Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches loosely onto the withered soul
And sings a melodious tune
Without the need of tough words
Nor meaning, this sweetest sound,
Seems endless like the curling of tides
With much rhythm but no reason
In the harsh gale is heard.
Sorely greedy must be the storm
That could dare to abash the little bird
That kept so very many undead corpses warm
And resurrected them anew.
So ruthlessly greedy must be the storm
That it took away the music which
I’ve heard in the chilliest land and
On the strangest sea
Which yet, never in extremity
Asked a crumb of me.
NaPoWriMo April 2015 Day 5 prompt: Today’s exercise asks you to do something similar, but in the interests of creativity, rather than ill-conceived “correction.” Find an Emily Dickinson poem – preferably one you’ve never previously read – and take out all the dashes and line breaks. Make it just one big block of prose. Now, rebreak the lines. Add words where you want. Take out some words. Make your own poem out of it!
The poem I chose is called ‘Hope’ is a thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson
Did you like it? Did you not like it? Was it reconstructed enough or just copy pasted? Let me know what you think about it. Have a splendid day y’all!