Yay!! I was picked and here’s the
challenge…
Björn says, “I want you to
present a piece of erasure poetry. The idea is simple – take a book page –
provided by me. Then by erasing everything but the words needed for your poem
present it (together with a picture of your book-page). As an additional (which
should be easy for you) the poem should have an autumn theme). So print
it out and black out all the words that are not part of your poem J. The words have to be used in
the exact order that they appear in the text.”
I didn't actually print it out because the gremlins got into my printer but I used my writing program and
highlighted in black. Unfortunately, you can still see the original text
through the highlighting but actually, some might be interested to read the
context, (a page from Bleak House), from which I’ve carved this poem.
I hope you enjoy it…I certainly did! Thank you for the
challenge, Björn.
Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey
fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time—as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.
The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the
muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a
leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln's Inn Hall,
at the very heart of the fog,
sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High
Court of Chancery.
Never
can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud
and mire too deep, to assort with the groping and
floundering condition which this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary
sinners, holds
this day in the sight
of heaven and earth.
On
such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor
ought to be sitting
here—as here he is—with
a foggy glory round his head, softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little
voice, and an interminable
brief, and outwardly
directing his contemplation to the
lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. On such an
afternoon some score of
members of the High Court of Chancery bar ought to be—as here they are—mistily
engaged in one of the ten
thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one
another up on slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities,
running their goat-hair and horsehair warded heads against walls of words and making a pretence of equity with serious faces, as players might. On such an afternoon the various solicitors in the cause, some two or three of whom have inherited it from their fathers, who made a
fortune by it, ought to
be—as are they not?—ranged in a line, in a long matted well (but you might look in vain for truth at the bottom of it) between the registrar's red
table and the silk gowns, with bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions,
affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports, mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them. Well may the court be dim,
with wasting candles here and there; well
may the fog hang heavy in it, as if it
would never get out; well may the stained-glass
windows lose their colour and admit no light of day into the place; well may the uninitiated from the streets, who
peep in through the glass panes in the door, be deterred from
entrance by its owlish aspect and by the drawl, languidly echoing to the roof from the padded dais where the Lord High Chancellor looks into
the lantern that has no light in it and where the attendant wigs are all
stuck in a fog-bank! This is the Court of Chanc-
This is my compiled and titled version...probably easier to read. :)
Autumn Afternoon
Looming fog in streets,
sun from fields seen by boy.
Light before time – seems to know.
Look
raw afternoon
near that Temple
at the very heart of fog,
fog thick, mud and mire
deep –
hold this day in sight
heaven and earth
an afternoon sitting here
glory softly fenced with crimson
addressed by a little voice,
brief and direct.
Lantern can see on such an afternoon
mistily engaged an endless tripping –
running horse…
walls of words play on an afternoon inherited.
Fortune in a well
(look for truth at the bottom),
red silk owns answers –
mountains piled.
Candles here and there stain windows
and light of day may initiate from streets;
through glass panes entrance by owl
and languid echoing…
the lantern has light in it
and fog.
I'm looking forward to picking on someone for the next challenge - so keep an eye on your inboxes Toads!
There isn't a Mr. Linky today but if anyone is inspired by this challenge and wants to play, please feel free to leave a link to your blog below or paste an offering in the comments.
Have a wonderful day Garden Dwellers!