Trouble At The Poetry/Prose Border

Recognizing a poem as a poem used to be as easy as waiting for the predictable chime of a rhyme (no rhyme intended). But since the free verse movement about a century ago, when poetry by-in-large stopped rhyming and moving to the rhythm of the metronome, poets have been writing work that comes closer and closer to prose. Some have crossed over completely, writing poems in unrhymed and generally unmusical paragraphs (gasp!). If Lou Dobbs were a literary critic, he'd be livid.

There has always been some gray area between the genres. Playwrights used to write in verse, and plays were essentially made of poetry. Excerpts from Shakespeare still stand brilliantly as poems (I actually prefer them to his poems). Take this one from Macbeth (V, v, 19). Macbeth himself gives this soliloquy after watching his kingdom, and his life, begin to crumble.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

It's written in blank verse, so while the lines don't rhyme, they have a meter (iambic pentameter). And Shakespeare layers metaphors like he's making baklava. It's great poetry.

John Lundberg: Trouble At The Poetry/Prose Border