A forgotten dialect of the heart
A lot has happened since we launched close to a week ago. In the span of such a small time, it seemed like we have lived an entire range of experiences, and emotions. We have been left overwhelmed by the generous love and the immense amount of positive responses, and more importantly the really constructive feedback we have received from our audience. Even as we are trying to iron out some of the glitches in user experiencewe are slowly being humbled by the patience and tolerance of our word-lovers.
To be honest, when Nikki and I thought of the idea, it was a very personal one, it was our love for poetry and our love for creating things that took this form and we really had no clue there was anyone else in the world besides us that would like this, but keeping our doubts aside we decided to build this platform to test our assumptions. We had decided, early on that even if there were ten people in the world who found this valuable in their lives we would be happy, and it would be worth the effort, and the response stunned us.
We are overjoyed whenever someone likes us enough to want to write about us or publish an article about us on their well perused blogs/dailies, but it is the genuine heartfelt mails we get everyday that really make putting all this effort in crafting a venture totally worth it. It is the fact that people would want to use our platform to convey love to their friends and family that has truly been the biggest reward for us.
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart- