The world does not need words. It articulates itself in sunlight, leaves, and shadows. The stones on the path are no less real for lying uncatalogued and uncounted. The fluent leaves speak only the dialect of pure being. The kiss is still fully itself though no words were spoken. And one word transforms it into something less or other-- illicit, chaste, perfunctory, conjugal, covert. Even calling it a kiss betrays the fluster of hands glancing the skin or gripping a shoulder, the slow arching of neck or knee, the silent touching of tongues. Yet the stones remain less real to those who cannot name them, or read the mute syllables graven in silica. To see a red stone is less than seeing it as jasper-- metamorphic quartz, cousin to the flint the Kiowa carved as arrowheads. To name is to know and remember. The sunlight needs no praise piercing the rainclouds, painting the rocks and leaves with light, then dissolving each lucent droplet back into the clouds that engendered it. The daylight needs no praise, and so we praise it always-- greater than ourselves and all the airy words we summon.
Dana Gioia - 1950-
Sometimes a child will stare out of a window for a moment or an hour—deciphering the future from a dusky summer sky. Does he imagine that some wisp of cloud reveals the signature of things to come? Or that the world’s a book we learn to translate? And sometimes a girl stands naked by a mirror imagining beauty in a stranger's eyes finding a place where fear leads to desire. For what is prophecy but the first inkling of what we ourselves must call into being? The call need not be large. No voice in thunder. It's not so much what's spoken as what's heard— and recognized, of course. The gift is listening and hearing what is only meant for you. Life has its mysteries, annunciations, and some must wear a crown of thorns. I found my Via Dolorosa in your love. And sometimes we proceed by prophecy, or not at all—even if only to know what destiny requires us to renounce. O Lord of indirection and ellipses, ignore our prayers. Deliver us from distraction. Slow our heartbeat to a cricket's call. In the green torpor of the afternoon, bless us with ennui and quietude. And grant us only what we fear, so that Underneath the murmur of the wasp we hear the dry grass bending in the wind and the spider's silken whisper from its web.