Poetry Prompt #53 – Fill in the Blanks

Sometimes it’s fun to work with a time-honored poem as a prompt, so this week I thought you might enjoy trying something I’ve done with workshop groups. It's a bit challenging, but it will cause you to really focus and think. T. S. Eliot’s “Morning at the Window” is our inspiration piece. Begin by reading the poem carefully several times. Then, fill in the blanks with ideas of your own (refer to the inspiration poem frequently while doing this). After you’ve filled in the blanks, look at your “inspired” poem and change it in any ways you wish to make it more completely your own.

MORNING AT THE WINDOW

By T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)

They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,

And along the trampled edges of the street

I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids

Sprouting despondently at area gates.

The brown waves of fog toss up to me

Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,

And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts

An aimless smile that hovers in the air

And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

"Morning at the Window" originally appeared in Poetry, September 1916.

_______ AT THE __________

They are rattling  (plural noun)_____ in (adjective)______  (plural noun) _____,

And along the (adjective)__________ edges of the (noun)____________

I am aware of the (adjective)_______ soul(s) of (noun) __________

Sprouting (adverb)_______ at  (adjective)________   (noun)_________.

The (adjective)______ (plural noun)________ of (noun)___________toss up/down to me

Twisted (plural noun)_____ from the (noun)_________of the (noun)________,

And tear from a (noun)________ with (adjective)______    (plural noun)_______

A/An (adjective)______ (noun) _______ that hovers in the (noun)_________

And vanishes along the (noun)_______ of the (noun)________.

Example

Here are two drafts from a workshop participant.

Draft 1:

Pines at the Start of Night

They are rattling needles in the treetop wind,

And along the loose edges of the night sky

I am aware of the murmuring souls of memory

Sprouting here at grief’s wide gate.

The green sighs of pine boughs toss down to me

Twisted sadness from the years of emptiness,

And tear from a dream with vague hands

A tangible pain that hovers in the heat

And vanishes along the border of sleep.

Draft 2:

Night Pines

Pine needles rattle in the treetop wind

     and along the sky’s loose edge. I am

aware of memory’s murmuring (like souls

     that whisper here at grief’s wide gate) –

a twisted sadness, a dream with vague hands

     that vanishes along the border of sleep.