There is nothing at all that can be talked about adequately, and the whole art of poetry is to say what can't be said.
- Alan Watts
The Language for Loss
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.
*
by
Bob Hicock
*
In Tennessee I Found a Firefly
by
Mary Szybist
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The mind to dance
Through generalities
To specify specifics,
To photo click
Through sound and chance
To snare realities
That grasp and stick
Are bricks that can devise
Edifices to open eyes,
Convey delights, surprise
By spelling truth with lies.
ANECDOTE OF THE JAR
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion every where.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.
Wallace Stevens
Thanks, Jan Sand ~
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
catch ~ and thank you for stopping by for the finale.
femme ~ oh, honey. I know. ("inarticulable" is so hard to say it's practically onomatopoeia)
but not for you -"
the 'you' of your poems I'm sometimes frightened of knowing...but only because I also have 'you's that inhabit similarly dark, inarticulable spaces...
thank-you for the poem and poems....
L. ~ You're welcome, always welcome.