I gave her some hollow words to fill and she asked what with.
I suggested the truth but the romantic in her wasn't too keen.
So she left them empty on a shelf.
She said they meant something to her.
One day a spider made a web in them to catch flies.
Copyright ©1991 by Jim Murdoch
Jim Murdoch is a Scottish writer living just outside Glasgow. His poetry appeared regularly in small press magazines during the seventies and eighties. In the nineties he turned to prose-writing and has completed five novels and a collection of short stories. His first novel, Living with the Truth, was published in 2008 and the sequel, Stranger than Fiction, the following year. In 2010 he brought out a collection of his poetry spanning over thirty years of writing entitled This Is Not About What You Think and later this year his next novel, Milligan and Murphy, a work inspired by the writing of Samuel Beckett, will be available in paperback. You can find out more about him on his blog, The Truth About Lies and you can read further examples of his poetry on his website.
18 comments:
Actually this poem was written in 1991, on April 6th to be precise. The idea of words as physical objects, containers for meanings is one that I’ve returned to a number of times over the years. And, of course, my love-hate relationship with the nature of truth goes back even longer than that.
Well in that case, I'll change the copyright date. You know what's scary? I was 15-years-old in 1991.
What's scarier is that I've been a published poet for longer than you've been alive.
This kind of reminds me a poem by Rilke called "A Woman's Fate," in which he describes womankind as being put on a shelf and idolized but never used. It is the same with the words, left to gather dust and never used.
Although this poem was written in 1991, Bish, its origins go back much further. I was going through a dry spell at the time and so was raking through my old notebooks looking for ideas and this was one of them that didn't need much work. It's to do with what people want from words. When I tell someone I love them those words are infused with meaning. Not everyone feels the same. Some people like the idea of love. They go through the motions, buy gifts, whisper endearments, but none of it means anything. They think it does but that's because their definition of the word 'meaning' is empty too.
I love the idea of filling words... with what? ;p and the thought of leaving them on the shelf to grow cobwebs. But I have to confess, that last line made me think "Charlotte!" :o) <3 good stuff~
Use it or lose it as they say!
I love the simplicity of this! So much meaning in so few words. Great poem!
And Angela, congrats on getting a request at Operation Awesome! Very excited for you. :)
Haunting and beautiful!
Hi Angela and Jim...I just love this small poem.
I agree with Janet, "so much meaning in so few words!" Nice meeting you Jim! Thanks Angela and I'm very excited for both of you! Julie
Beautiful, beautiful poem. And I love the title!
This was a very captivating poem, thanks for sharing.
Sh Sh Sh Let the Baby Sleep
Trouble on Earth Day
Author Kathy Stemke (my spouse)
What visuals I get from this poem. Thanks for sharing.
The idea of words as just a vessel--hollow without the solidity of meaning--is a really provocative thought. Love this poem, thanks for sharing it.
And I was 10 in 1991 :o) Love Jim's stuff. I also feel like I've read this poem before. Was it in It's Not About What You Think?
There are a couple of poems in the collection this might be reminding you of, Jessica. The poem 'The Anatomy of Silence' begins:
On a framework of words
the meaning hung
bleached by the sun
and as limp as desire gone sour;
But I suspect it's the poem 'Between Tolls' which contains this stanza:
Sometimes we stumble on a few words;
clichéd and
hollow they sound like bells.
So many things are best left unsaid.
This is one reason why I don't write as many poems as I once used to. If you're not careful you end up writing the same poems over and over again.
The nature of the meanings of words still fascinates me though. As I look through the collection I see that I come back to it in different ways again and again, like in the poem 'Visitation Rights':
In my dreams the dead are silent.
No, that is not exactly true,
they are assigned words they used when
still alive. It is up to them
to imbue them with new meanings.
This is one of the reasons that truth has become my whipping boy over the years because the medium we all use to communicate truth is such a poor one. It's why I begin 'Red Tape and the Meaning of Life' like this:
Things have to be done in a certain way
otherwise the universe won't make sense
You cannot trust words. This is what I was getting at when I wrote this poem:
ADVICE TO A YOUNG POET
Words are the enemy.
Please believe me when I tell you this;
I mean you no harm.
They won't give up their meanings
except after a fight
and they'll betray you without a thought.
But the worst of it is:
they'll shoot you down with home truths
the kind you can't run from.
So don't run.
Just watch what you say
is what you meant to say.
(for Deb)
Tuesday, 26 November, 1996
Beautiful and haunting poem. Great to meet you, Jim, and thanks for sharing, Angela!
Post a Comment