I was just reading Louise Glück’s October poem. And there’re these lines:
Between herself and the sun,
something has ended.
She wants, now, to be left alone;
I think we must give up
turning to her for affirmation.
I don’t know what language does, but it does something. It digs. It reflects. It creates. That’s why we turn to language: we must speak, or we die. The world was spoken into creation wasn’t it? So why don’t you pick up a pen and write about what language does.
Here’s mine for today:
It sounded like an incantation,
or church bells tolling, musical
tinkling sounds of the evening.
Don’t we want a slower pace now
that we’re bruised, nursing a bad knee–
ah, kneeling would be a bad idea.
I needed her words, deep echoes
my permeating ears solaced in,
burying toes in sand.