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The Grandmothers::Nora S. McEwan

2/16/2020

 
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Communication in Sensation
Cyfathrebu yn Sensation

this is a declaration of love, shamanist
in the lost name of a colour which no longer exists
in the language beyond words to express--

I stand breathless in the doorway
at the hospice, the portal to bardo
between the blurred lines of birth and death
in the place that holds no time
just Nain


my Grandma, Nain in Welsh
a hundred and one and a half
laughs in the face of her epitaph
and then asks me to join her
on her journey through death, cryfder
I say: absolutely--
yes


we begin
the dance of marwolaeth
we do not know the steps
and yet, we dance, we dance
ddaear y gwaed
as we live life Nain and I follow
the lines as they are given


we move forward
dip our toes into the other side
as if to test imaginations crest
like the Holy Head coastline tide
and then, we return to this realm
half glorified, to catch our breath
no time between our stars


we know we do not know where we are going
she reaches her boney hands
into the twilight hour, up, up
tells me: it’s snowing, it’s snowing--
I see her taste frozen light on her tongue
in a language betwixt and between


when I was young,
she taught me to tie my laces,
to tell time, and sound out each letter
now, she shows me how to walk through yn marw
and speaks in the language of soul


we share eyes, surrender control
and then we dance again
dip our feet into the other side
and return, again, fortified


next we go deeper into death
up to our ankles, our shins, our thighs
no time between our stars
until we are magnified Pleiades


we know where we are going
we are waist deep
and then, up to our necks
in death


Nain looks over and into me
with her final breath
and exits in a language of the sea
I know instantly, what she is saying
I don’t want her to leave
I don’t want her to leave me
she tells me mind-to-mind, to mind
it’s time she goes on without me, hedfan fly
ffarwél


music of the unknown wonders cry
ffarwél, as she leaves her spirit with me
for safe-keeping
I hear a million hynafol voices speaking
in languages lost to my people
weeping, end of oak Celtiberian-ease
and stones, end of wind and bardic poems
crossbones scattered across the earth
in llwch i’r llwch, tones
ffarwél


to the natural world
word, lingua franca of birds heard—pictures
oneiric, names of ways of seeing and being
honeycomb—hieroglyphic pic’s, alphabetic scripts,
all connected to this earth in metaphysics
musica universalis metamorphosis


 symbols of symbols of cyphers of signs
coded in code encoded in storylines
love is a dangerous threat

glottophagy linguicide
when the last speaker
of a language dies


the last words of Nain
grow distant and pale
almost thin, they grow thin
as the human skin
one hundred years frail
becomes Cain paper
becomes a spider web thread
in the hail


sometimes I am the language
that just lost its last speaker
not misunderstood, erased
deleted by a friend
impossible to comprehend
maybe that is what leads me to poetry


the words of Nain
are distant now
thinner somehow
​

no time between our stars
naill ai
​

©Sheri-D Wilson
​Poet Laureate, City of Calgary
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  • Journal
  • Portfolio
    • Curriculum Vitae
    • Portraits >
      • Woman's Work
      • Extraordinary Women
      • The Grandmothers
      • Wunderland
      • Nasty Women
      • Heroes
      • Ahead of Their Time
    • 52 WEEKS >
      • Wildlife
      • Wildflowers
      • Storytellers
      • Gratitude
    • Fashion Plates
    • Sacred Vessel
    • Simple Pleasures
    • Altered Books
    • Free Art Resources
  • Galleries
  • eCourses
  • Login
    • Painting Animals
    • Painting Art Journals
    • Painting Backgrounds
    • Painting Bees
    • Painting Canoes
    • Painting CityScapes
    • Painting Flowers
    • Painting Hearts & Houses
    • Painting Landscapes
    • Painting Portraits
  • Contact