As some of you know, I dabble in poetry every now and then, and recently I had to do it for a school project, and I had to imitate a writer’s style. My mom promptly told me afterwards that I should enter a poetry competition, and my aunt has said I should enter a nonfiction writing competition.
I highly doubt I would win, but I might give it a shot sometime. But I have decided that I will post the author’s poem I was copying (or a segment if it is long) and then my poem mimicking it with my own life. And then you can comment below and tell me which was your favorite or which one mimicked the author the best.
Chicago by Carl Sandburg
HOG Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
My Home Town
Quiet you are.
One gas station, one Walmart.
A few restaurants scattered along.
Serene, calm, unhappening
A small, small town.
They say you are quiet, I know that to be true.
I have walked along your sunlit roads
I have seen the wind blow softly across the dew
They say you are still, unmoving in time
I have seen seasons pass, and houses crumble
But I still feel the same as I did when I was younger
As if this is where my home resides.
They say you slumber in a deep sleep,
I have yet to disagree.
There is a touch of peace across that old town
Where the world and I, first ever meet
Now I will mimic E.E Cumming’s style, but due to programming errors, I’ll just put a link to some of his poems here: Poems of E.E Cummings
Wandering, mowing, tiny to our eyes
Crawling, prancing, can you see them now?
They march quicker and faster.
An Anecdote of a Jar by Wallace StevensI placed a jar in Tennessee,And round it was, upon a hill.It made the slovenly wildernessSurround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,And sprawled around, no longer wild.The jar was round upon the groundAnd tall and of a port in air.
A pen it was, that I held in my hand
Poised it was, plumed and sure
Ready to lash, ready to soothe
I felt as if it rather were
A might weapon in my hand
But then it became meek and quiet
Like a midnight moon beam
I watched it as it seemed to cry it
It being words, of course, as it shouted them
Towards the sky, flying away from our land
It took to the stars, so high and mighty and then
I never saw that pen
So, your thoughts?