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Poetics and Poetry Discussion


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Lamont Palmer Male, 52, United States (7/3/2013 8:39:00 PM)

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Your contention that the only distinction between poetry and prose is merely how its laid out on the page is utterly ridiculous. No one would write an essay or a novel using that syntactical arrangement - its much more inventive and allusive than prose needs to be. That's what makes it poetry. However I'm happy you liked it (he's one of the true living greats) though its only a portion. -LP

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  • Lamont Palmer (7/4/2013 7:48:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies Stage

    You're right buddy. You know me well, as I know you. Yes, Joyce's 'prose' is actually poetry and is quite the exception. Also the 'prose' of Woolf falls into that category. Even some of Faulkner's work can be considered highly poetic prose, right on the edge of poetry. But again, these are unique exceptions. Ninety-nine percent of the prose written, even if written extremely well, is matter-of-factly and expository, and looks vastly different from GOOD poetry. The real irony is, most novelist are trying to get as 'poetic' as they can in their work, while a lot of 'poets' try to strip their work of anything remotely resembling the characteristics of strong poetry. Joyce's prose beats, for example, Levine's and Hoagland's lackluster monologues on any day. Reading these excerpts will send me to my copy of 'Wake' for an infusion of some really inventive thinking. -LP

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    • Lamont Palmer (7/4/2013 9:51:00 AM) Post reply Stage

      Was he a masochist who hated praise?Thats the only way he wouldn't like that comment. -LP

    • Mary Morstan (7/4/2013 8:16:00 AM) Post reply Stage

      Joyce would cut you into little pieces and eat you for dinner for that comment...

  • Mary Morstan (7/4/2013 7:00:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Not from Ulysses, but:

    " for she was the only girl they loved, as she is the queenly pearl you prize, because of the way the night that first we met she is bound to be, methinks, and not in vain, the darling of my heart, sleeping in her april cot, within her singachamer, with her greengageflavoured candywhistle duetted to the crazyquilt, Isobel, she is so pretty, truth to tell, wildwood's eyes and primarose hair, quietly, all the woods so wild, in mauves of moss and daphnedews, how all so still she lay, neath of the whitethorn, child of tree, like some losthappy leaf, like blowing flower stilled, as fain would she anon, for soon again 'twill be, win me, woo me, wed me, ah weary me! "

    and,

    " A gentle motion all around. As leisure paces. And the helpyourselftoastrool cure's easy. It seems so long since, ages since. As if you had been long far away. Afartodays, afeartonights, and me as with you in thadark. You will tell me some time if I can believe its all. You know where I am bringing you?You remember?When I ran berrying after hucks and haws you drawing out great aims to hazel me from the hummock with your sling. Our cries. I could lead you there and I still by you in bed.  Les go dutc to Danegreven, nos?Not a soul but ourselves. Time?We have loads on our hangs."

    from JJ, Finnegans Wake, 16 & 17

  • Jefferson Carter (7/3/2013 9:47:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Of course someone could write a novel using Hill's syntactical " arrangement, " something even more inventive, like " Ulysses." But then, Lamont, you probably think Joyce's masterpiece is poetry....

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