Speaking, gritting, spitting, swallowing, weaving, dusting... Whether it is our families or our languages, it always seems to be as much about how it is said as much or more than what is said.
So true. And, sometimes, it is what's not said that matters too. You know that quote from Khalil Gibran? "Between what's said and not meant, and what's meant and not said, most of love is lost."
This poem is a beautiful, aching tribute to the inheritance of language and the complex, sacred relationship between words, identity, and lineage. The way you weave the visceral imagery—“catching stars tangled in trees,” “digging fingernails into her flesh”—creates such an intimate portrait of language as both a gift and a burden, stitched with memory, sorrow, and resilience. The tension between translation and loss is palpable, and the final lines land with quiet power, asserting the untranslatable depth of personal and generational suffering.
Speaking, gritting, spitting, swallowing, weaving, dusting... Whether it is our families or our languages, it always seems to be as much about how it is said as much or more than what is said.
So true. And, sometimes, it is what's not said that matters too. You know that quote from Khalil Gibran? "Between what's said and not meant, and what's meant and not said, most of love is lost."
Love the image of plucking words from the garden 🪴 beautiful ✨
Thank you so much Sara for fueling my motivation to keep on going :)!
Any time!
The last lines... the whole poem... stunning!
I'm truly honoured, especially because your poems inspire me so much. Thank you so, so much 💛. (I know the reply is pretty late. Sorry)
No worries, I am trying a slow living mode lately :) Thank you, Haram!
Just saw this in passing. As if she needs it, I am endorsing Fotini's slow living more. If not now, when?
This poem is a beautiful, aching tribute to the inheritance of language and the complex, sacred relationship between words, identity, and lineage. The way you weave the visceral imagery—“catching stars tangled in trees,” “digging fingernails into her flesh”—creates such an intimate portrait of language as both a gift and a burden, stitched with memory, sorrow, and resilience. The tension between translation and loss is palpable, and the final lines land with quiet power, asserting the untranslatable depth of personal and generational suffering.
Thank you for sharing this; it resonates deeply.