My poem: a being ill-defined: gen
Nov. 3rd, 2022 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stonepicnicking_okapiTitle: a being ill-defined
Rating: Gen
Length: 143
Notes: I used the same metre and pattern as Yeats' "The Swans at Coole" which I posted last Thursday. I also used this prompt from GYWO tumblr: A character who can only exist in mist and fog, dissipating into an obscure pocket in reality when it clears, until they are summoned again.
existing only vague and blurred
in shrouding fog and mist
in pauses near insensible
in gaps, it must exist
composed of liminal reality
and dim locality
alive in smudged, distorting, hazy
miasma, in-between
the ‘there’ and ‘not there,’ discernable
just barely, but not seen,
on the page yet unlettered and unlined,
this being ill-defined
in the moment just before waking,
which fades swifter than dew,
evading and eluding the grasping
of faculty and through
the glass so darkly, never face-to-face
subsists this muddled lace
when everything can be distinguished,
when everything is clear,
it dissipates and lingers, biding
in a plane, in a sphere,
‘til summoned, when a place and time
present a murky clime
anathema, the sharp silhouette,
the profile known outright,
it thrives on nebulosity,
opaque, oblique, and slight
and only when inscrutable its where,
will it be known it’s there
Rating: Gen
Length: 143
Notes: I used the same metre and pattern as Yeats' "The Swans at Coole" which I posted last Thursday. I also used this prompt from GYWO tumblr: A character who can only exist in mist and fog, dissipating into an obscure pocket in reality when it clears, until they are summoned again.
existing only vague and blurred
in shrouding fog and mist
in pauses near insensible
in gaps, it must exist
composed of liminal reality
and dim locality
alive in smudged, distorting, hazy
miasma, in-between
the ‘there’ and ‘not there,’ discernable
just barely, but not seen,
on the page yet unlettered and unlined,
this being ill-defined
in the moment just before waking,
which fades swifter than dew,
evading and eluding the grasping
of faculty and through
the glass so darkly, never face-to-face
subsists this muddled lace
when everything can be distinguished,
when everything is clear,
it dissipates and lingers, biding
in a plane, in a sphere,
‘til summoned, when a place and time
present a murky clime
anathema, the sharp silhouette,
the profile known outright,
it thrives on nebulosity,
opaque, oblique, and slight
and only when inscrutable its where,
will it be known it’s there