‘No metaphors swarm
around that fact, around that strangest thing,
that being that was and now no longer is.'
Iain Crichton Smith
I
For it is not like a sea of nested gas
that you float upon
in your pedalo.
This unspeakable is not like
anything
a poem or riddle collies no particle
of it for us to fank
in mouths and minds.
A noun's a nickname
and makes it reestit
adjectives salt, parch and wizen it.
Language abdicates
but you
in your stocking feet
stand a chance
with your long-lost primer
of liquids and vowels.
II
Loving language is wide
and shallow: sooks, polches
and wistens it.
Already I can only noun
about its shores
and surfaces
nym the brinks of this squilly thing
where congregates stuff
that can be likened:
stiff hands like ginger root
in the dim, summer night;
the kettle's glossy coat of tar;
the little flame of the driftwood fire
bunched
and clerical.
III
First we'll need
to agree:
are we taking up the first language
or must we coin
a new one?
If we're going to speak about this
I'll need a tinderbox and tent
and waterskin.
We will need to use the nights
as fully as the nesting birds.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well conceived and nicely brought forth with insight. A beautiful creation. Thanks for sharing Jen and do remain enriched.