Friday, November 13, 2009

Fave Poem of the Day


Even though I was not too excited over Mr. Gilbert's reading of this poem, I have to admit that I somewhat enjoyed picturing him articulating the words as if disaster is about to strike soon. Note his every tone at the end of each line, couldn't help but feel my eyes droop with each words. But I guess it's just me. True, it doesn't help that this picture of him some how reminds me of that weird horror movie about an evil Santa Claus bludgeoning kids to death. But all is good, yup, all is definitely good.

PS: I am more than prepared to woo the next someone using his lines: "Shiploads of thuya are what, my body wants to say to your body". Dayyyyuuummmmmm, Gilbert, Dayyyum. *grins stupidly.

The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart
by 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.

0 poetic mutterings: