The Failure of Language

Source: CNN.com

First day of class, I ask the students, by way
of introduction, what they believe:
Language is our best tool, or language fails
to express what we know and feel.
We go around the room.
Almost everyone sides with failure.
Is it because they’re young,
still find it hard to say what they mean?
Or are they romantics, holding music and art, the body,
anything wordless as the best way in?
I think about the poet helping his wife to die,
calling his heart helpless as crushed birds
and the soles of her feet the voices of children
calling in the lemon grove, because the tool
must sometimes be bent to work.

Sitting next to my friend in her hospital bed,
she tells me she’s not going to make it,
doesn’t think she wants to,
all year running from the deep she’s now drowning in.
I change the flowers in the vase,
rub cream into her hands and feet.
When I lean down to kiss her goodbye,
I whisper I love you, words that maybe
have lost their meaning, being asked to stand
for so many unspoken particulars.

The sky when I walk to the parking lot
this last weekend of summer
is an opal, the heat pinkening above the trees
which dusk turns the color of ash.

Everything we love fails, I didn’t tell my students,
if by fails we mean ends or changes,
if by love we mean what sustains us.
Language is what honors the vanishing.
Or is language what slows the leaving?
Or does it only deepen what we know of loss?

My students believe it’s important
to get the words right.
Once said, they can never be retrieved.
It takes years to learn to be awkward.
At their age, each word must be carefully chosen
to communicate the yes, but also leave room
for the not really, just kidding, a gateway car
with the engine running.

Inside us, constellations,
bit thread knotted into night’s black drape.
There are no right words,
if by right we mean perfect,
if by perfect we mean able to save us.

Four of us pack up our friend’s apartment.
Suddenly she can’t live unassisted.
I remember this glass, part of a set
I bought her years ago
when she became for a time a scotch drinker.
I bought it for its weight, something
solid to hold, and for the way an inch or two
of amber would look against its etched walls.
I wrap it in newspaper and add it to the box marked Kitchen.

It’s my friend herself who is fragile.
When I take her out to eat, each step is work.
The restaurant is loud and bright.
She wants to know if she looks normal.
I make my words soft. Fine,
which might be the most useless word in English,
everything is going to be fine.

~ Jacqueline Berger

The Failure of Language

Source: CNN.com

First day of class, I ask the students, by way
of introduction, what they believe:
Language is our best tool, or language fails
to express what we know and feel.
We go around the room.
Almost everyone sides with failure.
Is it because they’re young,
still find it hard to say what they mean?
Or are they romantics, holding music and art, the body,
anything wordless as the best way in?
I think about the poet helping his wife to die,
calling his heart helpless as crushed birds
and the soles of her feet the voices of children
calling in the lemon grove, because the tool
must sometimes be bent to work.

Sitting next to my friend in her hospital bed,
she tells me she’s not going to make it,
doesn’t think she wants to,
all year running from the deep she’s now drowning in.
I change the flowers in the vase,
rub cream into her hands and feet.
When I lean down to kiss her goodbye,
I whisper I love you, words that maybe
have lost their meaning, being asked to stand
for so many unspoken particulars.

The sky when I walk to the parking lot
this last weekend of summer
is an opal, the heat pinkening above the trees
which dusk turns the color of ash.

Everything we love fails, I didn’t tell my students,
if by fails we mean ends or changes,
if by love we mean what sustains us.
Language is what honors the vanishing.
Or is language what slows the leaving?
Or does it only deepen what we know of loss?

My students believe it’s important
to get the words right.
Once said, they can never be retrieved.
It takes years to learn to be awkward.
At their age, each word must be carefully chosen
to communicate the yes, but also leave room
for the not really, just kidding, a gateway car
with the engine running.

Inside us, constellations,
bit thread knotted into night’s black drape.
There are no right words,
if by right we mean perfect,
if by perfect we mean able to save us.

Four of us pack up our friend’s apartment.
Suddenly she can’t live unassisted.
I remember this glass, part of a set
I bought her years ago
when she became for a time a scotch drinker.
I bought it for its weight, something
solid to hold, and for the way an inch or two
of amber would look against its etched walls.
I wrap it in newspaper and add it to the box marked Kitchen.

It’s my friend herself who is fragile.
When I take her out to eat, each step is work.
The restaurant is loud and bright.
She wants to know if she looks normal.
I make my words soft. Fine,
which might be the most useless word in English,
everything is going to be fine.

~ Jacqueline Berger

To a Friend

Photo credit: hotblack from www.morguefile.com

You entered my life in a casual way,

And saw at a glance what I needed;

There were others who passed me or met me each day,

But never a one of them heeded.

Perhaps you were thinking of other folks more,

Or chance simply seemed to decree it;

I know there were many such chances before,

But the others—well, they didn’t see it.

You said just the thing that I wished you would say,

And you made me believe that you meant it;

I held up my head in the gallant old way,

And resolved you should never repent it.

