Not a Jewish poet but his poem speaks to me and how my journey may have started.
The Naming of the Beasts by Francis Sparshott (b. 1926)
In that lost Caucasian garden
where history began
the nameless beasts paraded
in front of the first man.
Who am I? they asked him
and what shall I be
when you have left the garden?
Name me. Name me.
Poverty cruelty lechery
rage hate shame
each stalked past the podium
seeking his name.
Adam stood to attention
unable to speak
his life too short to utter
what was made that week.
The glum parade stumbles
from risen to set sun
past their dumfounded patron.
But he knows each one
and at last a strange dampness
salts either cheek.
That was the language of
Not Hebrew, not Greek:
in groans, grunts, howls
as the first tears fall
the inarticulate brute
finds names for them all.
1 comment:
what are your insights abt this poem?
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