of her hands, the cleansing.
The water swirling.
She wondered what exactly they thought they were cleansing from her,
from her body.
She could feel their eyes, their whispers.
May judgment day come to us all.
–
Sunday
Soft sunlight behind her, warm. The church, cold.
Darkness, candlelight.
Some hidden thing in the altar.
Shadows flickering. Devotion, teeth behind velvet.
Marble under frigid water, hands rinsing sin. Singing.
The holy, the sacred eating the fire.
Religion, ritual temptation.
1) Narrative
The synth-pop sounds fill the crowded room
Bodies clash against one another
feeling the beat of the music.
Heads are bopping,
shoulders sway,
knees bending on a 4/4 count.
Heat radiates off the walls,
just wanting to be free for one night.
A thin woman sings on the stage.
She sways her hips from side to side,
glitter on her eyelids,
red light reflecting off her face,
belt loosely hanging off her dress,
she holds on to her mic.
Her dress flows with her movement;
she is the movement.
Friends twirl each other as they giggle.
A couple looks endearingly at each other,
you can see the desire in their eyes,
the way their lips slightly curl up into a smile,
slightly parted,
wanting more.
You bend your knees at the beat of the song,
you shake your shoulders awkwardly,
your friend encourages you to keep going,
to dance, to not be stiff.
You jump up and down,
wondering what is happening.
You start feeling yourself;
your body,
recognizing that you don’t have to be afraid.
You are free.
You are in this moment.
You are infinite just this night.
2) Prose
Heat.
Sweat.
Clashing.
The intensity bubbles up in the pit of your stomach.
A burning sensation,
clawing its way out within you,
reaches out,
grasping for freedom.
Intoxication fills the air.
Your body sways, free from its constraints
Free of restraints
Your desires are no longer tied back
Bodies sway,
feeling the intensity of their natural drives,
No longer keeping their distance.
It is raw,
Real.
Lost but not lost.
The innermost thoughts escape.
Free with your movements
Rushing, gushing, out of you.
Do not apologize,
Not for your actions.
Bubbling sensations,
Bubbling euphoria.
You are infinite.
Lyric:
He’s suffocating. Trapped in limbo, yet the world
is still moving, slipping away and
leaving him behind. Somehow
oblivion feels as natural as breathing.
He drives to escape
a never-ending maze
of crisp white walls and sterile floors,
watching as the car winds up the path
to the abandoned farm, a dilapidated treasure
hidden between acres of deciduous overgrowth
and golden fields of hay,
where with each turn
he is deeper in the forest and farther from
home.
The barn’s rusted weathervane
comes into view, and suddenly
he’s gasping for air, clawing at the invisible hand
squeezing him by the neck.
The sight of the farm
brings back a flood of memories, welling up
and filling him with such heaviness
that he can do nothing but
drop to his knees and let them
wash over him all at once.
His wife is his oxygen,
and now he can’t breathe.
…
Narrative:
Narrative:
He’s running away from the hospital, driving to avoid
crisp white walls and sterile floors.
The car hurtles along the winding path, passing
acres of deciduous overgrowth
and golden fields of hay
on its way to the abandoned farm,
hidden deep in the forest and far from
home.
He spots the barn’s rusted weathervane
and suddenly he’s gasping for air,
choking
from a flood of memories,
filling him with such heaviness that
he can do nothing but
drop to his knees.
His wife is his oxygen,
and now he can’t breathe.