The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart
5 views
Skip to first unread message
msan...@gmail.com
Feb 14, 2009, 4:46:43 PM2/14/09
to Poem of the Week
Perhaps this is a strange poem to pick for Valentine's Day. I thought
of posting a Shakespeare sonnet - probably #18 which we will all know.
Or perhaps a gem from Emily Dickinson. Then I thought of all the
cards, all the notes, all the words of this day. And that lead back to
one of our great contemporary poets living now in Western Mass, Jack
Gilbert. A poet of discernment, reflection, irony and of passion. So
here is his The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart. Not perhaps what you
would expect on today -- but I hope, as always, that you find it worth
reading and contemplating.I recommend that you follow this link and
you can hear
Gilbert read this poem:
http://ia341016.us.archive.org/0/items/audio_poetry_276_2007/GilbertForgottendialect_64kb.mp3
Yrs
Michael
The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart
Jack Gilbert
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.
of posting a Shakespeare sonnet - probably #18 which we will all know.
Or perhaps a gem from Emily Dickinson. Then I thought of all the
cards, all the notes, all the words of this day. And that lead back to
one of our great contemporary poets living now in Western Mass, Jack
Gilbert. A poet of discernment, reflection, irony and of passion. So
here is his The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart. Not perhaps what you
would expect on today -- but I hope, as always, that you find it worth
reading and contemplating.I recommend that you follow this link and
you can hear
Gilbert read this poem:
http://ia341016.us.archive.org/0/items/audio_poetry_276_2007/GilbertForgottendialect_64kb.mp3
Yrs
Michael
The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart
Jack Gilbert
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.
Nicco Mele
Feb 16, 2009, 12:31:22 PM2/16/09
to Poem-of-...@googlegroups.com
That Jack Gilbert poem is exceptional.
Writer's Almanac had this poem on valentine's day, which given the recent birth of my first-born, spoke right down directly to me:
Mary Bly by James Wright
I sit here, doing nothing, alone, worn out by long winter.
I feel the light breath of the newborn child.
Her face is smooth as the side of an apricot,
Eyes quick as her blond mother's hands.
She has full, soft, red hair, and as she lies quiet
In her tall mother's arms, her delicate hands
Weave back and forth.
I feel the seasons changing beneath me,
Under the floor.
She is braiding the waters of air into the plaited manes
Of happy colts.
They canter, without making a sound, along the shores
Of melting snow.
I sit here, doing nothing, alone, worn out by long winter.
I feel the light breath of the newborn child.
Her face is smooth as the side of an apricot,
Eyes quick as her blond mother's hands.
She has full, soft, red hair, and as she lies quiet
In her tall mother's arms, her delicate hands
Weave back and forth.
I feel the seasons changing beneath me,
Under the floor.
She is braiding the waters of air into the plaited manes
Of happy colts.
They canter, without making a sound, along the shores
Of melting snow.
"Mary Bly" by James Wright, from Selected Poems.
- - - - -
aim: workingnicco
twitter: nicco
work blog: http://echoditto.com
personal blog: http://nicco.org
lisabxyz
Feb 16, 2009, 8:44:07 PM2/16/09
to Poem-of-...@googlegroups.com
Barbara Helfgott Hyett (Poemworks)
Feb 23, 2009, 9:33:20 PM2/23/09
to Poem-of-...@googlegroups.com
Thanks for this gem, Michael. Hope your poems continue to grow.
xo
B.
xo
B.
Reply all
Reply to author
Forward
0 new messages