Untitled- Detail Exercise

*I tried two different formats when I wrote this. Either way, the words are identical. i just like that I cleverly wrote a poem/paragraph (the first format). If you couldnt see why its qualifies as a poem, I posted the second, clearer format. Let me know which you prefer.



There was dust in the air, floating in moats that did not care whether they finally rested on the shelves of coated tomes or if they drifted onto the snowy white hair of the man who took refuge in the room. Idly, he glanced around himself at the pieces fogged by the gloomy stillness and realized suddenly that this had been his study, the memory like a flower abruptly blooming. Now the creaky armchair was fond in its sounds, and the titles on the spines of the leather-bound books were all familiar to him. He smiled, pleased that he had found this new light with which to regard the fragile world around him that seemed so far away, like a wandering thought, or a vague event in a generic bar. Impulsively, he reached towards a lamp with one hand, and out with the other to the stand of books and removed the one closest to him and turned it about with bland interest. Glancing at the words he noted it was prose, then, thumbing through the pages, placed his nose as close as he could, the fingertips of the book tickling with the musty scent that rose from its inside. Then the pages stopped still as a slip of cloth fell willfully out towards the floor. Painfully, the man stooped to lift it by the frills on its side, and noticed the initials stitched into the bottom, and the letters itched at him until he knew that some thing here was important, but not which thing it was. Then there came to him a cloudy image of a water-color world, faded in its vintage, and at its center stood a woman of inherent intimacy who had a murky, unclear visage. And then an uneasy feeling grew, until at length he knew that he should know the face had full lips and eyes that were… brown. He raised his head and the thoughts raced away as he noticed how blurred the place was, and noticing a salty taste, lifted the bookmark to wipe tears from his face. He realized with a yawn that he had done something wrong; the cloth had only spread the rivulets- it had been wet all along. Absent mindedly he stared at the strip as he returned it to the book carefully, so as not to damage its delicacy, and noted that there was dust in the air.


_______________________________________Or________________________________________


There was dust in the air,
floating in moats that did not care
whether they finally rested on the shelves of coated tomes
or if they drifted onto the snowy white hair
of the man who took refuge in the room.
Idly, he glanced around himself at the pieces fogged by the gloomy
stillness and realized suddenly that this had been his study,
the memory like a flower abruptly blooming.
Now the creaky armchair was fond in its sounds,
and the titles on the spines of the leather-bound
books were all familiar to him. He smiled,
pleased that he had found
this new light with which to regard
the fragile world around him that seemed so far
away, like a wandering thought, or
a vague event in a generic bar.
He reached towards a lamp with one hand,
and out with the other to the stand
of books and removed the one closest to him
and turned it about with bland interest.
Glancing at the words he noted it was prose,
then, thumbing through the pages, placed his nose
as close as he could, the fingertips of the book
tickling with the musty scent that rose
from its inside. Then the pages stopped still
as a slip of cloth fell willfully
out towards the floor. Painfully,
the man stooped to lift it by the frills
on its side, and noticed the initials stitched
into the bottom, and the letters itched
at him until he knew that some thing
here was important, but not which it was.
Then there came to him a cloudy image
of a water-color world, faded in its vintage,
and at its center stood a woman of inherent
intimacy who had a murky, unclear visage.
And then an uneasy feeling grew,
until at length he knew
that he should know the face had full lips
and eyes that were… brown.
He raised his head and the thoughts raced
away as he noticed how blurred the place
was, and noticing a salty taste,
lifted the bookmark to wipe tears from his face.
He realized with a yawn that
he had done something wrong;
the cloth had only spread the rivulets-
it had been wet all along.
Absent mindedly he stared
at the strip as he returned it to the book care-
fully, so as not to damage its delicacy, and noted that
there was dust in the air.