What makes prose a poem? - Page 9

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Thread: What makes prose a poem?

  1. #81
    Quote Originally Posted by clark View Post
    PiP--what is the NO DEBATE' policy?
    It is in-house jargon - a carry-over from previous administrations - which prohibits posts that:

    attack other people for their views rather than addressing those views directly;
    demean or belittle another or claim some personal superiority or authority as a right to do so;
    continue to push an argument beyond tolerance;
    include deliberate inflammatory remarks, flames or baits aimed at anyone;
    and other similar breaches of da Rules.

    When a discussion descends to shouting or argy bargy, it disrupts the peace and leads to what were laughingly called debates.
    "I don't know ... I'm making it up as I go ..." - Dr I Jones

    Nature abhors perfection - cats abhor a vacuum!

    "Faith can move mountains - she's a big girl!" (unknown/graffiti)

    If I act like I own the place, it's because I did.

  2. #82
    Quote Originally Posted by PiP View Post
    Moderator Note: Fellow poets, this thread has wandered off topic and has now become personal. PLEASE, let's all take a deep breath and move on. Any further personal comments will be pulled and a warning may be issued. Please don't make me take action. I understand the passion when discussing poetry - walk away. Take your goat for a walk or whatever.

    WE also have a no debate policy.

    If you are tempted to ignore my warning you do so at your peril.

    Moving on...

    If we shadows have offended ,
    think but this and all is mended,
    that you have but slumbered here
    while these visions did appear.
    And this weak and idle theme,
    no more yielding but a dream,
    Gentles, do not reprehend :
    If you pardon, we will mend:
    And, as I am an honest puck,
    if we have unearned luck
    now to 'scape the serpents tongue,
    we will make amends ere long;
    Else the puck a liar call;
    So, goodnight unto you all.
    Give me your hands, if we be friends,
    and Robin shall restore amends.

    William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

    sorry, Miss PiP.....
    She lost herself in the trees,
    among the ever-changing leaves.
    She wept beneath the wild sky
    as stars told stories of ancient times.
    The flowers grew toward her light,
    the river called her name at night.
    She could not live an ordinary life,
    with the mysteries of the universe
    hidden in her eyes....
    Author: Christy Ann Martine

    Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
    love leaves a memory no one can steal....
    Author unknown.

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