There are times when encouragement means such a lot,

And a word is enough to convey it;

There were others who could have, as easy as not—

But, just the same, they didn’t say it.

There may have been someone who could have done more

To help me along, though I doubt it;

What I needed was cheering, and always before

They had let me plod onward without it.

You helped to refashion the dream of my heart,

And made me turn eagerly to it;

There were others who might have (I question that part)—

But, after all, they didn’t do it!

~ Grace S Dawson

To a Friend

Photo credit: hotblack from www.morguefile.com

You entered my life in a casual way,

And saw at a glance what I needed;

There were others who passed me or met me each day,

But never a one of them heeded.

Perhaps you were thinking of other folks more,

Or chance simply seemed to decree it;

I know there were many such chances before,

But the others—well, they didn’t see it.

You said just the thing that I wished you would say,

And you made me believe that you meant it;

I held up my head in the gallant old way,

And resolved you should never repent it.

There are times when encouragement means such a lot,

And a word is enough to convey it;

There were others who could have, as easy as not—

But, just the same, they didn’t say it.

There may have been someone who could have done more

To help me along, though I doubt it;

What I needed was cheering, and always before

They had let me plod onward without it.

You helped to refashion the dream of my heart,

And made me turn eagerly to it;

There were others who might have (I question that part)—

But, after all, they didn’t do it!

~ Grace S Dawson

Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven

They call each other “E”. Elvis picks

wildflowers near the river and brings

them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him.

In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports

Levis and western blouses with rhinestones.

Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers

and T-shirts, a letterman’s jacket from Tupelo High.

They take long walks and often hold hands.

She prefers they remain just friends. Forever.

Emily’s poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs,

Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard

Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile.

Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon

he will play guitar and sing “I Taste a Liquor

Never Brewed” to the tune of “Love Me Tender.”

Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone

in their cabins later, they’ll listen to the river

and nap. They will not think of Amherst

or Las Vegas. They know why God made them

roommates. It’s because America

was their hometown. It’s because

God is a thing without

feathers. It’s because

God wears blue suede shoes.

~ Hans Ostrom

Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven

They call each other “E”. Elvis picks

wildflowers near the river and brings

them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him.

In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports

Levis and western blouses with rhinestones.

Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers

and T-shirts, a letterman’s jacket from Tupelo High.

They take long walks and often hold hands.

She prefers they remain just friends. Forever.

Emily’s poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs,

Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard

Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile.

Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon

he will play guitar and sing “I Taste a Liquor

Never Brewed” to the tune of “Love Me Tender.”

Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone

in their cabins later, they’ll listen to the river

and nap. They will not think of Amherst

or Las Vegas. They know why God made them

roommates. It’s because America

was their hometown. It’s because

God is a thing without

feathers. It’s because

God wears blue suede shoes.

~ Hans Ostrom

Ode to Tomatoes

Photo credit: raymortim from morguefile.com

they make
friends
anywhere

red
smiles
in salads

tender
young
generous

hot
salsa
dancers

round
cardinals
of the kitchen

hard
to imagine
cooking

without
first asking
their blessings!

~ Francisco X. Alarcón

Ode to Tomatoes

Photo credit: raymortim from morguefile.com

they make
friends
anywhere

red
smiles
in salads

tender
young
generous

hot
salsa
dancers

round
cardinals
of the kitchen

hard
to imagine
cooking

without
first asking
their blessings!

~ Francisco X. Alarcón

The Sensible Girlfriend

Photo credit: missymax from morguefile.com

for C.

Like shoes
she chose for comfort,
not for style,
that fit her contours
without chafe
or blistering

Here is sanity.
It took her years to arrive,
like an explorer
settling at last
into uneasy retirement,
a small cottage
at the edge of the sea.
How the breakers crash
against the underpinnings;
still, the walls hold firm.
Hearth blazing steadily,
she tries to warm to it

tells herself
she is mature now,
this is good.
The days of stalking,
done,
the rabid pulse,
the blood-drenched kisses,
all behind her now.
Wearied, finally,
of careless cruelties,
she will stay here,
grow old

with you.
And, sensible,
lacking her gift
for self-deception,
you know she struggles
with devotion,
you listen as she
moans inside her dreams,
and watch, without remarking,
as she tracks the tap of high heels
just beyond the window,
their rhythm growing fainter
with each step.

~ Terry Wolverton

The Sensible Girlfriend

Photo credit: missymax from morguefile.com

for C.

Like shoes
she chose for comfort,
not for style,
that fit her contours
without chafe
or blistering

Here is sanity.
It took her years to arrive,
like an explorer
settling at last
into uneasy retirement,
a small cottage
at the edge of the sea.
How the breakers crash
against the underpinnings;
still, the walls hold firm.
Hearth blazing steadily,
she tries to warm to it

tells herself
she is mature now,
this is good.
The days of stalking,
done,
the rabid pulse,
the blood-drenched kisses,
all behind her now.
Wearied, finally,
of careless cruelties,
she will stay here,
grow old

with you.
And, sensible,
lacking her gift
for self-deception,
you know she struggles
with devotion,
you listen as she
moans inside her dreams,
and watch, without remarking,
as she tracks the tap of high heels
just beyond the window,
their rhythm growing fainter
with each step.

