I thought it would be fitting to do an original of mine, but one of it's earlier drafts. I have recently reworked this poem so it includes both French and English, but rereading it, and making a few revisions, I noticed it works as an English piece too. I also thought that for the first day of a poetry challenge that it was fitting.
Language
I
language is the healer;
the messiah.
he has been there since the very beginning.
II
Language heals us but it also wounds us
Or rather, wounds himself.
Or rather, we wounded him.
Somehow he always returns.
III
Language is bound to eternity.
Language holds the wisdom and folly on his tongue,
and forgotten words on his margin.
What will we listen to?
IV
Language permeates the dark air like a siren.
Language pushes birds around.
Language. Sighs.
V
Language is near, when
Silences stalks us,
Impersonating shadows.
Usurping their identity.
We trip.
We fall. We rise.
We fall, We rise.
Language dusts us off.
VI
Language eludes us in youth,
Haunts us in middle age,
And returns, temporarily,
In death.
VII
Language can be a blind-fold
But language can open eyes.
Language is the healer;
The Messiah,
He has been there since the very beginning.
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Tickle your toes. . .
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like me- it serves as a question as well as an appropriately foolish letter in bad company it only teams up with words like yodel, ...
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Another Indian woman living on our block has hair swept back and braided has jeweled toes, is in all yellow traditional regalia, and walks w...
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husband and I trek a mile for ice cream just for the creamy banana, crunchy pecans, and chunks of thumb-sized chocolate. shoes flipping and...
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driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu... -
hunger is sometimes preferable to loneliness. a stomach will twist- but hands become dirty and heavy when full of coins.
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there ain't no other place like you to roam. where I dug in my heels and said "No, I won't come home!" Dancing in the warb...
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In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across but... -
Out the window, I thought I saw Emily pale, gawking. a green T-shirt. bouncing firey springs on her head.
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nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
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confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.
Poets United Contributor
Wow. I am very impressed with this piece. All the sections work beautifully.
ReplyDeleteThanks Suz! What a confidence booster for this piece. :D
ReplyDeleteMy favourite line is "and forgotten words on his margin."
ReplyDeleteI think it's clever. This poem kind of reminds me of Bill Bryson's writing on language.
Also like all of VII. Very well done!
I LOVE BILL BRYSON!! lol
ReplyDelete