"But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think..."
by Lord Byron in Don Juan, Canto III, Stanza 88
. . . . .
The above quote from Lord Byron's poetry sets my own mind to dropping words on thoughts which, in turn, caused me to write the following verses. I've long been fascinated with the limits a mind runs up against when vocabulary, thought processes, experiences, etc. do not give a person the tools to understand something. A huge number of words flows through my mind each day, but many of them don't arrange themselves meaningfully into anything that amounts to much. If the words that Byron speaks of do not fall within the listener's ability to understand them, little relevant thought develops. At any rate, here is my way to express the limits and ends that I run up against.
The Road Ends
Just as the road concluded
when I drove to Alaska,
Just as harvesting ended
in Kansas and Nebraska,
Just as the pleasures of youth
abate and erode with age,
So, too, I have always come
to the limit that language
sets keeping alien deeds, feats,
and phenomenon unknown,
unexplored, or unfathomed.
The smooth, paved highway becomes
graveled road which reduces
to a rutted prairie trail
and ends at fenced enclosure,
blocking passage. No Trespassing
signs hang nailed to wooden posts.
For some the road stretches on,
letting them travel regions
where this pilgrim's map sprawls blank.
