Top 63 Poetic Prose Quotes
#1. Poetry is so close to music, not just in cadence and sound but in silences. That's why, to me, I can't talk about prose poems. I can talk about poetic prose.
Pattiann Rogers
#2. I'd rather call prose poems something else, for clarity - something like "poetic prose," prose that contains a quality of poetry, but not poems.
Pattiann Rogers
#3. Poetry is the language of the soul;
Poetic Prose, the language of my heart.
Each line must flow as in a song,
and strike a chord that rings forever.
To me, words are music!
Lori R. Lopez
#4. I've already written 300 space poems. But I look upon my ultimate form as being a poetic prose. When you read it, it appears to be prose, but within the prose you have embedded the techniques of poetry.
Story Musgrave
#5. The poetic prose that most interests me is that of Henri Michaux.
Franz Wright
#6. Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness.
Charles Baudelaire
#7. Below me, in spreading, concentric circles, like those a fish makes when it rises in still water, spun round the lower tiers; above me arched the black sky pierced by the gas jets of the stars.
Angela Carter
#9. Pram wasn't told the story of her birth. But even as a very small girl, she felt deep in her chest that she was alive and dead at the same time.
Lauren DeStefano
#11. I think the sun where he were born drew all such humours from him. - 3.4.26
William Shakespeare
#12. It was shivery and scant. Scared. Skint. But just around the edges it was still scintillant.
Patrick Rothfuss
#13. As she walked, clock towers across Prague started arguing midnight, and the long, fraught Monday came at last to a close.
Laini Taylor
#14. A single shoe. Only someone under a spell would lose a shoe and not turn back for it.
Nicki Salcedo
#15. I would never write realistic prose. I don't like people who try to write in a poetic style, but in the course of their book abandon it for realism, and weave back and forth like drunkards between the surreal and the real.
Marguerite Young
#16. He followed it down, in full flight now, the trees beginning to close him in, malign and baleful shapes that reared like enormous androids provoked at the alien insubstantiality of this flesh colliding among them.
Cormac McCarthy
#17. I could have told him to learn from Gatsby. from the lonely, isolated Gatsby, who also tried to retrieve his past and give flash and blood to a fancy, a dream that was never meant to be more than a dream.
Azar Nafisi
#18. They're talking as if nothing's happened, Soledad said to herself, and the jealousy ran from her ears into her heart, where it settled into her aorta and reshaped itself as longing and desire, the kind of want that makes one capable of poor but magnanimous decisions.
Derek Palacio
#19. ..Breaking yet budding,
dying yet living - standing
amongst ruins and rage,
reaching for possibilities
playing hard to get.
Meraaqi
#20. I am a big fan of Dos Passos' stylistic ability, his poetic approach to prose, but the ideas presented in the songs are quite different from those which he exemplified.
Neil Peart
#21. They lay together in a sheltered place among the ruins of Brasilia while deathbeams from Chinese EMVs played like blue searchlights on broken ceramic walls.
Dan Simmons
#22. Yuvali struggled to put one foot in front of the other. The long leaves of a purple-flowered bush raked her forehead. The flower emerged from bulbous green tubes, unfolding toward the sun. The petals radiated like flecks in an eye, a whirlpool, a sea-shell." Ch.19
B.T. Lowry
#24. Drink from the ethereal philosophy of Heaven and you may see life as no more no less than a dream made of pure poetry from divine source. AA
Ana Claudia Antunes
#26. I suppose one starts out, as a child, being romantic and dreaming of adventure. Poetic. Then reality comes along, and with it, a whole lot of prose.
Roberta Pearce
#27. We are all made of glass. Snow floats around us. We are delicately made, meant to be smashed.
Nicki Salcedo
#28. He appreciated all beautiful things. As she stood before him poised, scrutinizing every inch of his face, liable to strike him, he thought she was the most incredible thing he had seen in his life. She didn't step away from fear, she walked up to it.
Nicki Salcedo
#29. Stone gnomes and angels filled the gardens, and it seemed that they were also sleeping, as though a witch had cast a spell on them.
Lauren DeStefano
#30. hough we travel the whole over to find the perfect match,we must carry it with us a light or it's playing hard to catch.
Ana Claudia Antunes
#31. I should have bailed. That little voice had my back. That little voice is older than I am. It's older than the oldest person who ever lived. I should have listened to that voice.
Rick Yancey
#32. The clouds took on the shape of dancers; from somewhere far off, Pram heard music before the clouds became normal again.
Lauren DeStefano
#33. She knew that the dead hid pieces of themselves in the world. They buried organs in the living. They stuffed memories into trees and clouds and other innocuous things.
Lauren DeStefano
#34. He was now working his way through the many shades of grief. Sadness made everything gray, he'd learned, but there were different types of gray, some darker than others. There were dark spots in his memories he wasn't brave enough to enter.
