After reading the poetry of Rabindranath Tagore
Yes. We spend too much of our short lives
Chasing the mot juste, the phrase, the image,
That will reconcile all, bring all to mind.
To ease the pain and to make amends.
But there is no end to the way of art
We must learn to wonder as we search
For the right word to express. What?
That fleeting sense of something
Far more deeply interfused
That has its home in the setting sun
In majestic music and in the mind of man.
Words have many uses, tell many scorching
Lies, create many and varied identities
Depending on the soul of the language.
Is it mellifluous like Italian or French?
Or gruff and haughty like German or Russian?
Les fleurs du mal reposent sur nos esprits
Comme un brouillard humide et toxique.
Or, maybe, it is just our barbarian worship
Of the self that erodes the sanctity of the word.
We neglect our language at our peril
Our identity is created and expressed iin words,
Language is the explicit and implicit
Foundation of our culture, our way of life.
We have a new and dangerous breed of censors
Who have weaponised mediocrity,
Made lack of offence a stinking virtue,
Telling us what we can and cannot say or write or think
But for poets, sentence by bloody sentence,
Word by bleeding word the unknown
Is brought to measure, as we see
Into the heart of things....