There are certain feelings, moments, or memories that slip through our fingers when we try to describe them. They are invisible and resist shape. They arrive like mist — present, but impossible to hold. And yet, poetry invites us to try.
I’ve been thinking about how much of my own writing revolves around what can’t be said directly. Longing, quiet loss, half-remembered dreams. Things that don’t shout, but hover just out of reach. One of my recent poems, “Dreams in My Palms,” came from exactly that space. I had no clear image in mind when I began. There was only a mood, a tension. It was the feeling of something that lingered just under the skin.
Here’s the poem:
Dreams in My Palms
Dreams softly touched the clouds
as mist of rain lingered.
I held my fingers spread wide
and watched the smoke rise.
Skin luminous and see-through
I covered my eyes.
The dreams that still remained
simmered in my palms.
Another poem that speaks to this quiet, searching space is “The Forest’s Edge.” It came from a walk, a memory, a half-fantasy. It’s grounded in nature, but it opens into something timeless and strange.
The Forest’s Edge
A tangle of bluebells and hawthorn in my hair,
treading through strands and down my back.
It grew at the edge of the forest one night
when the hummingbird sang to the last ray of light.
I lay down to listen to the whispers of the leaves.
Now I’m intertwined forever with the call from the trees.
I’ve always been fascinated by the ocean and the animals that lives there, ever since I was a little girl. There is something profound about what can’t be seen. I could not get enough of tales of hidden treasures and pirates when I was little. I had my parents retell the tale of Atlantis time and time again. From that, this poem was born:
The Sunken Letter
Guarded by stone,
a sunken treasure rests
hidden beneath kelp woods,
in the embrace of the waves.
The outline of whales
lingers from above—
their voices deep,
cascading sounds.
But the light from the surface
cannot reach its grave.
No currents will move
the letter on the ocean’s floor,
where only silence prevails.
Writing these poems was a way of catching feelings I couldn’t explain to myself in conversation. And maybe that’s what writing the invisible really is: listening deeply enough to notice the tremble underneath the noise.
If you’re a poet, I’d love to hear. What kinds of things do you try to write that feel just out of reach? How do you approach the unsayable?
Let’s talk about the mystery.
Related post: The Enchanted Words of Poetry
The School of Life: Why You Should Write Your Feelings Down
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