John William Waterhouse
“The Thinker” 1910
Wild nights,
wild rudderless nights
at a loose end.
Were I capsized on thee,
wild nights would be
a sultry luxury.
Futile are the winds,
to a heart stuck at port,
weaving tapestry.
A burdened vessel
done with the compass,
done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden,
ghosting the ocean garden.
Ah, the chaffing sea!
Adrift at dawn,
might I but moor tonight
in thee.
©2023 | K. Hartless
GloPoWriMo #22 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!
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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