I reach for a word and find only the space where the word should be, an absence shaped like a question I have asked all my life. What I feel is immense, yet the sentence I make shrinks it to something manageable, something ordinary. Perhaps this is why we are so often disappointed with ourselves: we mistake the uttered for the real. Still, I speak, not because language suffices but because silence is its own cruelty. I speak, knowing the truth will remain outside the poem, patient, unyielding, but whole.
The word is an insufficient embodiment of something as vast and complex as thought. It always falls short, like a crumb left on the table after a meal. A word is a symbol—an imperfect attempt to briefly capture the immense Universe that surrounds us. The anguish you feel runs through every form of art. As poets, we are diminutives of the infinite.
This touched something I often feel while writing.
Perhaps words are not meant to contain the truth, but to point toward it. The moment we believe we have fully named an experience, we often stop listening to what still remains beyond the sentence.
Maybe every honest poem is not the place where truth is captured, but where it quietly continues to breathe.
Thank you, Antonio for your thoughtful comment. Perhaps it is, as you say, that the poem is meant to point to the experience, to announce, in some small way, that something happened, to say, “If you missed it—there’s this!”
Finding the right word to describe something, to bring something into being exactly as you see it, can be a very difficult task. Finding the right sentence is even more difficult because, in essence, you are trying to condense something enormous into something very small and manageable. But the speaker reminds us here that words and sentences are not reality and can seem quite ordinary when compared to what is there in all its wholeness. Yet still, the poet / speaker speaks, preferring his efforts to silence. Wonderful poem, Paul. I can totally relate to this.
Sometimes words only capture a fragment of our biggest feelings just like photos often don’t do reality justice. But you Paul, always find a way to bring the beauty of your truth to us in your stunning poetry. This is a masterpiece. 🩵🩵
To mis-quote a famous poet: “The naming of [words] is a difficult matter. It’s not just one of your holiday games” Now I must request forgiveness, I suppose . . . T.S. Elliott
I love this poem and how it gives freedom to the poet to search for the right words without the expectation of perfection! Well done as always Paul 💛🙏💛
The words of a poem are crumbs on the forest floor. If we follow them, they might lead us home, to the truth.
Good Wednesday, Ron, and thanks for commenting!
Thank you, dear @Chen Rafaeli and Alias April, for sharing this poem.
✨💛✨
thank you🩵✨🪄
Thank you for sharing this poem, @Maureen Doallas
My pleasure, Paul.
Thank you for sharing this, @Don Boivin
You’re so shareable, Paul! 😊
Thank you, Don. So are you! 🙏😊
Thank you for sharing this, @Portia
The word is an insufficient embodiment of something as vast and complex as thought. It always falls short, like a crumb left on the table after a meal. A word is a symbol—an imperfect attempt to briefly capture the immense Universe that surrounds us. The anguish you feel runs through every form of art. As poets, we are diminutives of the infinite.
Universe has swallowed every word ever written. I’m happy someone reads mine before they are gone forever.
This touched something I often feel while writing.
Perhaps words are not meant to contain the truth, but to point toward it. The moment we believe we have fully named an experience, we often stop listening to what still remains beyond the sentence.
Maybe every honest poem is not the place where truth is captured, but where it quietly continues to breathe.
Thank you, Antonio for your thoughtful comment. Perhaps it is, as you say, that the poem is meant to point to the experience, to announce, in some small way, that something happened, to say, “If you missed it—there’s this!”
Finding the right word to describe something, to bring something into being exactly as you see it, can be a very difficult task. Finding the right sentence is even more difficult because, in essence, you are trying to condense something enormous into something very small and manageable. But the speaker reminds us here that words and sentences are not reality and can seem quite ordinary when compared to what is there in all its wholeness. Yet still, the poet / speaker speaks, preferring his efforts to silence. Wonderful poem, Paul. I can totally relate to this.
"What I feel is immense,
yet the sentence I make
shrinks it to something
manageable,
something ordinary."
Thank you, Martin. There are risks in remaining silent, just as there are in speaking out.
Getting out of bed is a risk. Such is life!
“I speak, knowing the truth will remain outside the poem, patient, unyielding, but whole.”
A poem is born from the poet. The reader takes it from existence and gives it flight. Wonderful, Paul!
Thank you, Lor 🙏😊
Sometimes words only capture a fragment of our biggest feelings just like photos often don’t do reality justice. But you Paul, always find a way to bring the beauty of your truth to us in your stunning poetry. This is a masterpiece. 🩵🩵
Good Wednesday, Grace and thank you for brightening my morning!🩵🩵
Ditto! 🩵
🩵🩵
Silence is an important part of the song. Sometimes we all need a rest.
Good Wednesday, Stan—you're right, there has to be silence so you know where the notes are!
We mistake the uttered for real…Love that line. Thank you, Paul ☀️
Thank you, Jo-Ann. Sometimes we mistake the uttered for truth, too. Enjoy your weekend!
Thank you, and may you have a lovely weekend!
it’s like catching an image of that thing you glimpsed out of the corner of your eye i think.. impossible..
Good description, Patris.
To mis-quote a famous poet: “The naming of [words] is a difficult matter. It’s not just one of your holiday games” Now I must request forgiveness, I suppose . . . T.S. Elliott
Thank you, Patricia—no forgiveness required. Finding the right word that will name what you feel isn’t playtime, either.
I love this poem and how it gives freedom to the poet to search for the right words without the expectation of perfection! Well done as always Paul 💛🙏💛
Exactly, no point in trying for perfection!!
Trying is always nice. Getting there? Not likely.
Thank you, Holly. I’m not certain perfection is possible. I hit points where I’m satisfied with my work, but nothing is anywhere perfect.
Wordsmiths pound dictionaries like a blacksmith pounds metal.
And if they can't find the right fit, they will invent something.
You qualify.
I’ll take it, Malcolm—Thank you.