Senescent - edit 2

[ilovewomenandbeer]

Senescent


My mind is going, entering
a space I only notice when
it’s gone

These last three days
three words returned too late
that had been inaccessible
not found by thought
or alphabet
when concepts needed names–

snare: hand-twisted noose
caught out, I couldn’t name
that simple rabbit-catcher
when a child desired
to trap a leprechaun

Kurds: lost name for
one brave people snared
in four countries
and their aspiration
to restore a nation

Etruscans: secret name
lost tribes of mystery
awakening from murmurs
of Tuscany last night
as lost words do

How much of my mind’s
proud vocabulary
has evanesced for good
hidden or erased
soft-sunk for what of life is left
in a room so finely
padded with absence
that its walls
cannot be seen or felt?

original version;

Senescence Blank


My mind is going, going
but I feel it only when
it’s gone.  Just in
these last three days
I rediscovered three words
lost for hours that
had been inaccessible
not found by even
alphabetic search
and prompting when their
concepts needed names–

snare: I could not express
how rabbits are caught
when my grand-nephew wished
to trap a leprechaun
only make pulling motions
with my fingers

Kurds: (just had to alphabet
again) when discussing
their place in Iran,
their aspiration
to be a nation

and Etruscans: wondered
how they related
to Sea Peoples of
a YouTube documentary
(and just had to find
them now, minutes later
yet again by way
of “Tuscany”)

How much of my mind
my vaunted vocabulary
is gone this present moment
hidden or erased
absence unremarked
senescence-walled forever?

---

This is pretty raw, from a succession of unnerving experiences (of being "at a loss for words").  I expect the first suggestion will be to remove the examples.  Almost a journal entry... worth editing?

I was really taken by your poem—it stuck with me, especially the way you captured that quiet, unsettling loss of language.

I’m not sure if this is allowed, but I wanted to try responding to it by writing something of my own. I tried to enact that same feeling of loss through the structure of the poem itself—letting the gaps and returns mirror the experience.

Here’s my take on it:

Senescent
My mind is going—
entering
a space I notice
only when it’s gone.

Three days—
three words returned
too late.

Inspired, not found,
no thought
or alphabet.

snare:
hand-twisted noose—
the rabbit-catcher
I could not name
when a child wanted
a leprechaun trapped.

Kurds:
a people
caught in four lands—
the name slipping.

Etruscans:
the last of lost tribes—
rising last night
from Tuscany
as words do
when they return
too late.

How much
has gone—

vocabulary
soft-sunk,
written, erased—

a room
padded thin
with nothing,
its walls
gone.