anyone who even rarely glances at this thing would have noticed that the posts have dried up.
thats because i intended to make a smooth transition from this to my new blog, in honor of my big new adventure.
unfortunately ending work took over my life, then getting ready to travel and being in love full time took over my life, then my grandmothers illness took over my life and yesterday, her death took over my life.
but today im waiting for my mother to pick me up so we can go to her house and start the process of packing up the person we love mosts life into boxes-
and i feel helpless, hopeless, headless.
and i can tell the weeks ahead are going to be unstable and difficult.
so im checking something off my list, closing down this blog that has served me so well, recording my life and loves for the past two plus years.
anyone who has followed me this far and wants to stay with me, i've started a new blog, a tumblr, actually, in a super simplified format, just to help me by keeping track of the tiny poetries of daily life as i launch off into something thats almost too big to comprehend:
http://whatwefeelmost.tumblr.com/
the title is based on this, one of my all time favorite poems by Jack Gilbert :
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
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.
thank you for reading. see you on the other side
love
D
