Friday, June 22, 2007



At the tip of my tongue one phoneme,
pressed like a flower between tongue
and tooth, blossomed: a breath of steam
delicate as dandelion achenes hung
mid-air on rippled sound, dispersed.
Glorious glossolalia, this un-naming—
I stammered sub-vocal mutters, burst
out “What is that called?”—aiming
the question at the sky, the sky-blue
damselfly, rocks, the maidenhair fern,
myself, the world. None gave any clue,
clue enough I’d found Eden: learned
I’d been shorn of what names I knew;
the only tongue spoken here—value, hue.


am said...

This poem is incredible. I don't know what else to say except THANK YOU SO MUCH for your vision.

Laureline said...

Lori! Amazing woman that you are---this is a beautiful poem. You are one of the most gifted people I know.

robin andrea said...

This is a beautiful poem. I'm very glad I followed the link that am posted on her blog.

jarvenpa said...

Oh, you cannot know how much your poem speaks to my heart and word-losing brain.
(and it is a good poem too).
There was a time I knew all the local plants, and many exotics, by both Latin and common names.
These days....yes. "okay, I know this yellow flower, I really do."
And I care more about that than the similar "I remember a lot of your history, dear book buyer/friend who has probably been coming to my shop for decades, and I do recall your taste in books, but damned if I can come up with your name."
Oddly. Because surely the flowers don't care in the least.