Prose Poetry: A Syllabus

Not poems, but life set to music --Brian Doyle

Jan 05, 2026

I generally detest prose poems as a genre, but I guess I’ve written a few myself. —Danilo Kis

Last Summer I happily took part in Summer Reading Bingo hosted by Lit Mag Love. We practiced reading like a writer—noticing the places where voice or setting took the stage, where silence instead of speech became the driving force. It was the perfect summer project. Because I was only reading single poems, I was engaged but not overwhelmed.

I completed my squares. And started writing about it in the Even Astonishment series (overdue for a new post!). Then I entered the contest and…won! So I will be taking Rachel’s prose poetry class in a couple of weeks. Prose poetry isn’t something I have much experience with. But I wanted to honor the gift of the class by preparing and being a willing participant.

Old journals, Emerson, and Levertov at an end of the year writing retreat

So I started gathering resources and following rabbit trails. Soon enough I had weeks worth of materials. I am most looking forward to Rachel’s careful feedback. She is an editor with an expansive eye, someone who sees and honors what’s already on the page while also inviting you into bigger things.

I would love to have you join along on this prose poetry adventure this winter!

An Early Draft

Like I said, I don’t have much experience with prose poems. But all this research has sent me back to my pile of drafts looking with new eyes at fragments and lost lines. Here is a beginning draft that I am still returning to.

1934
One night a woman told the stories of winter. Stories not told at other times. Stories for long nights and hungry days.
*
A girl, almost too young to marry. A wedding the only way out of a life bounded by violence. She married the widower who ran the hotel in town, birthed a daughter by him, named her Josephine. And when he died, the hotel had to be sold. Later, war carried the whole world into disaster. Then, a man came back from across the waters. His legs sustained the French winters and never were strong again. But he could love her and care for the child. They could move out of town.
*
She dreamed of stars, light and heat from far away. When she woke, a man was sleeping next to her. The edge of his beard was singed, and smoke filled the room.

What about you? Do you write prose poems? Does that category even make sense to you? How do you make decisions about form in your work? Do you have resources that I should add to this winter’s curriculum?