Earlier this year, I came across a mention of the “golden shovel” form created by Terrance Hayes and made a note to check it out. I’m so happy I did, because it’s a fun poetic form.
Here are the rules for the Golden Shovel:
- Take a line (or lines) from a poem you admire.
- Use each word in the line (or lines) as an end word in your poem.
- Keep the end words in order.
- Give credit to the poet who originally wrote the line (or lines).
- The new poem does not have to be about the same subject as the poem that offers the end words.
If you pull a line with six words, your poem would be six lines long. If you pull a stanza with 24 words, your poem would be 24 lines long. And so on.
If it’s still kind of abstract, read these two poems to see how Terrance Hayes used a Gwendolyn Brooks poem to write the first golden shovel:
- We Real Cool, by Gwendolyn Brooks (original poem)
- The Golden Shovel, by Terrance Hayes (golden shovel poem)
As you can see, the original golden shovel takes more than a line from the poem. In fact, it pulls every word from the Brooks poem, and it does it twice.
This form is sort of in the tradition of the cento and erasure, but it offers a lot more room for creativity than other found poetry.
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Here’s my attempt at a golden shovel:
“Aging Well,” by Robert Lee Brewer
-after Basho as translated by Allen Ginsberg
The funny thing about growing old
is you never know how to respond
until after the fact. Like a frog
that sits and then eventually jumps
there’s absolutely no thought given
to the process. You’re young; then, kerplunk!
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Robert Lee Brewer
Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). A former Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere, he’s been a featured poet at several events around the country, including recent appearances at the Austin International Poetry Festival and Poetry Hickory.
Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.
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Find more poetic posts here:
- Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 267.
- Judith Skillman: Poet Interview.
- WD Poetic Form Challenge: Bref Double Winner.
“on finding a blue butterfly”
(based on “Dreams” by Langston Hughes)
what kind of life,
blue butterfly, is
it to unfurl from a
cocoon broken
winged,
not earthly or bird?
don’t fear. i’ll hold
your tattered body fast
and lift you to
your dreams.
“Keeping Faith” by Naomi Poe
- After “’Faith’ is a Fine Invention” by Emily Dickenson
The Preacher tells me “keep the faith,”
as if my faith is
Slate-gray lead, a
pencil tip to sharpen. That’s fine
for those who think their faith a rather smart invention,
who wrap their god in packaging. For
those of us (for Gentlemen)
for questioners, like me, who
wish to prove the provenance of things we cannot see,
faith seems a losing proposition. But
place your angels on a pin! For microscopes,
you know, are magnificent inventions. The instruments are
potent tools when used with comprehension by prudent
men; and prudent men will always save the day. In
summary: doctors like me will certainly agree that an
appeal to higher ‘power’ is key in an emergency!
“I Dare” by Naomi Poe
- After “You and Your Whole Race” by Langston Hughes
They call us. The movers, the shakers, the big music makers. I
know who they are, what they want us to be. I dare
them to find me, to bind me, but you –
you welcome them in, you dance while they grin, happy to
do what they want you to do. Though we come
from one history, one story, the mystery is how one
of us broke away and got free, while the other one’s step
faces backward. I flee from the past, while you draw it much nearer.
We both see the truth, but I fight for the truth. While the evil
you do is to prostitute you to a white colored/ black colored world.
“Coffee Talk” by Naomi Poe
- After “Pippa’s Song” by Robert Browning, Jr.
On the news this morning: more bombings and
a shooting in California. Cover-all’s
on sale, half off, but you must order right
now. They reassessed our property with
the school being flat broke, and all; and the
Middle East is threatening to tear apart the world.
Nature’s Bounty
Flower buds are nature’s
finest work of art. The first
blossom grows from stems of green,
and Mr. Sun gives color that is
Earth’s finest bounty of gold.
Taken from the first line of Robert Frost’s Nothing Gold Can Stay
Letter for my Husband
after Nazim Hikmet
If you grasp this poem by its ends, you’ll find I
have hidden a secret message to you. I want
it in print, a confession that might help you to
more easily accept my own end of the line should I die
this morning, tomorrow evening, or any time before
you. This is my wish, my truth written for you.
(lines taken from the poem “Letter to My Wife” – I want to die before you)
Linda Hofke
BRIGHT WINGS
after “God’s Grandeur” by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Together up the path, my dog and
I, neither questioning what-for
because the morning’s blossoming all
golden twittering, this
new fledgling from its nest, Nature
at her job which is
joy on wings or wander-feet, and never
lagging till the wind is spent.
What do we long for?
Love, success, power, the
weakness of another’s lapse
and the hidden things within,
a heart’s secrets that the
light exposes; in this small moment
you are clear as crystal
and upon truth this life turns.
‘Geodes’ by Jared Carter
Heart Is a Geode
What do we long for?
Love, success, power, the
weakness of another’s lapse
and the hidden things within,
a heart’s secrets that the
light exposes; in this small moment
you are clear as crystal
and upon truth this life turns.
