MYSTERIOUS ETYMOLOGIES

and which came first?
syllable or the sound
of pain?
what…did you say?
they ARE the same
whether uttered or
spoken or eventually
written — all the same!

must a glyph truly obtain
a sense of distinction?

it is now its own.

:: 07.14.2020 ::

Notes for the Students:

THIS POEM explores the interconnectedness of language, sound, and emotion. The poet contemplates the origin of words and the relationship between syllables and the expression of pain. The question of which came first, the syllable or the sound of pain, reflects on the primal and innate nature of language as a means of conveying human experience.

The repetition of the phrase “they ARE the same” emphasizes the unity of spoken and written language, suggesting that the essence of expression remains constant across different forms. The poem questions the necessity for a glyph (a written symbol) to have a distinct meaning, implying that language evolves organically and may not always follow rigid rules.

The final lines, “it is now its own,” suggest a sense of independence and self-contained identity for language. This could be interpreted as an acknowledgment of the power of language to shape its own meaning and significance over time.

Overall, the poem invites readers to reflect on the mysterious and evolving nature of language, emphasizing its ability to capture and convey complex emotions and experiences.

Revised: 07.16.2023 ::

Moments pass like falling leaves,
silent as hearts breaking apart,
rivers red, rumbling over blue rocks,
whisper of love from nature’s heart.

Love freely flows through clean veins,
embracing both men and women’s rights.
My parched tongue craves water’s kiss,
as fountains mingle with life’s delights.

In darkness, I write without a light,
with thoughts, passions, and desires ignite,
expressing what stirs this mortal frame,
the wonder of love in the day’s sweet light,
and the sacred flame that dances at night.

Beneath the moon’s gentle, silver glow,
it creeps, merging with evening’s soft light,
and there she stands, my hope, my joy,
my precious beloved, Genevieve!

Beside an armored knight, she leans,
a statue of noble might, serene,
she listens to my heartfelt verse,
in twilight’s lingering, tender sheen.

Her sorrows are rare, few and far between,
my hope, my joy, my Genevieve!
She loves me most when I sing
songs that bring her sorrow, I believe.

I play a melancholic melody,
and sing a tale of old and deep,
an ancient, rugged song that suits well
the wild, weathered ruin it does keep.

She listens, a fleeting blush adorns her,
with lowered gaze and modest grace,
for she knows I cannot help but be
captivated by her radiant face.

I tell her of a knight who bears
a burning brand upon his shield,
for ten long years he woos and strives
to win the Lady of the Land, revealed.

I speak of his yearning and anguish,
in pleading tones, both deep and low,
through which I sing another’s love,
yet in truth, it mirrors my own woe.

She listens, a fleeting blush adorns her,
with lowered gaze and modest grace,
and she forgives me for my intense
adoration of her lovely face.

As I narrate the cruel scorn that drives
this brave knight to the edge of madness,
how he wanders through mountain woods,
consumed by sadness and relentless sadness,

Sometimes emerging from savage dens,
sometimes from the darkest glade,
and sometimes awakening abruptly
in green glades under the sun’s warm cascade.

A beautiful, radiant angel appears,
gazing into his eyes with a wicked guise,
and he knows it’s a fiend, a wicked being,
in torment’s mask, his heart belies.

Unknowing, he leaps into the fray,
amongst murderous men, he does descend,
and saves the Lady of the Land,
from a fate far worse than death, my friend.

She weeps and clasps his wounded knees,
tending to him, her efforts in vain,
struggling to expiate the scorn
that shattered his mind and caused such pain.

Tenderly, she nurses him in a cave,
where madness fades, his mind regains,
until on golden forest leaves,
a dying man he forever remains.

But when I reach the most tender part,
the sweetest strain in this heartfelt tale,
my voice falters, my harp pauses,
stirring her soul, causing her to wail.

Her emotions, senses, all entwined,
indistinguishable, yet crystal clear,
gentle wishes long suppressed,
nurtured, cherished, no longer mere.

She weeps with pity and delight,
blushing with love and maiden’s shame,
like a whispering dream’s gentle hum,
she softly breathes my beloved name.

Her bosom rises and falls with emotion,
she steps aside, aware of my gaze,
then suddenly, with timid eyes,
seeks refuge in my embrace’s haze.

Her arms encircle me in part,
with gentle, humble, loving hold,
tilting her head back, she gazes up,
her eyes revealing a story untold.

It’s love mingled with fear and art,
a bashful dance of the heart,
I feel, rather than see, the swelling
of her tender heart, a precious part.

I calm her fears, she finds her peace,
with maidenly pride, she confesses,
and thus, I win my sweet Genevieve,
my radiant and beautiful bride, blessed.