Post by Kit on Feb 23, 2010 0:24:00 GMT 10
Title: Seeming
Rating: PG
Length: 300
Competitor: Baird
Round: 1/D
Summary: Kel is not sure what to make of involuntary responses.
A/N: I'm sorry. I've had bits of this, in different forms and contexts, floating around for a week. And I'm rather rusty. And can't stick to a form even if I'm paid to do it.
Kel.
You may laugh at me. But some things are reflexive. Responsive. Asking you to dance that night. Loving my family. Writing this in response to your kind words. More practical matters to come up soon, but it’s well past three, and there should probably be a deal more sleeping before I’m unleashed upon the invalids later on.
Baird.
Thunder on the skyline
Snow-heavy, gold-wrought
And sharp, as it tears a breath away
—like the twilight steals the day, all
Words and hopes without command
Only slips and stutters and drifting
Glimpses of something fine
You show to me.
And he has no art to bear him this food
Just a broken vessel, wrought in flesh and blood
And though the rip tides pull him under
He will not cease
to wonder at the beauty of all these things
We keep and leave. All of us.
A song I sing at every death, worked new
(A father’s kind hand—could not command him
To return to him once more—this soldier, from the war…)
Stanzas changed, slipped a little
with hope in the words you give me.
Grateful responses, ill shaped for you,
But sent in thanks and a love
Of these glimpses, something fine.
Thunder on the skyline.
Rating: PG
Length: 300
Competitor: Baird
Round: 1/D
Summary: Kel is not sure what to make of involuntary responses.
A/N: I'm sorry. I've had bits of this, in different forms and contexts, floating around for a week. And I'm rather rusty. And can't stick to a form even if I'm paid to do it.
Kel.
You may laugh at me. But some things are reflexive. Responsive. Asking you to dance that night. Loving my family. Writing this in response to your kind words. More practical matters to come up soon, but it’s well past three, and there should probably be a deal more sleeping before I’m unleashed upon the invalids later on.
Baird.
She reads. Re-reads, tilting her head to catch the strange placement of the words, leaping from one line to the next in a way she suspects has some sort of worrying term. Poetry is not easy, like dancing or talking to him. It is odd, and hinged, and she is unsure if she is fortunate or mortified. Or if she understands a word.
Still, there is something there—something fine, she thinks, rueful—and, this close to Midwinter, she is almost warm.
Thunder on the skyline
Snow-heavy, gold-wrought
And sharp, as it tears a breath away
—like the twilight steals the day, all
Words and hopes without command
Only slips and stutters and drifting
Glimpses of something fine
You show to me.
And he has no art to bear him this food
Just a broken vessel, wrought in flesh and blood
And though the rip tides pull him under
He will not cease
to wonder at the beauty of all these things
We keep and leave. All of us.
A song I sing at every death, worked new
(A father’s kind hand—could not command him
To return to him once more—this soldier, from the war…)
Stanzas changed, slipped a little
with hope in the words you give me.
Grateful responses, ill shaped for you,
But sent in thanks and a love
Of these glimpses, something fine.
Thunder on the skyline.