Waking Dream

A prayer for camp, day three, product of a sleepless night,
excess adrenaline and twitching muscles. Yet another exercise in iambic pentameters.

Our goal: a conversation of the blades,
A thing of beauty, work of art, a test
Of skill and cunning, wrought in steel, a joy.
You take my blade, I parry yours, blades clash.
We stop, we fall out of step, tips up, points
Off target. Watch the distance, do not rush.
I waver. How to sneak past your attack?
Must mine be pretty or just get the touch?
Anger now, so ugly, nothing beautiful
In this. Why won't you do the action right?
It's your fault, not mine, we can't converse as well
As such an ancient art deserves. Watch me;
I'll show you how it's done. Hold your blade like this.
How dare you baffle me with your mistakes?
And yet I know to blame myself. Why can't
I transform our stumbling into something
Worth the name of fencing? This is just a mess
Of foils. Must get back to basics. Breathe. Point
On target. Breathe. Arm first. Advance. Attack.
I win if you fence better thanks to me.


  1. I particularly love "how dare you baffle me with your mistakes?" Sometimes the newest fencer can do something so dang WRONG it gets past all my proper actions. And (cosmic unfairness) why doesn't that work for me, fencing up the ladder? A rueful observation from Badger


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