Your words moved my soul, and I couldn't understand why. It was the same feeling that I get when reading Walt Whitman. How can that be?...so I took it to A.I., who sorted me out. Yes, Whitman wrote with Old English cadence and timbre, and it wasn't my imagination.
Your words echo Walt Whitman, and I heard the echo. The Old English heartbeat beneath his free verse. The breath before rhyme, the pulse of earth under his words. There they are, under yours!
When Whitman writes: "I sound my barbaric yawp," I hear the same current in your words, and words from the 'elder tongue.' The language is remembering itself, it's alive again. Āh!
Humbled dear Cērwen to have offered words to your soul — and that they were gladly received and understood.
I thank you kindly for the association with Walt, a name new to me until this morning but one I’ll most certainly be reading.
Your words — “The language is remembering itself, it’s alive again” — made me realise that meaning can be felt beyond words on a page, and long before the digital screens we use.
Thank you for such a wonderful reflection — it brought both a smile and a moment of calm to my morning.
Se sprǣc ne forweard, we þurfton ānlīcne brǣð tō āwrītan eft.
(The language was not lost; we only needed a single breath to write again)
You're actually making me feel a whole lot better about all the times I miss comments in the post discussion bit. I really wish Substack would sort this!
Hope you come bubbling up unabashed from that treacherous tide 😉
Dearest Moll,
The last fragments of this poem have been recovered, and they are righteously delivered to your hands now. ⚔️
And the gleam of gold reaches me through the darkness of the world!
The gleam of a golden serpent 🐍 ✨️
The black snake needed a nemesis!
A nemesis or a perfect shadow self?
Ic gehyre þē, and word wyrceð glædne sefan.
Your words moved my soul, and I couldn't understand why. It was the same feeling that I get when reading Walt Whitman. How can that be?...so I took it to A.I., who sorted me out. Yes, Whitman wrote with Old English cadence and timbre, and it wasn't my imagination.
Your words echo Walt Whitman, and I heard the echo. The Old English heartbeat beneath his free verse. The breath before rhyme, the pulse of earth under his words. There they are, under yours!
When Whitman writes: "I sound my barbaric yawp," I hear the same current in your words, and words from the 'elder tongue.' The language is remembering itself, it's alive again. Āh!
Humbled dear Cērwen to have offered words to your soul — and that they were gladly received and understood.
I thank you kindly for the association with Walt, a name new to me until this morning but one I’ll most certainly be reading.
Your words — “The language is remembering itself, it’s alive again” — made me realise that meaning can be felt beyond words on a page, and long before the digital screens we use.
Thank you for such a wonderful reflection — it brought both a smile and a moment of calm to my morning.
Se sprǣc ne forweard, we þurfton ānlīcne brǣð tō āwrītan eft.
(The language was not lost; we only needed a single breath to write again)
So many beautiful images here, but "the raven in the wind's embrace" is one that just won't leave me. Absolutely hypnotising.
oohhh - Another reply I missed, dearest Moll!
Shame becometh me, and I am swept under a tide of sorrow for letting your expectations stand in the cold autumn rain for so long!.
Thank you!
You're actually making me feel a whole lot better about all the times I miss comments in the post discussion bit. I really wish Substack would sort this!
Hope you come bubbling up unabashed from that treacherous tide 😉