Lauren DeStefano
#36. If everyone could be brought low, then everyone could rise up.
Nicki Salcedo
#37. Her mouth was a gash of red, like the torn-open stomach of a sacrifice, bloody and oracular. Behind it her teeth shone sharp and white as bone.
Madeline Miller
#38. And after that, I watched our house collapse in on itself and I spent some time lying in the rubble. Then I vanished completely. I wasn't here at all. Then you phoned.
Ali Smith
#39. The dust of thirty years hung lifeless in shafts of morning light, the gilding of perfectly prim pages shone incanescent, the shriek of rolling ladders mourned in perennial soliloquy.
Michelle Franklin
#41. From her perch more than a kilometer aboveground, she surveys the city that never sleeps, glittering and coruscating in the rain like a metaphor for her glamorous life.
Bao Shu
#42. The Big Dipper wheels on its bowl. In years hence it will have stopped looking like a saucepan and will resemble a sugar scoop as the earth continues to wobble and the dipper's seven stars speed in different directions.
Ann Zwinger
#43. The characters in my novels are my own unrealised possibilities. That is why I am equally fond of them all and equally horrified by them. Each one has crossed a border that I myself have circumvented.
Milan Kundera
#44. Felix had left his heart buried in the ground years ago, but he felt it crack apart.
Lauren DeStefano
#45. As dawn leaks into the sky it edits out the stars like excess punctuation marks, deleting asterisks and periods, commas, and semi-colons, leaving only unhinged thoughts rotating and pivoting, and unsecured words.
Ann Zwinger
#46. I have tried to tell him in a dozen different ways that I am only six inches tall. I've told him I am as tall as his heart, that he could hold all of me in his hand, that I am shorter than I appear. Every time, he's acted as though I'm saying something romantic or poetic.
Jennie Bates Bozic
#47. There's April in her hair. Motion and stillness. Wings and earth. There are tears, and there is ... friendship. There is velvet, and traveling, and distance, bones and blood, summer coming again as it always does, love.
Laura Kasischke
#48. When critics are waiting to pounce upon poetic style on exactly the same grounds as if it were prose, the poets tremble.
John Crowe Ransom
#49. It is easy to pride yourself on brains when you had both brains and beauty. Beauty was fleeting, and here was the proof. It was gone.
Nicki Salcedo
#50. She thought of Chacko's laugh, and a smile stayed in her eyes for a long time.
Arundhati Roy
#51. We were broke in a way that only kids can be broke. Our toes were black with dye from wearing boots that weren't waterproof. We had infected ear lobes and green rings around our fingers from cheap jewelry. No one ever even had a chocolate bar.
Heather O'Neill
#53. The displacement of water is equal to the something of something.
William Faulkner
#54. They are paper cutouts rather than people, Pram thought. They are shadows with black dots for eyes and grim lines for mouths. They almost resemble the dead, but not quite.
Lauren DeStefano
#55. The line is a way of framing poetry. All verse is measured by lines. The poetic line immediately announces its difference from everyday speech and prose.
Edward Hirsch
#56. It has often been observed that the repercussion of poetic language on prose language can be considered a decisive cut of a whip.
Eugenio Montale
#57. She wished that when her heart was beating double, she could give one of those hearts to him and then press her ear to his chest and feel it beating.
Lauren DeStefano
#58. Paper is the strongest material in the world. Things under which a mountain will crumble, you can place on paper and it will hold: beauty at its most intense; love at its fiercest; the greatest grief; the greatest rage.
Nadeem Aslam
#59. Wherever she sought solitude, she was never alone. Suddenly that wasn't a bad thing. There was safety in numbers greater than one and sanity in knowing that everyone healed. If everyone has scars, there are two choices. Bleed to death slowly or stitch yourself together.
Nicki Salcedo
#60. I do not just want you at your best.
I almost do not care
where your Happiness lives,
but please,
let me visit your pain?
Take me to the place
where your sadness goes,
and show me the tragedy
that no one knows.
Meraaqi
#61. Like blood out of a wound, a keening wail rose from the bottom of my heart and ripped through the graveyard. I lowered my face to Hadassah's shoulder and went quietly and thoroughly to pieces.
Angela Elwell Hunt
#62. Yet poetry, though the last and finest result, is a natural fruit. As naturally as the oak bears an acorn, and the vine a gourd, man bears a poem, either spoken or done. It is the chief and most memorable success, for history is but a prose narrative of poetic deeds.
Henry David Thoreau
#63. I was working the hole with the Sailor and we did not bad fifteen cents on average night boosting the afternoons and short timing the dawn we made out from the land of the free but I was running out of veins.
William S. Burroughs
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