06 February 2010

Untitled from 1973?

I wrote this about 35 years ago. I have no recollection of it, but here it is anyway. My sister came across it on an undated piece of notebook paper. (Something about people in their early twenties (with the occasional genius exception): they so often mistake the obscure for the profound).
Amidst the sordid reminisce through receding souls exploding, the hard-won, now hard-nosed what that's this and here, the plated sparks flow by like voices in my heart, and the passing words draw up the faint resounding of an edda long since untold (the very hills that rang of it long since worn away). The oldest trailing song, sorrow-voice, comes into my heart as I were one with them, and I hear it the smallest minute and I weep to hear it. Our road led away even then; for us the seeming choice is lost: it's long since the young earth's firstborn walked her face. Their song though abides its sense, even as her children abuse her face, and put aside her gifts, and worship their own nature's god. And I think my song could be such, but I were so entwined in that image. My voice croaks and stops; the words are lost -- and the moment fades when even deep that spirit sounded.

1 comment:

  1. This makes me weep. I can hear the forgotten song calling me from the plains and valleys of Mother Africa. So long ago they could actually sing the silence we will never hear again, never. Even so something in me wants to go there and wander where Ardi wandered and see if I might hear it.


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