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Had the Heart A Certain Language
Had the heart a certain language
I’d learn to speak the same
To translate joy, and analyze
The dialect—of shame
Orators would speculate
“What spirit fills his lungs?”
Then seal their lips in honor of
The tenderest of tongues
If history was but a hound
I’d have him at my heel
To fetch fish caught on hooks of time
On lines which never reel
When I made meals of memory
I’d let him have the crumbs
Then take him hunting in pursuit
Of moments yet to come
Were that gladness was a bluebird
I’d hold it to my chest
Or gather twigs beneath the dew
To build for it a nest
How sweet to hear its homely tune!
To hear its vocals roll!
I’d try to tempt the flighty bird
To perch within my soul
Could one condense the Universe
I’d keep it in a tome
What fields of deepest knowledge
My mind would ever roam!
I’d contemplate infinity
Find wisdom where it’s stored
In the pages which resemble
The journal of the Lord
If love produced a blossom
I’d take it in my palm
What a blessing, the bright color!
How soothing, such a balm!
I’d keep a petal for my own
The rest, drop from my hands
For such a flower would multiply
And populate the lands
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This article has 22 comments.
Currently I'm taking an AP Modern Euro course, which I find very interesting, and with Valentine's Day just a couple days ago (and with especially my English teacher making a big fuss of it, having everyone "define Love" as an assignment), I've been thinking about Love (particularly Love versus Lust).
It probably won't be for a while, since I've given up blogging for Lent, but would you mind if I shared your poems on my blog? I'll give you your credit, of course.
Remember something of what?
Yes, it was an event; not a real coffeehouse.
I'll tell you why I asked, then...
(Blushing)
I seem to remember something of this. Huh.
There was only one day on which you could go?
I was out in my field, enjoying the sunset and thinking about dancing. I ended up watching a boy in the yard on the other side of the block play basketball. Only recently did I finish and title it.
Alas, I wrote this prior to the coffeehouse, not knowing that I would be too sick to be there that day. :(
Some agent of God delivered to me a beautiful message in the mail today, and I'm just about to respond to it, but I intended to ask you: from whence comes the image of the boy playing with the rusty-orange ball?