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Sonia Rumzi

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Be A Poet Even In Prose

by

Always be a poet even in prose.

Charles Baudelaire

 

“I am not a poet” is an unacceptable transgression in prose. If my writing is not poetry to my ears then it is a pile of dung also to others. If the purpose of writing is to elevate and impart ideas and some form of wisdom then it matters that the writing is well done with rhyme and reason.

 

Supposing that one cannot write meter and scale, it then matters even more to write with beauty and skill. Never assume that the reader is a moron, but that the reader wants entertainment worthy of their time and the money they spent on your pulp or download, as the case may be.

 

Beauty in words is not only a must but a responsibility of the writer. Choosing the right word in the right place intertwined with humor, situation and surrounding. Mulling over words, choosing them to use or discard is in itself a rhythm and a cadence, balancing the value of it in the scheme of sense, or lack thereof, that it will make.

 

Never say you are not a poet. If not then reevaluate and become one, choosing your prose with care and pulse. Modulate your words, adjust and modify till the only word that fits in your sentence is that one and nothing else will do. Do not dissect to where it becomes ostentatious and pretentious. Try to stay genuine and true to your writing but still pay attention and revise.

 

Be a poet even when you write prose. Good advice, good sense.

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  • Guess

    Here is an excerpt of a story I wrote in an attempt to include as much poetry in the prose as possible. This is the first two paragraphs. The effect is greater if one recites it out loud. I hope it is useful as an illustration. Keep up the good work as a literary missionary. AH

    “I can’t remember the details of how and when I died, but I remember much from the time before and after. This story is about the brief period between, from after the fall to before the elevation.

    The time before is full of scenes with my grandfather. Even now, if I really concentrate, I can feel his still tangible breath on my forehead, or a shaky hand spotted like a ripe banana closing slowly on mine. Suddenly I am transported, drawn into the black hold of his room. It was a room full of curious souvenirs and collections of objects I could cherish without recognizing, and contained an air of mild amusement and comfort. I could see quite far for a child, yet never enough to pierce the great shadows that decorated his walls like modern paintings. Though he had free range of the house, he kept largely to his room, because it remained HIS room despite my mother’s evangelical attempts to “keep it tidy,” and because I suspect that he disliked both of my parents more than I did. His age kept him a prisoner of kindness, as did mine.”

    • Sonia Rumzi

      Arthur that is wonderful. The day I can write like you, I will pop open champagne. Hugs. You are a genius.

  • I cannot agree more with you Sonia but even with all conscious effort to be entertaining and true to my passion I sometimes lack the confidence if it will actually do justice to the time of my reader. Thanks a ton for your post!!!

    • Sonia Rumzi

      Thank you Kriti. I love your writing. You pretty much do that on your own. And you are welcome.