Let's get that nagging question out of the way first: What happened to day three was, simply: my computer ate it.
Okay, so on with day five. The prompt, as I understood it, was to dismantle any poem of Emily Dickinson and rewrite it, changing lines and words around, even substituting or adding new words. Virtually creating a new poem from the 'remains.' This sounded free wheeling, took quite a bit of concentration to carry off without taking the time to list all the words separately, but in the end, it turns out that it was kind of fun.
Emily's poem was a twenty-liner of alternating six and seven syllable lines, with her signature dash at the end of every line. Her poem made sense, the kind of sense that is good for contemplation. Mine,-fourteen lines long, not so much, unless we consider it a neo-ghazal, a short poem of couplets that don't necessarily have much to do with each other, other than a certain angst.
Emily's poem was titled "This world is not conclusion."
Mine:
This poem is not conclusion.
Please don't misunderstand its confusion.
Music beckons beyond sound,
stands invisible beyond species.
Sagacity and philosophy
may be guessed, unlocked through riddles.
Generations gain contempt
as narcotics nibble at their souls.
Faith blushes at twigs of evidence
the way crucifixion asks questions.
From pulpits roll strong hallelujahs,
gesture much, and laugh, and really
pluck, beckon and baffle the whole truth
men didn't know.
Shirley Smith Franklin, April 2015
Okay, so on with day five. The prompt, as I understood it, was to dismantle any poem of Emily Dickinson and rewrite it, changing lines and words around, even substituting or adding new words. Virtually creating a new poem from the 'remains.' This sounded free wheeling, took quite a bit of concentration to carry off without taking the time to list all the words separately, but in the end, it turns out that it was kind of fun.
Emily's poem was a twenty-liner of alternating six and seven syllable lines, with her signature dash at the end of every line. Her poem made sense, the kind of sense that is good for contemplation. Mine,-fourteen lines long, not so much, unless we consider it a neo-ghazal, a short poem of couplets that don't necessarily have much to do with each other, other than a certain angst.
Emily's poem was titled "This world is not conclusion."
Mine:
This poem is not conclusion.
Please don't misunderstand its confusion.
Music beckons beyond sound,
stands invisible beyond species.
Sagacity and philosophy
may be guessed, unlocked through riddles.
Generations gain contempt
as narcotics nibble at their souls.
Faith blushes at twigs of evidence
the way crucifixion asks questions.
From pulpits roll strong hallelujahs,
gesture much, and laugh, and really
pluck, beckon and baffle the whole truth
men didn't know.
Shirley Smith Franklin, April 2015
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