"The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart" by Jack Gilbert (read by Tom O'Bedlam)
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- čas přidán 7. 01. 2012
- It's not far from the truth. Language is a conspiracy by which we communicate. If you went back in time even a few decades, you would have difficulty making yourself understood.
The forgotten language of love? Here is a passage from a famous old love song:
"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead.
Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.
Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks. Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armoury, whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, all shields of mighty men. Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies"
Jack Gilbert:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Gil...
The pictures are for atmosphere -I don't claim that they are historically accurate or relevant.
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 laguage but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds. - Zábava
Refusing Heaven is one of those books I go back and read once a year. Truly a remarkable book. Gilbert has this quite, earnest, sobriety to his poetry. You hang on every word as if reading the last words of a dying man. The book was published in 2005 when I was still in high school, making him 80. I wonder if he ever dreamed his poetry would impact a boy 65 years his younger.
This is why it is so fun and so frustrating to be a linguist. Good atmosphere, and excellent reading, as usual. Thank you for introducing me to this one. Onto the favorites list you go again.
This is beautiful. Thank you!
Thanks for sharing love
all of these things that are lost, contributed to the fabric of what we are, do we then develop holes in the fabric of what we are?
Amazing. thank you
Hit the nail on the head.
So good. I remember reading a book called "They have a word for that." So interesting. Recently reminded a few folks that there are no words in English and many languages for a parent who has lost a child, although we have widowed (loss of a spouse) and orphaned (loss of a parent.) So many lost words. Great upload. Wondering, though, why you chose -- and yes, it was a choice-- not to name the old Hebrew love song in the underbar. Fear of people making anti-semitic or anti-Biblical comments?
Jack Gilbert died in November 2012.
@scifiwritir1 It's the Song of Solomon from the King James Bible. I thought people would recognise it.
@spokenverse : I did! (Recognise it, I mean.) Maybe I should use those verses for chat up lines, especially the one about the sheep...