Have you ever tried to write like someone else?

While studying Romanticism at University, one of my assignments was to write an ode in the same vein as one of the amazing Romantic poets of the 17th Century. I chose John Keats, and used 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' as my guide. The amazing coincidence here is that Keats produced most of his odes during April and May of 1819, and I too wrote this poem in April, while getting myself settled on a Greek island called Ithaca (the home of Ulysses, aka Odysseus). What a perfect time and place to be assigned such a task, hey?

I still have this 'ode' of mine, called, The Pebbled Shores of Ellada ('Ellada' means 'Greece' in Greek, by the way). It doesn't quite conform to all the rules, but I do think it has, although slightly more modern, a similar Romantic feel about it. If you've never read John Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn, you can here.

Anyhoo, here's my ode:

Along the pebbled shores of Ellada

I let the sun engrave my skin

As though a Greek God has now possessed me

I tread its land like I'm cursed with its sin

Floating somewhere amidst the sea mist

Is a veiled beggar from the past

Haunting every solitary step I take

Waiting for me to rebuild his mast

One foot on this beloved soil

I become a willing prisoner

Amongst the blues of the sky and the depths of the sea

My body and soul will never be set free

The olive groves and the grape vines

Entice me to intrude their sacred grounds

But I will eat their oils and drink their wines

Until a place to dwell has been found

I have now become embodied

In a certain type of cell

Instinctively invented by my heart

Or concocted by an infinite spell

Yes my love, I must look quite sad

You say that all I do is weep

But sometimes alone in my own abyss

I pray for bliss in my sleep

The tears don't pour just from my eyes sweetheart

If I perhaps try to escape

And it's not only my heart that tears apart

When I must leave this bewitching place

There is a mysterious power hidden here

That keeps me safe from harm

I am invincible from the eerie fear

Yet my revelations remain so calm

When I sleep at night under the secretive stars

Sometimes my dreams come alive

Will these words I write all day and night

Through the centuries survive?

Will the place I love through thick skin and bone

Live as letters on a page?

Or will they dissolve beneath this holy earth

Like mind and body after old age?

When the summer smell wafts through my window

It stirs a fated movement

Not of birds and bees and flowers and grass

But of passions, desire and sentiment

This smell sparks a fire inside the heart of my soul

A burning plea for creation

For music, for dance, for love

But most of all, just for this sensation

The streets are so quiet this time of year

Yet nature is in full bloom

And the roaring waves of the vicious sea

No longer entice temper and doom

Sometimes I find this sound of silence

Encompasses me like a child

To spare me the pain of an evil man

An unknown force; an invader of land

But non-existence on the other hand

Could enable an abundance of delight

As I sit alone gathered in my thoughts

My heart – out it pours, without a fight

Like a mountain of rich lava

Its force so red and strong

Or a steam train on a tainted journey

Where its coals last forever long

I know deep inside my heart that I must trust

I will do good, I will say no wrong

At the end of this day I have sung the most beautiful song

Oh! - I have waited for this moment so long

In this life I live for only this:

If passion can reach your heart

Just like it did mine

We will live in eternal bliss

Have you ever tried to mimic someone else's writing style, even if not in poetry, in prose? How successful were you at 'being' someone else? Did you find that you couldn't help putting a little of yourself in there? I sure couldn't.