the age old tradition
of oral history
handed down from
generation to generation
is slowly disappearing
they tell me not to plagiarise
as though these words
are not my own
my grandmother's words are my words
they are not owned by me
they belong to me
they belong to my grandmother,
my mother, my children,
my mountain and my river
language is our oxygen
we drink it through the skin
we breathe
the language of the land
our stories woven across land and sea
river and mountain
when language becomes forgotten
so will be the land
and as the river bed dies
so too does man
we are not separate
language, land and life
we are one
generation to generation
mountain, river, ocean.
this is really vital business ...
ReplyDeletethe contradictions involved in how -
we know who to be
how we get to be
whomever we are
they all tangle back
into a past of lost words
they all point forwards
into words that will be lost beyond us
the only healthy way to live for a poet
is to be obsessed with this
Great response Kit. Thank you.xxx
ReplyDeletetis true. Our words are us, and we have the honour also to use them.
DeleteI know it's difficult though sometimes when I'm writing new poems I start thinking is this plagiarism???
Delete