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.
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.
