Terra Incognita

Full Disclosure:  I stole that phrase- obviously (but no so obviously because I stole it from another's blog)- but I stole it because it works perfectly here.

A friend of mine in grad school once told me that a four-word line of poetry I wrote sounded good.  And he meant it literally.  Spoken aloud it sounded good, made good noise in his ears.  So I said the line to myself (probably walking across campus, probably looking like a loon):

Oh Atlas, I lied. 

And he was right, it sounded good; it sounds good.  The words flowed out of my mouth and into the air around me. I tried it in different accents, with different pauses and emphases (I'm telling you that I genuinely looked like a loon).  Oh Atlas, I lied.  Four words that I have used in at least ten different journal entries, poems, stories.  I love those four words for the same reason that I love all words: because they are.  And I love them because they are not four words.  They are my words.

But I digress.  I have been pondering and chatting and discussing a lot, lately, about words- spoken and written.  Not exactly terra incognita (say it OUT LOUD) for me or my partner  in crime here (another writer- and yes I say that humbly acknowledging that I really have no right to identify my self as the other to 'another writer'), but absorbing to us each nonetheless.

I rarely read what I write out loud.  I rarely read anything aloud- it hardly seems necessary because I am usually reading by myself, or in a crowd, or in some space that precludes speaking the word aloud (thank you Eliot).

But now I find that I am wanting to give voice to every passage on which I lay my eyes. I want to read Robert Hass in whispered tones to myself and the people I love who love him.  Or shout out the dark passages of John Donne because he writes creepy and terribly lovely things. I want those around me to know that Rilke said 'every angel is terrifying' because every angel is.  And because it sounds good.  I want to be able to recreate what Shel Silverstein thought when he wrote about the moon bird, resting from flight, to cool in the peppermint wind (OUT LOUD SERIOUSLY)

When I lend my voice to beautiful words, dear words- they come to life.  They become conversations over dinner, whispers in bed, debates about infinity, spirituality, goodness, badness, nonsense.  Words become us, in a way.   I think of my favorite words and they are favored because they feel good on my fingers to type or write; because they taste good on my lips to say and echo pleasantly in my ears upon hearing them: Wilderness, brutality, cognizance.  There are far too many to list all- but those are a few to try out.

Ah words.

Until next time, Dear Hearts…

(just try it out- find your favorite book and read one line out loud- it makes such a difference).