‘Geodes’ by Jared Carter
She insisted the party take place here,
although traveling was arduous for all. Where are
my guests, she wondered, setting out plates.
From long journeys on dusty roads, they arrived, but
all they craved was ice cold water. No
one ate the food. They lay on chairs, spent, no appetites.
(from Museum, by Wistawa Szymborska)
Delicious. I have known this person and experienced this scenario. Nailed it.
The Beauty
credit to Robert Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay”.
I submit that nature’s
beauty lies first
in the variety of green
palettes brushing the landscape. Is
beauty found beneath the gold
gently caressing her
ample breast? So endures man’s hardest
riddle. The fluorescent hue
of moist skin compared to
verdant rolling hills hold
enchanted eyes gazing upon her
sway; the luster of early
autumn leafs
drifting lazily towards a
mossy bed hosting the single flower
akin to the virgin’s boast, but
this wanton beauty lasts only
’til winters chilly fingers wrinkle so
callously and cruelly an
unblemished gift. Her hour
still comes to shock then
tease, while Mother encrypts leaf
as flora rests; one subsides
while another flows to
pique the reader to leaf
through endless tomes so
secret only Eden
understood, then sank
into debauchery. Still, to
cling at Adam’s grief
a vain attempt at best, so
comes the never-ending dawn
spreading light as season goes
a’nesting, settling down
in sweet repose. Are we to
dread or greet the coming day,
knowing well that nothing
left of her but lifeless gold
will jog remembrance? Can
Mother make her stay?
THE MARE, SOLD
after Maxine Kumin
Beside you, awkward was I.
Astride, I could think
of knights in the lists, these
books I read. And the real things –
arroyos under untouched sky, each
schoolday nicker-morning
like an aubade I left you with
my armloads of papers, to shovel
grades from grammar and
winnow words as with a hay-rake.
And each evening drawing
me closer to this, the
black mare of memory risen,
wintercoat tinged with brown.
If Only…
To read a poem inside a
poem, trying to echo voice
looking at what another said
I mean sit down and really look
Can you say you truly know me?
Words are written on the page in
a frenzy, thoughts spill out the
question posed, gazing at the stars
And…
I am not confident they will tell
Perplexed, I look within me
Is it possible to truly
know all the thoughts men
will voice over coffee of
all the poems written on earth
If…
Powerful two letters holds all
we have ever pondered in the
cosmos, we tremble soul-and-body
lingering on what-ifs scars
There are many people who were
consumed pondering the universe, not
one poet questioned life or love too
much…
If Rudyard Kipling failed to
write his verse what loss we’d pay
searching echoes to answer for
the confidence of birth
A Question
A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.
Robert Frost
This was the day 5 prompt back in April.
BLACK ON WHITE
after Linda Gregg’s “The Lamb”
This clouded photo – what is it of?
As if a jigsaw puzzle undone, or rubble
of a landscape after – what? Memory walks
the remnants of a creek, its banks a
tatter and tangle of vines with a single
shudder of leaves, of living life. One lamb
emerges, disappears. Then overhead, tilting
wings, the buzzard too high to discern its
saving beak and talons, and the head
so tiny, only the wings – the curious
circling soar and lazy spirals of unafraid
search tatting the sky delicately, hungry.
THINKING ABOUT IT
_______
based on “Weary, Whirled” by De Jackson (a.k.a. whimsygizmo)
The moon:
a simple silver box,
filled with borrowed light.
_______
no one to ask but the moon
and it tells me a simple
truth about a silver
lining in a velvet box
so many hearts would be filled
with joy and laced with
old, new, blue and borrowed
the ring in my hands feels light
An Epiphany
The beggar asks how
not what he can do.
He wants and I
need. Show him love
that he might follow thee,
or not. Let
the gods pardon me,
for little count
him much worth; the
fates have their ways.
credit to Elizabeth Barrett Browning
This is very good. Nice job
Thank you, Ruthie. I’ve been enjoying your writing as well
Golden Shovel Poem
I used the last two lines of my favorite poet who motivated me to write poetry when I was a young girl. Joyce Kilmer – Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
I genuinely love to write poems
Although I am not sure they are
The best attempt I could have made
And as I get older and time goes by
I wonder if my inner self fools
Me into thinking I can write like
Famous poets much better than me
When I should write but
Simpler things that are only
short though with help from God
Maybe I actually can
One day a full poetry book make
Out of words written on a
Piece of paper made from a tree
Byy Ruth Crowell Shevock
I forgot to add a title. Maybe something like “Words From A Tree” since I used the poem Trees?
BRIGHT WINGS
Together up the path, my dog and
I neither questioning what-for
because the morning blossomed all
golden twittering, this
new fledgling from its nest, Nature
at her job which is
joy on wings or wander-feet, and never
lagging till the wind is spent.
(based on “God’s Grandeur” by Gerard Manley Hopkins
THE PROCESS OF AGING
From where they sit, there is nothing
to focus their thoughts on except
the shrouded hand of death.
