The prompt today asked for a sonnet or traditional poem, or a non-traditional or anti-sonnet poem. I adore a good sonnet, but abhor trying to write one. I started thinking about the actual movement of “anti-poetry,” a category most prose poems probably fit into in one way or another. The anti-poet extraordinaire, Parra, was a bit before my time, but maybe some of his “rules” work here. And if not, well, they’re meant to be broken.
There’s a technique to anti-poetry. A skill I haven’t learned. Rules to follow to break the rules. It’s quite confusing, really. But I understand the need. It can seem highfalutin, untouchable, off-limits. Poetry is not luxury, it’s nourishing words for the masses. Do you agree, reader? I am asking you, directly, because the rules say the anti-poet can do that. There’s no metaphor here, so don’t bother peering between the lines. What you see is what you get. And just like in life, sometimes a cliché works. Don’t avoid them like the plague. There’s a time and a place, Parra might say. But this does seem quite bloated. Too many lines, so little rhymes.