I was reading, Laura Salas' Golden Shovel poem creation. I had heard of Golden Shovel before, but wasn't sure what it was, so I looked it up. It looked like fun!
Grab a line of poetry. Use each word in the line in order as the last word in each of the new poem's lines. Make sure to credit the original author.
I decided to give it a go - if I could actually find a book of poetry in this awful mess I've created around me in the process of packing, tossing and yard-saling for our move to Gull Haven.
I did find one book without unpacking or digging:
Rupert Brooke's poetry "1914 and Other Poems". It actually has more than at that link; it is two collections in one volume. The second part of the book is just Poems by Rupert Brooke. My eye happened upon "The Voice" first, in the second part of the volume and it made me laugh. I'll let you listen to it first, being read by Heine Smek.
Further searches brought me to the Rupert Brooke's Society page and an article about his life in The New Yorker online. After finding "The Treasure" written in August of 1914, in the book, I also found it online. It was this one I decided to use for my Golden Shovel Poem.
by Rupert BrookeWhen colour goes home into the eyes,
And lights that shine are shut again,
With dancing girls and sweet birds' cries
Behind the gateways of the brain;
And that no-place which gave them birth, shall close
The rainbow and the rose: -
Still may Time hold some golden space
Where I'll unpack that scented store
Of song and flower and sky and face,
And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,
Musing upon them; as a mother, who
Has watched her children all the rich day through,
Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,
When children sleep, ere night.
I selected the highlighted line to write my "Golden Shovel Poem". It came out in one sitting with no edits. It must have been the right line. And I think it was affected by the mood of "The Voice", as select words were lifted from that poem also.
Treasure in Night
from Rupert Brooke's "The Treasure"
She, in solitude, sits,
The night speaks in quiet
Voice and she is handed,
The keys to a thousand dreams in
Place of the
Touch of his hand, memory fading
As the sun makes real in the light.
by Donna JT Smith, May 29, 2017 (102 years later!)
Today is a day like no other. Go find a poem to befriend!
There are definitely some great links being posted over at Buffy's Blog!