Describing Naught
With only the best of intention I set out
to write a descriptive poem. I may as well
have set out to write a symphony or endeavor
to ride a unicycle while balancing a seal on my nose.
Objects—human, inhuman, tangible, intangible,
refuse to be summarized when I approach.
They morph and squirm and writhe, insisting
that what is, is not, that blue and black is white and gold.
Simple becomes complicated, and complicated
becomes otherworldly, and I am too grounded
to approach the phenomenal, too oriented
toward dull edges which beg to be sharpened.
Dammit. I'm at the couplet already and I've
said naught, which describes what but naught?
Poetry by jim
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Written on 2015-03-25 at 09:44
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