They see their travels coming to a close and,
filled with fear, they obsess on the
road ahead. Yet some cannot even remember the rain,
how it smells or how it feels, and
would trade places for one more memory of tomorrow.
© Susan Schoeffield
(from the last line in “A Fence” by Carl Sandburg:
nothing except Death and the Rain and To-morrow)
This is excellent, Susan.
“I Wish I Were As Bold And Confident”
(From Walter de la Mare’s “The Listeners”)
I am certain there’s a way to tell
how his visit affected them,
but they are enigmatic, and I
don’t know how. When he came
to their moonlit door, and
no head from leaf-fringed sill, no
welcoming descent from one
of the listeners, answered
his knock, he smote upon that
lonely door thrice and called to them. I
might have been intimidated and kept
silent. His bold certainty is heraldic, while my
own hesitant course through life seems a shaky word
on a page. I wish that I were as brave a traveler as he,
bold and declarative, when all is done and said.
i walk St Petersburg
for the last time, enjoying the
cool comfort and whispering ice of a White Russian
in my fist; this once pristine iron-clad elevator
has
no
fingers to trace my memory.
From Mark Halperin’s “Notes on the Russian Elevator.”
-JR Simmang
Nice done and concrete!
(maybe ‘niceLY done’, in fact)
GOLDEN ANNIVERSARY
When you are near
and
I am not far,
then love is near
and
I would not be far,
for only there would I
know that where I am
is home, where I am happy;
only there is where
love resides: there, where you
are.
using lines from Ogden Nash’s Tin Wedding Whistle:
“Near and far, near and far,
I am happy where you are.”
This is just brilliant!
Beautifully done.
this is amazing. I could feel the love in that home.
I am magic. I can smell
their blood before the cut, smell
the tears before they’re shed. A hole
This crackles with authenticity.
This comment is in response to jasonlmartin’s poem.
Apologies for misplacing it.
Thanks, TomNeal! Even misplaced comments are appreciated.
The Not-So-Funny Funny Bone
The other night, I
slammed my elbow (the not-so-funny funny bone part) on the doorjamb while sit-
ting in the loo. I’d reached forward to put my cell phone on the counter; then leant back. And in
that moment, moved with such force that the
stars didn’t circle my head, but rather a seriously bruised arm-bone. Dusk-
y words flew from my mouth. You see, f-bombs are not what I
normally would ever say, but when pain am-
asses like that, all
you can do is let those evil voices out. Still, I thought I was safe, since I was alone
in the privy. But no. As I exited the W.C. room and enter-
ed the hallway, a
loud, gusty laugh came unbidden, as if from a child.
(It was actually two children and my husband.) And
after politely inquiring as to my health, they grinned at each other, as an
awful heated blush spread straight across my face. My husband suggested ice
to take away the swelling, as well as some pain-relief cream.
Then, they all burst forth with a soul-awakening gleam, that struck perchance the farthest cone.
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For the Golden Shovel:
I sit in the dusk. I am all alone.
Enter a child and an ice-cream cone.
-from Tableau at Twilight by Ogden Nash
The final line is from:
Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots, on the Eve of a New Year, by William Wordsworth
Exceptional
Yes, like the poet herself.
I enjoyed this. Very good
garden of the fishhouse
(after Elizabeth Bishop)
new love is like an innocent waif
it chafes, delights, bedevils, insights, excites you
terribly wasted if untasted
so when, if, you get around to it,
you’ll see it in its birthday suit
so cute so good you would
not believe that it could first taste bitter,
and then
you immerse yourself in the briny,
as a proper heathen
should do, all clear and true, surely
full of heat too, don’t burn your tongue.
As Adam and Eve found it
in that famous garden, it went like this
apple-d seduction, surprise climax, guilt-like
response to you-don’t-even-know-what
awe
beyond anything they could imagine
and thus, new love gives knowledge
whether or not you want it to
and gives way, and lets us, be.
by gpr crane
(original poem: At the Fishhouses, by Elizabeth Bishop, I used the first half of this set of lines from near the end of her poem:
“If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
Dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts
forever, flowing and drawn”)
Excellent
Children are passing from our lives
We cheer them on when they jog
across the field to kick the ball, toes
pointed, kicking, then slipping
down on grass, failing by one step.
I am magic. I can smell
their blood before the cut, smell
the tears before they’re shed. A hole
is not really a hole until they trip, cut fingers.
It’s not like I can see in their intestines,
but I swear I know in my dreams
before they know they have to go. Marbles
of poop look like pontoons for flies.
It’s all about those little consumers
for the candy and toy makers, making eyes
with superheroes, dolls, and whatever a boy
and girl can convince Santa to believe
they need more than anything. I’ll fall
on my sword for them, lose my big toe
to keep them from cutting theirs and to squeal
no more from their pain. The housewife
on television
talks about what a beast
it is to clean her kids’ teeth.
If parenting were only that easy! She’s a pig.
(based on Philip Levine’s “Animals are passing from our lives”)