Thursday, September 9, 2010

Let Her Speak

Let Her Speak
by Gideon Burton

I waste my words, encumbering thought with flesh,
all mashed in glottal mush, the meaning pressed
against the palate and the jilting thresh
of time, occasion, cues mistook or guessed--
She speaks my name as though to keep the air
from bruising it, as though upon her tongue
it lies, a flower petal thin and rare,
and any extra syllable, though sung
with grace, would loosen filaments or cells
and leave a shredded shell, a noise profane
and blank, no longer sounding down the well
of mystery, a label, fixed, inane. 
     My libels thrive on every breathing wave;
     she calls me once, and all my words behave.


  1. I think you are pretty terrific.

  2. If you have a clone, I wouldn't mind if you sent him my way.

  3. Brett does this for me. Both my words and my, well, everything else. A quiet, "honey..." and I behave. Oh, and I love that picture.

  4. I love how the (is it called enjambment when a sentence is broken between lines) gives the effect of rambling almost. As my newly-returned from London sister would say, "That's a proper sonnet."