Prose to Poetry

At dVerse Critique and Craft this week, we were asked to turn an already poetic piece of prose into a poem, first arranging it as lines of verse and then crafting it further. 

I happen to be re-reading Rudyard Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill at the moment. Kipling’s prose is beautiful (after all he was a poet too). I took excerpts from the chapter I’ve just finished, leaving out many connecting words and passages but otherwise not changing the language. I did arrange them into verses of equal length, even at this stage — can’t help myself — and already tried to hint at a new story.

Then I rearranged the verses further and left out even more words so as to (hopefully!) bring out the music. I did make some changes at this stage, e.g. to omit details irrelevant to the poem I'm creating, such as the names of the hill and the man, but they are very tiny changes.

The title I’ve given the poem in both cases is not the chapter heading (that is ‘A Centurion of the Thirtieth‘) but a phrase from the text.

They are still Kipling’s words, not mine, so I would have to call each version a found poem.

1

Una went alone to the Far Wood.

She looked down most cautiously, 

and saw a young man 

covered with hoopy bronze armour 

all glowing among the late broom. 

But what Una admired beyond all 

was his great bronze helmet 

with a red horse-tail that flicked in the wind. 

She could hear the long hairs rasp 

on his shimmery shoulder-plates.

He leaned forward, but his eye 

was caught by the setting sun.

It had come down to the top of Cherry Clack Hill, 

and the light poured in between the tree trunks 

so that you could see 

red and gold and black 

deep into the heart of Far Wood; 

and Parnesius in his armour shone  

as though he had been afire.

‘Wait!’ he said, lifting a hand, 

and the sunlight jinked on his glass bracelet, 

‘Wait! I pray to Mithras!’

He rose and stretched his arms westward, 

with deep, splendid-sounding words.

Through the goldy-brown light 

of the beech leaves they walked.  

They found themselves 

at the little locked gates of the wood.

2

Una went alone to the Far Wood

She saw a young man

all glowing among the late broom:

great bronze helmet with a red horse-tail
that flicked in the wind. 

She could hear the long hairs rasp 

on his shimmery shoulder-plates.

He leaned forward, but his eye 

was caught by the setting sun.

The light poured between tree trunks. 

You could see red and gold and black 

deep into the heart of Far Wood. 

He in his armour shone as though afire.

‘Wait!’ he said, lifting a hand. 

The sunlight jinked on his glass bracelet. 

‘Wait! I pray to Mithras!’ He rose 

and stretched his arms westward. 

Deep, splendid-sounding words

through the goldy-brown light 

of the beech leaves

at the locked gates of the wood.