I used to write sonnets and various things, and moved from there
I used to write sonnets and various things, and moved from there into writing prose, which, incidentally, is a lot more interesting than poetry, including the rhythms of prose.
Hear the words of Shelby Foote, historian and storyteller, who declared: “I used to write sonnets and various things, and moved from there into writing prose, which, incidentally, is a lot more interesting than poetry, including the rhythms of prose.” At first, this sounds like the quiet preference of one writer over another. Yet in truth it reveals a deeper wisdom: that the boundaries between poetry and prose are not walls, but flowing rivers, and that each form holds its own beauty, its own rhythms, its own way of capturing the mystery of life.
The meaning of Foote’s words lies in his discovery of rhythm in prose. Many believe that rhythm belongs only to poetry, with its strict meters, rhymes, and structures. But Foote reminds us that prose, too, has its cadence—its rise and fall, its breath and pause, its music hidden in sentences. To him, prose was not lesser than poetry, but equally alive, equally capable of moving the soul. He suggests that when written with care, prose can rival verse in its beauty, while also carrying the freedom to unfold stories, histories, and worlds in greater breadth.
The ancients knew this truth long before Foote. Consider the Greeks: their philosophers and historians—Plato, Thucydides, Herodotus—wrote in prose, yet their works endure with the power of poetry. Plato’s dialogues, though prose, are filled with rhythm and imagery that elevate them beyond ordinary speech. In Rome, Cicero’s orations were prose, yet his cadences could stir crowds like epic verse. Even the Bible, in much of its narrative, is prose shaped by rhythm, turning history into sacred song. Thus, Foote stands in a lineage of those who saw prose not as plain, but as profound.
History offers shining examples of this idea. Consider the works of Tolstoy. His prose novels, War and Peace and Anna Karenina, flow with rhythm so powerful they carry the weight of poetry. His sentences are waves, rising and falling, pulling the reader into the current of life itself. Or look to Winston Churchill, whose speeches—though prose—were written with such rhythm that they carried nations through war. Foote’s point becomes clear: prose, when shaped with artistry, is not merely informative but transformative.
Foote himself began with sonnets, the disciplined form beloved by Shakespeare and Petrarch. Sonnets demand precision, brevity, and music. But when he turned to prose, he discovered that the same discipline could be carried forward, that prose could breathe with rhythm while also allowing expansiveness. His journey mirrors that of many writers who begin in poetry but find their truest voice in prose, carrying with them the sense of rhythm, imagery, and precision that verse taught them.
The lesson for us is clear: do not think of prose and poetry as rivals, but as companions. Each teaches the other. Poetry trains the ear to hear rhythm, the eye to see imagery, the heart to embrace emotion. Prose takes those lessons and stretches them into story, philosophy, and history. To live a full life of expression, one must learn from both: the condensed fire of poetry and the wide river of prose.
Practical wisdom flows from this. If you write prose, do not abandon rhythm—read your words aloud, feel their cadence, make your sentences sing. If you write poetry, do not dismiss prose—study it, learn how it carries rhythm without rhyme, how it creates beauty in freedom. And if you do not write, still attend to the rhythms of speech around you, for they shape your thoughts and your soul. In every form of expression, seek music, and you will find truth.
Thus, Shelby Foote’s words endure as a reminder: prose, like poetry, has rhythm, depth, and power. Let us honor both, and in doing so, remember that language itself—whether verse or sentence—is our greatest tool for shaping meaning. For in rhythm, whether of sonnet or of story, we find not only art, but the music of life itself.
VNAnh Vu Ngoc
Foote’s view raises a compelling question about how we define ‘rhythm’ in writing. In poetry, rhythm is deliberate and structured, but in prose, it’s more elusive—emerging through sentence flow, punctuation, and the movement of ideas. Maybe he discovered that prose’s rhythm mirrors the rhythm of thinking itself. I’d love to ask him whether his experience as a poet influenced the musicality of his prose, or if he saw the two crafts as fundamentally separate worlds.
LVLong VU
I can see where Foote is coming from—prose gives writers a kind of flexibility that poetry’s strict forms often restrict. Still, I wonder whether the shift from poetry to prose means losing something essential. Poetry distills feeling into language; prose spreads it out across narrative and character. Could it be that Foote found prose ‘more interesting’ because it challenged him differently, offering a rhythm not bound by meter but by thought and voice?
VRHa Van Ri
There’s something bold about Foote’s assertion that prose is more interesting than poetry. It almost sounds like a provocation to poets. But maybe he’s pointing to the complexity of prose rhythms—the way pacing, syntax, and tone can weave their own music. I’d like to know if he thought prose could evoke emotion in the same concentrated way poetry does, or if he believed prose’s appeal lies more in its expansiveness and variety.
PHTan Phat Huynh
I find Foote’s claim fascinating because it challenges the hierarchy that often places poetry above prose in literary discussions. Perhaps what he’s suggesting is that prose, when written attentively, contains its own kind of rhythm and beauty. It makes me curious—was his shift to prose a creative evolution or a practical decision? Could it be that the storytelling potential of prose offered him a broader canvas than the confined form of the sonnet?
QMDuong Quang Minh
Foote’s perspective surprises me a little—many writers see poetry as the highest form of linguistic art, yet he finds prose more interesting. I wonder if he’s referring to the freedom prose allows compared to the structure of verse. Maybe he was drawn to the narrative possibilities and subtler rhythms of sentences. Do you think prose can carry the same musicality and emotional depth as poetry, or does it appeal to a different creative impulse altogether?