Found poems

"Song of the Pack"
by Jack London
adapted by Lauren Shy Luna
But he is not always alone.
When the long winter nights come on
And the wolves follow their meat -
Into the lower valleys,
He may be seen running at the head of the pack
Through the pale moonlight
Or glimmering borealis,
Leaping gigantic above his fellows,
His great throat a-bellow as he sings a song -
Of the younger world -
Which is the song of the pack

London, Jack. The Call of the Wild. New York, New York. Washington Square Press. 1974.

"Victory"
by Josephine Cunnington Edwards
adapted by Lauren Shy Luna
George held his head high, took a deep breath -
And sprinted down the narrow path.
Knives flashed on both sides of him -
He did not feel worried,
He felt strong.
A sharp sting as a knife scratched a shoulder -
He had known much worse pain
Several more times the knives scratched and scraped
Still he struggled on until -
Emerging from the end he only knew a tremendous cheer -
Louder than any he had ever heard.

Edwards, Josephine Cunnington. Swift Arrow. Boise, Idaho.
Pacific Press Publishing Association. 1967.

"Disguised"
by Mark Twain
adapted by Lauren Shy Luna
I throwed the paddle down.
I heard the whoop again;
It was behind me yet,
but in a different place;
It kept coming,
And kept changing its pace,
And I kept answering,
Till by and by it was in front of me again -
I knowed the current had swung the canoe's head down the stream
I was all right, if that was Jim
Not some other raftsman hollering.
I couldn't tell nothing about voice in fog,
For nothing don't look natural
Nor sound natural in fog.

Twain, Mark. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. London, England. Octopus Books Limited. 1985.

"Lost Angel"
by Alexandre Dumas
adapted by Lauren Shy Luna
Once again he tried to reach out to take the count's hand,
But this time his own would not even budge.
He tried to utter a last goodbye,
But his tongue turned heavy in this mouth,
Like a stone blocking the entrance to a sepulchre.

Hard as he tried, he could not keep his languid eyes open;
Yet behind their lids there was an image that he recognized-
Despite the darkness which he felt had enveloped him.
It was the count, who had just opened the door.

At once, an immense burst of light flooded from an adjoining room -
Or, rather, a wonderful place -
Into the room where Morrel was abandoning himself to his gentle death throes.

And then, on the threshold of that other chamber, between the two rooms,
He saw a woman of miraculous beauty.
Pale and sweet smiling,
She seemed like an angel of mercy casting out the angel of vengeance.

'Is heaven already opening its gate to me?' thought the dying man.
'This angel is like the one I lost.'

Dumas, Alexandre. The Count of Monte Cristo.
New York, New York. Penguin Books. 1996.

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