Rewrite: Take any poem or short story that you enjoy. Rewrite it in your own words.
Submission A: – The Lovesong of J. Alfred Profrock – TS Eliot
The Unloved Song of B. Lee Rekab
Who am I but pieces
jumbled and tossed to the ground
Dirty and tired.
I walk these lonely streets
scared and alone in life,
one night stands, cheap eats
the voices, knowing in my head.
What am I doing
where can I go?
In the streets the ladies come and go
speaking of what’s in vogue.
I slip through the night, looking through window frames
looking for signs of life in homes rich and poor
searching the evening for delights
standing quiet in the shadows, watching
dancing and prancing my way in the dark
sliding over porches, silent as a mouse
feeling the fall chill as I snuggle a house
slipping under the decks, for a night of rest.
There will be plenty of time
to search and find,
to connoiter and spy
Yes, plenty of time
to seek and find,
my soul,
hung out like laundry on every line.
Time to play lost and found
with my heart on every round
a time for us
our scattered pieces, reclaimed
rearranged and returned
long before dinner and she.
In the streets the ladies come and go
speaking of what’s in vogue.
Plenty of time
to be weak and then brave
to ask them out, or chicken out
Wondering if my looks are fine
will they think simply meh?
Oh what will I wear to make a good first impression
All I have seems to reflect my depression.
They will see the weakness in my knees
the sweat on my palm
what will I do?
go forth, or hang my head in retreat?
I’ve been down this road too many times before
I know how it ends
I know where it ends
I see the past retreats
I feel their weight on my shoulders.
Why would this time be any different?
This road is long and dark and sad
I can travel all day to get there
but it always ends the same
it always ends the same.
How can this be different
where is the new road?
it hasn’t appeared as of yet?
All those before, I see in my mind’s eye
Beautiful and fair
many colors of hair.
Their aromas so divine
Like Grenouille, I want them mine.
Beauty that makes me cry and hide
Why me?
How could it be me?
Do I talk of my nightly dance
the way I sneak and prance
of what I saw through darkened windows? …
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
Here we rest by the sea
Waves like fingers, roaring
never asleep, jus constantly roaring
stretched out on the sand, all the pieces of my mind regathered
will we be able, after we eat,
to regain any pieces that we lost?
I have hunted, we have hunted,
but pieces are lost and we are not the same without them.
Who am I? No one who matters,
the great imposter, waiting for the inevitable fall.
My future is passed, I am now left out to pasture.
I am, afraid.
Maybe it would have been better to have tried
to speak my mind
to tell you, or them, how I felt
Maybe I should have tried
to say the words with a smile
to say I really like you, all the while.
To get on one knee and profess my love.
to say, “I will cherish you and love you,
if that is what you want me to do”-
but then I expect the look,
and the voice, “what are you on about:
that’s not what I meant at all.”
Maybe it would have been better to have tried
to speak my mind
to show you what I mean, to dance with you in the streets
to show you my nightly retreats
to let you know the beauty of my streets!
But I fear you could never see,
the beauty the streets hold for the likes of me.
would it have been better to show you
but I, once again, expect that look
and your voice as you rest your book:
“what are you on about now,
that’s not what I meant at all.”
I’ll never be a Prince Charming, that’s just not me
I was built for management, not speed
An idea man, get things going, and pass it along
somewhat of a jester, a self-deprecating fool
hat in hand, always ready to lend a hand
careful and quiet, not footloose
Full of promise, but never quite fulfilled
At times a ridiculous tool,
or even a fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Luckily, no need for a comb over. An iron stomach on most accounts
Can I still pull off a speedo at this age?
I hear the ladies whistling on the beach, each to each.
I do not think they whistle for me.
I watch them on their boards
surfing the white waves with their hair ablaze
the waves now dark and ominous
with sea beasts down below
I remember that scene in Jaws, as it tossed her to and fro
I hear their screams, and run.
Submission B:
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