Hi Sally,
You write:
">Hi Bob,
>have you come across the concept of the sentence-long poem, ie a poem in
>one
>sentence?"
Yeh, I sometimes find I'm writing a poem that's just one sentence - the
Prague In Midsummer poem was one of them. That poem was an echo or response
to the longest I've managed which is 42 lines, and longish lines at that,
somewhere around 340 words I think. This Prague poem got less than half
that number of words but it still has echoes - which are more than just
using just one full stop!
I think the longest poem I've seen in one sentence is A.R. Ammons Garbage -
that's a whole book of a poem! But he cheats a little by using colons as the
kind of break most people would use a full stop for.
I've also got a piece in 4 long parts that is one sentence (using titles as
part of the flow) but I haven't lokked at it for yeasrs now. I might dig it
out not I've remembered it... I seem to recall thinking I didn't know how to
end it!
Here, though, when I was getting to the end of the piece I was remembering
something I once read by Richard Wilbur who advised following a long
sentence with a very short one... Then, when I looked at what I'd done, I
added one or two more full stops earlier on.
Bob
>From: Sally Evans <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: Each Tuesday Night At Nine
>Date: Tue, 14 Sep 2004 16:53:11 +0100
>
>Hi Bob,
>have you come across the concept of the sentence-long poem, ie a poem in
>one
>sentence? They can be quite long sometimes. Well, page-long anyway. the
>thing is if writing one of those to avoid "lists'.
>all best
>SallyE
>
>
>on 14/9/04 11:39 am, Bob Cooper at [log in to unmask] wrote:
>
> > This began after Arthur mentioned a TV programme (and I started
>imagining
> > something completely different!).
> > I'm still playing around with how long sentences should be! Punctuation
>can
> > help clarity, but it can also slow things down! Anyway, this is where
>it's
> > got to.
> > All comments welcome:
> >
> >
> > Each Tuesday Night At Nine
> >
> > Again I see the district where you live
> > on the telly. It’s easily recognisable, scenic,
> > can look romantic filmed in low light,
> > and, if they want, it can easily be found
> > by those who see each episode,
> > who’ll watch repeats, buy videos of the series,
> > and who may want to stand at the spot
> > where the script gave them something
> > they knew said how they’d feel being there.
> >
> > But I lose the plot, see instead
> > your hand inserting the key, and mine
> > marked by the weight of carrier bags
> > closing the door. Then I hear the quiet
> > forgettable things: the low rumble of pears
> > tipped into the bowl, the crackle of cellophane
> > as the misshapen carton of paprika’s set down -
> > And did we speak? I doubt it as the kettle’s filled -
> >
> > then the heroine turns from a similar window,
> > “I don’t know what’s happened,” she says
> > tears in her eyes, “Where did we go wrong?”
> > But now I’m just watching the screen,
> > the close-ups, the pauses. I know how it ends.
> >
> > Bob Cooper
> >
> > And it's not the best of titles...
> > (OK, OK, stop making excuses! If it's iffy you'll probably get to know!)
> >
> > _________________________________________________________________
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