Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Starting Above the Arctic Circle

Welcome to National Poetry Month! In April, I will share a poem a day with you on this site. The only way this could be better is if April had 39 days!

Don't hesitate to share with me some poems you come across and think are cool. If you hear one or read me or even just think about that one you had to memorize, send it along. I'll share it with the rest of the class!

So, here's our first poem of the month. Enjoy, and check back tomorrow for another one!

The Icelandic Language

In this language, no industrial revolution;
no pasteurized milk; no oxygen, no telephone;
only sheep, fish, horses, water falling.
The middle class can hardly speak it.

In this language, no flush toilet; you stumble
through dark and rain with a handful of rags.
The door groans; the old smell comes
up from under the earth to meet you.

But this language believes in ghosts;
chairs rock by themselves under the lamp; horses
neigh inside an empty gully, nothing
at the bottom but moonlight and black rocks.

The woman with marble hands whispers
this language to you in your sleep; faces
come to the window and sing rhymes; old ladies
wind long hair, hum, tat, fold jam inside pancakes.

In this language, you can't chit-chat
holding a highball in your hand, can't
even be polite. Once the sentence starts its course,
all your grief and failure come clear at last.

Old inflections move from case to case,
gender to gender, softening consonants, darkening
vowels, till they sound like the sea moving
icebergs back and forth in its mouth.

by Bill Holm

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