What is inarticulable remains so.
Now I am told things differently
and everything speaks of you.
I have learned a new tongue
and tell you grief.
Yes, everything speaks of you,
but not for you -
sanctimonious Sunday gossip,
it is not to be trusted.
But under my own breath, hidden
and bereft of formal insult,
a mean colloquial pain
hisses at me.
...
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hisses at me. "
It takes time sometimes to parse out the when where why who and how.
Finally, I’m again compelled to cite T.S. Eliot, as this piece is evocative of his reflections on language throughout “Four Quartets,” so I’ll paste in some excerpts below.
—Melissa
Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still.
. . .
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings.
. . .
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion.
. . .
For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.