Recast prose as poetry
Oct. 13th, 2011 02:22 amThere's a meme going round writers at the moment to recast the opening lines of your novel as poetry. I'm not sure any of these really work. The first one is the opening of 'The Winterwood Choice' currently with my agent.
The stuffy bedroom smelled
of sickness,
old lady, stale urine
and unwashed clothes,
poorly disguised
with attar of roses.
I'd never thought to stand
here again
in Plymouth,
in the house I'd once called home;
a house
with memories so bitter
that I'd scoured them from my mind
with salt water
and blood.
-o0o-
And Empire of Dust is just plain weird as poetry:
Cora
glanced into the tray
of delicate components
on the slowly moving belt
and thumbed the pad.
All present.
Tick.
Next one.
Yes.
Tick.
And again.
Tick.
She stifled
a yawn.
“Hey, Carlinni, I got one.”
On the other line
Bergman
punched the air
and grinned.
-o0o-
But Spider on the Web works slightly better, I think:
The Wavel Bell tolled
the death knell of a king.
It sounded
from high on the Gora
and echoed
across the city of Biela Miasto.
Hari Faron
felt the sound
in the back of his skull.
He leaped to his feet
clattered a flagon to the floor
swayed unsteadily and
flattened his large square hands
on the wet wooden tabletop
trying to sober up
between one breath
and the next.
And failing miserably.
-o0o-
But what do i know? i'm rubbish at poetry
The stuffy bedroom smelled
of sickness,
old lady, stale urine
and unwashed clothes,
poorly disguised
with attar of roses.
I'd never thought to stand
here again
in Plymouth,
in the house I'd once called home;
a house
with memories so bitter
that I'd scoured them from my mind
with salt water
and blood.
-o0o-
And Empire of Dust is just plain weird as poetry:
Cora
glanced into the tray
of delicate components
on the slowly moving belt
and thumbed the pad.
All present.
Tick.
Next one.
Yes.
Tick.
And again.
Tick.
She stifled
a yawn.
“Hey, Carlinni, I got one.”
On the other line
Bergman
punched the air
and grinned.
-o0o-
But Spider on the Web works slightly better, I think:
The Wavel Bell tolled
the death knell of a king.
It sounded
from high on the Gora
and echoed
across the city of Biela Miasto.
Hari Faron
felt the sound
in the back of his skull.
He leaped to his feet
clattered a flagon to the floor
swayed unsteadily and
flattened his large square hands
on the wet wooden tabletop
trying to sober up
between one breath
and the next.
And failing miserably.
-o0o-
But what do i know? i'm rubbish at poetry