Losing a Language
A breath leaves the sentences and does not come back
yet the old still remember something that they could say
but they know now that such things are no longer believed
and the young have fewer words
many of the things the words were about
no longer exist
the noun for standing in mist by a haunted tree
the verb for I
the children will not repeat
the phrases their parents speak
somebody has persuaded them
that it is better to say everything differently
so that they can be admired somewhere
farther and farther away
where nothing that is here is known
we have little to say to each other
we are wrong and dark
in the eyes of the new owners
the radio is incomprehensible
the day is glass
when there is a voice at the door it is foreign
everywhere instead of a name there is a lie
nobody has seen it happening
nobody remembers
this is what the words were made
to prophesy
here are the extinct feathers
here is the rain we saw
W. S. Merwin
A powerful melancholy pervades my life right now, and Merwin’s music soundtracks my emotional life.
Thank you to Melissa Heckler for sending this poem to me earlier this week.
dear slow muse, i resonated with the title and enjoyed very much this visit.. will come back for more.
you are invited over for a slow peek.
à bientôt.
🙂
This poem hit me. I’ve been talking to friends about how we don’t dilute ourselves, our cultures, generation after generation. That’s what the poem reminded me of. And I loved the feather shot. It is a guinea hen? My grandparents raised guinea hens, as did our former neighbor. If you can do a things as raise guinea hens. They’re pretty independent.
Alaleh, thank you for stopping by. And your sites, both web and blogs, are a feast for the eye and soul.
And what an eye for feathers you have ybonesy. Yes, the image is a guinea hen feather.
I was also intrigued by your suggestion of “dilution” and what that means. This poem does speak to that, the something lost that can never be found again. It certainly addresses more than the loss of someone to death. It is a haunting poem.
[…] W. S. Merwin Merwin: Past and Present The Washed Colors of the Afterlife Walking at Night Between the Two Deserts Dorothea Tanning: With Our Souls in Our Laps Here are the extinct feathers, here is the rain we saw […]