poetry writing challenge - day 15

For today's prompt, I want you to take the title of a poem you especially like (by another poet) and change it. Then, with this new altered title, I want you to write a poem. An example would be to take William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow" and change it to "The Red Volkswagon." Or take Frank O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter" and change it to "Why I Am Not a Penguin." You get the idea, right? (Note: Your altered poem does NOT have to follow the same style as the original poet, though you can try if you wish.)


Okay - my favorite poem ever:

The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom the book is true, to whom
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

The house was quiet because it had to be.
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.





A completely perfect thing. And now to ruin it.

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The Street Was Empty and the Sky Was Dark

The street was empty and the sky was dark
The walker became the steps; and lit houses
Were as the other world outside the steps.

The street was empty and the sky was dark
The trees were standing as if they awaited her
Except the walker wanted not yet to arrive
wanted much most to be
the traveler to whom her steps were new, to whom
The lit houses were like a promise of future home.

The street was empty because it had to be
The emptiness was part of the yearning, part of the blood
The hole around which the heart compressed.

And the sky was dark. The newness in a dark world
In which there is no other thing new, itself
Is dark, itself is light and corners and trees, itself
Is the walker stepping late and turning there.