I have my own idea what prose poetry is, but I am not sure I am correct?
I am interested to read what others may think it is?
Most of the time I categorize my poetry as prose for the most part, because I really feel I cannot find a nitch to categorize it in any other places.
I guess I think of prose as putting across a feeling of a subject rather than being worried about format or rhyming the poem.
I am here to learn what others think prose is.
I think this is a great question! Thank you for asking it!
I wish all a Happy Day!
Ps. Here are some definitions I found in Wikimedia.
Prose poetry is poetry written in prose instead of using verse but preserving poetic qualities such as heightened imagery and emotional effects.
Prose poetry should be considered as neither primarily poetry nor prose but is essentially a hybrid or fusion of the two, and accounted a separate genre altogether. The argument for prose poetry belonging to the genre of poetry emphasizes its heightened attention to language and prominent use of metaphor. On the other hand, prose poetry can be identified primarily as prose for its reliance on prose's association with narrative and on the expectation of an objective presentation of truth.
Here is another definition example I found in "YOUR DICTIONARY" Prose Examples
Prose comes from the Latin "prosa" which means "straightforward." Prose can be written or spoken and has no formal metrical structure. It is basically ordinary language - the way people speak.
Example from the "Prose Poem" By RUSSELL EDSON
Russell Edson(1935 - ) Identified as "the leading practitioner of the prose poem since ... Ponge" in "Notes on the Authors" in Models of the Universe: An Anthology of the Prose Poem, wherein one can find these two examples, which otherwise speak for themselves.
We went upstairs in a canoe. I kept catching my paddle in the banisters.
We met several salmon passing us, flipping step by step; no doubt to find the remembered bedroom. And they were like the slippered feet of someone falling down the stairs, played backward as in a movie.
And then we were passing over the downstairs closet under the stairs, and could feel the weight of dark overcoats and galoshes in a cave of umbrellas and fedoras; water dripping there, deep in the earth, like an endless meditation . . .
. . . Finally the quiet waters of the upstairs hall. We dip our paddles with gentle care not to injure the quiet dark, and seem to glide for days by family bedrooms under a stillness of trees . . .