Poetry Potpourri
by James E. Tate

Writing Poetry from Prose

Oh, the joy of writing poetry. This age-long literature brings satisfaction to the writer, and supplies the reader with poetic expressions that few things can equal. If it's a bit intimidating for you to get started in this endeavor try this: Find or write a piece in prose. Go back over it, massage key bits, phrases, sentences, to consider for a poem. Work these over, moving solid masculine words (Germanic words generally work well) to the end positions. These may have rhyming possibilities. Decide on a rhyme scheme: e.g., first and third lines, plus second and fourth lines (abab), or first and second lines, and so on (aabb), or one of many other rhyme schemes available. Take your liberty to add or delete appropriate thoughts to make it work.

Here's a story, "The Shovel," in 532 words, from which I later wrote a poem.

The Shovel

My heart beat wildly and I knew I'd never escape the man with the shovel!

"Watch out!" I shouted to my friend, Ursula, as we cringed on the rocky Golgotha trail. The fierce man moved closer, and waved the shovel menacingly. I shot a glance behind us for an escape route. Not the rocky cliff—to leap was sure death!

I knew it was risky to break from our group while preparing for the Passover Feast. But visiting Golgotha was a must during our first trip to Jerusalem since the Crucifixion of Jesus.

Our little caravan was closely-knit on the journey. Some rode donkeys, but most walked; all were eager to participate in the annual event.

On our pilgrimage from Nazareth we traveled the same Galilean road Jesus had taken when only twelve. No doubt He'd been as wide-eyed as I was on seeing Jerusalem, the famous city, shining with palaces and strong walls.

Through Damascus Gate the vista of the Temple drew our attention like a magnet. Such an awesome sight it was, standing like a jewel, the heart of our Jewish nation!

I saw tents springing up on the hillsides as we made ready for the Passover, scheduled for tomorrow at sundown, the 15th of Nisan.

Ursula and I now knew we should have remained with our group, but how could we have known that this danger would occur? Could we escape this shovel-wielding maniac?

I shuddered as the scruffy man swung the shovel from his shoulder. Would he attack us? A mass of tangled hair framed his deeply etched facial features. We watched—helplessly trapped!

Just ahead of us, he stooped low, shoveling dirt into a hole.

"What's he doing?" Ursula whispered.

"Sh-h! He must be the one they were talking about."

"Who? When?"

"Back at the tent. 'The crazy one,' they called him. He goes around filling holes all the time."

"I'm getting out of here!" She crouched behind me, trembling, ready to scurry away instantly.

"He's blocking the trail. We might reason with him. I think I'll talk to him."

"No!" Panic filled Ursula's voice. "You don't know what he might do."

I pulled my tunic close. Knowing we stood on Golgotha, I asked, "Excuse me sir, is this where the cross of Jesus stood?"

He didn't answer. Looking at his strained contorted face, I felt a sudden chill as he fastened me with a stare.

Softly I asked, "Why do you fill the holes?"

"B-Because of him," his reluctant reply spoke volumes.

"Him?" I couldn't help noticing his red-rimmed eyes fill with tears.

"Jesus, King of the Jews."

Feeling safer, I ventured, "It's so sad He was crucified, but what about it compels you to fill these holes?"

Weeping, he replied, "He'd still be alive if it wasn't for me. You see, I dug the hole for the cross!" He appeared to be in shock as he leaned on the shovel.

I gained courage, and said, "Oh, but when He died on that cross, He made it possible for the holes in our lives to be filled!"

Shocked at my words, his mouth dropped. "What do you mean?"

I answered, "Sir, we need to talk."

# # #

Next, I found key words and looked for rhyming possibilities and wrote it in poem form. The poem seemed adequate in only 203 words.

The Shovel

My heart hammered for I saw no escape
From the man with a shovel and tattered cape.
Golgotha seemed no risk to view,
As the Place of the Skull beckoned anew.

The wild-eyed man was closing in,
And I yelled a warning to my friend.
Behind, a cliff hindered our flight.
So I closed my eyes in utter fright.

His shovel waved, as if to attack,
And he gave the ground a wicked whack;
Dug some dirt and filled a hole,
Then I recalled the story told.

After the Crucifixion, like one possessed,
To fill every hole was this man's quest.
I asked him calmly as I could,
"Is this where the cross of Jesus stood?"

"And why are you filling this hole?"
My eyes craved to console.
He replied, drenched in gloom,
"I put Jesus in his tomb!"

"I caused His death, to my shame.
The hole for the cross was my blame!"
I thought for a moment, and it all came clear,
My help was needed to relieve his fear.

"Sir, he died for you and me,
To fill holes in our lives, don't you see?"
As he stood weeping, his mind in shock,
I said, "Sir, we need to talk."

####

Try your hand at the challenge of massaging prose into poetry. Drop me a note telling me how you did it. I may be able to use some of it in a future article.