Thursday, February 7, 2013

a wednesday poem (but on a thursday - just for kicks)

One of my absolute Margaret Atwood faves... the last stanza gets me every time.  T

Marsh Languages

The dark soft languages are being silenced:
Mothertongue Mothertongue Mothertongue
falling one by one back into the moon.

Language of marshes,
language of the roots of rushes tangled
together in the ooze,
marrow cells twinning themselves
inside the warm core of the bone:
pathways of hidden light in the body fade and wink out.

The sibilants and gutturals,
the cave language, the half-light
forming at the back of the throat,
the mouth's damp velvet moulding
the lost syllable for "I" that did not mean separate,
all are becoming sounds no longer heard
because no longer spoken,
and everything that could once be said in them has
    ceased to exist.

The languages of dying suns
are themselves dying,
but even the word for this has been forgotten.
The mouth against skin, vivid and fading,
can no longer speak both cherishing and farewell.
It is now only a mouth, only skin.
There is no more longing.

Translation was never possible.
Instead there was always only
conquest, the influx
of the language of hard nouns,
the language of metal, the language of either/or,
the one language that has eaten all the others.

-Margaret Atwood (from Morning in the Burned House)

No comments:

Post a Comment