In The Limbo Of Lost Words
After our love, I lie in the shadow of your shoulder
and drift to the sound of the seventeen-year locusts outside,
their lonely tenor buzz that rises and falls together
and as suddenly stops, and flares out again.
Their rhythm sweeps against the sides of the house,
rustles like late leaves, a soft desperate rasping,
the ave, ave, ave syllables of air, skin against skin.
When we came upon her yesterday, inside the chapel shadows,
the young soloist abandoned herself to the words she sang,
her translation like an absence of language. Her music
cast itself away and away, pulsing on, until the silence
of an empty room took its place, where the heat of day
is only lamplight through the stained windows.
It filters across the dusty floor. It lights
upon a pale blue wall, indiscriminate in what it touches.
And the mocking, mating voices of the locusts return again
in their regular pilgrimage out of the earth,
out of the dark, into the shadows.
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Comments about this poem (In The Limbo Of Lost Words by Ann Townsend )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edna St. Vincent Millay
(22 February 1892 – 19 October 1950)
Emmanuel George Cefai
(12th March 1955)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
- Russell Edson
(22 March 1941 -)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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