prose versus poetry

I don’t really like prose. Wait, let me clarify that. I dislike poorly-crafted prose, such as that which I’m forced to wade through as I cram for my history midterm (once-a-week classes just cannot motivate me to keep pace). Take this example: “On March 4, 1801, Thomas Jefferson walked from his boarding house to the Capitol for his inauguration, ostentatiously avoiding the pomp and ceremony he thought had grown out of hand under Washington and Adams.” That is the opening sentence of a chapter, the eighth to be precise, in my widely-used and, I believe, in many circles highly-regarded textbook. Ostentatiously avoiding pomp and ceremony?? Really, who writes this nonsense? I could do better than that. Which brings me directly (was that direct?) to my point: as my prose is generally poorly-crafted, I tend to dislike it. Thus I opt for poetry instead, or something at least closer to poetry than to well-crafted prose. Not that my poetry is worthy of any praise, either. But I find it more rewarding to have written something in which I have wrestled with every word, syllable, sound, and shape, depositing my ideas and emotions and responses to my world into the tiny loops and folds of an elaborately wound mass of linguistic yarn (see what I mean about my prose?) Anyway, that is why I enjoy reading (and writing about) poetry more than I do prose: precisely because it is more difficult. And when we dare to penetrate the unknown, when we embark on a journey into the darkness in search of a trace of light and fight to return not only alive but living and knowing and feeling and thinking and being more and better than we were before, that is what it means.