The Grey Day gets a second draft … hmmm

Yesterday I wrote my poem using colours. Today I want to write another draft of it because it didn’t sound right to me as I read it.

Here are some things that I like to try when I edit my poems:

1. Is the first line doing its job? I try out others and then pick my favourite.

2. Is the last line doing its job? I try out others and then pick my favourite.

3. Does every line sound good? If not I play with the words a bit more.

4. Are there too many adjectives?

5. Is there something I could take out and leave the reader to guess?

6. Am I happy with the title?

 

Here is the first draft of my poem. I have put in bold the bits I am not happy with.

 

 

The Grey Day

 

out of the day glazed with grey

a black rooster with a red comb

a horse wearing a pale blue coat

a piece of orange rind on the black sand

a shrivelled yellow ball that will never bounce

footprints like stitching across the wet sand

two walkers dressed like black rocks

black rocks shivering like walkers in raincoats

purple jellyfish opening out like Japanese fans

little bluebottles that look like blue pebbles

a rusty pinecone and a pink hairclip

 

the misty grey racing in from the sea

is not like concrete, it’s like hairspray

 

there is a gull flying over me high

squawking, squawking, squawking

as if to say hello and good morning

unless they squawk and squawk

even when the beach is empty

 

 

 

Here is the draft I have done. I will look at it again next week to see if I am happy with it. Let me know what you think.

 

The Grey Day

 

Out of the day glazed with grey

there’s a black rooster with a red comb

a horse with a pale blue coat

 

On the sand, a piece of orange rind

a yellow ball that will never bounce

footprints like stitching across the wet sand

 

Two walkers dressed like black rocks

black rocks dressed like walkers in raincoats

purple jellyfish opening like Japanese fans

bluebottles that look like blue pebbles

a rusty pinecone and a pink hairclip

 

The misty grey races in from the sea

and it’s not like concrete, it’s like hairspray

 

There’s a gull flying over me high

squawking, squawking, squawking

as if to say ‘hello’ and ‘good morning,’

unless she squawks and squawks

even when the beach is empty

 

 

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