~ Terry Wolverton

Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks

Source: Unknown/Favim

I am the blossom pressed in a book,

found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .

When the young girl who starves

sits down to a table

she will sit beside me. . . .

I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . .

I am water rushing to the wellhead,

filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .

I am the patient gardener

of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,

the latch, and the working hinge. . . .

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .

the longest hair, white

before the rest. . . .

I am there in the basket of fruit

presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening

unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .

I am the one whose love

overcomes you, already with you

when you think to call my name. . . .

~ Jane Kenyon

______________________________________

I am your friend and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got. But there is much, very much, that, while I cannot give it, you can take. No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven! No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instant. Take peace! The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. 

~ Fra Giovanni Giocondo

Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks

Source: Unknown/Favim

I am the blossom pressed in a book,

found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .

When the young girl who starves

sits down to a table

she will sit beside me. . . .

I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . .

I am water rushing to the wellhead,

filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .

I am the patient gardener

of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,

the latch, and the working hinge. . . .

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .

the longest hair, white

before the rest. . . .

I am there in the basket of fruit

presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening

unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .

I am the one whose love

overcomes you, already with you

when you think to call my name. . . .

~ Jane Kenyon

______________________________________

I am your friend and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got. But there is much, very much, that, while I cannot give it, you can take. No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven! No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instant. Take peace! The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. 

~ Fra Giovanni Giocondo

Be a Friend

Source: Favim

Be a friend. You don't need money;

Just a disposition sunny;

Just the wish to help another

Get along some way or other;

Just a kindly hand extended

Out to one who's unbefriended;

Just the will to give or lend,

This will make you someone's friend.

Be a friend. You don't need glory.

Friendship is a simple story.

Pass by trifling errors blindly,

Gaze on honest effort kindly,

Cheer the youth who's bravely trying,

Pity him who's sadly sighing;

Just a little labor spend

On the duties of a friend.

Be a friend. The pay is bigger

(Though not written by a figure)

Than is earned by people clever

In what's merely self-endeavor.

You'll have friends instead of neighbors

For the profits of your labors;

You'll be richer in the end

Than a prince, if you're a friend.

~ Edgar Albert Guest

To My Friends and Critics

Come all you friends and critics,

And listen to my song,

A word I will say to you,

It will not take me long,

The people talks about me,

They've nothing else to do

But to criticise their neighbors,

And they have me now in view.

Perhaps they talk for meanness,

And perhaps it is in jest,

If they leave out their freeness

It would suit me now the best,

To keep the good old maxim

I find it hard to do,

That is to do to others

As you wish them do to you.

Perhaps you've read the papers

Containing my interview;

I hope you kind good people

Will not believe it true.

Some Editors of the papers

They thought it would be wise

To write a column about me,

So they filled it up with lies.

The papers have ridiculed me

A year and a half or more.

Such slander as the interview

I never read before.

Some reporters and editors

Are versed in telling lies.

Others it seems are willing

To let industry rise.

The people of good judgment

Will read the papers through,

And not rely on its truth

Without a candid view.

My first attempt at literature

Is the "Sweet Singer" by name,

I wrote that book without a thought

Of the future, or of fame.

Dear Friends, I write for money,

With a kind heart and hand,

I wish to make no Enemies

Throughout my native land.

Kind friends, now I close my rhyme,

And lay my pen aside,

Between me and my critics

I leave you to decide.

-- Julia A Moore

To My Friends and Critics

Come all you friends and critics,

And listen to my song,

A word I will say to you,

It will not take me long,

The people talks about me,

They've nothing else to do

But to criticise their neighbors,

And they have me now in view.

Perhaps they talk for meanness,

And perhaps it is in jest,

If they leave out their freeness

It would suit me now the best,

To keep the good old maxim

I find it hard to do,

That is to do to others

As you wish them do to you.

Perhaps you've read the papers

Containing my interview;

I hope you kind good people

Will not believe it true.

Some Editors of the papers

They thought it would be wise

To write a column about me,

So they filled it up with lies.

The papers have ridiculed me

A year and a half or more.

Such slander as the interview

I never read before.

Some reporters and editors

Are versed in telling lies.

Others it seems are willing

To let industry rise.

The people of good judgment

Will read the papers through,

And not rely on its truth

Without a candid view.

My first attempt at literature

Is the "Sweet Singer" by name,

I wrote that book without a thought

Of the future, or of fame.

Dear Friends, I write for money,

With a kind heart and hand,

I wish to make no Enemies

Throughout my native land.

Kind friends, now I close my rhyme,

And lay my pen aside,

Between me and my critics

I leave you to decide.

-- Julia A Moore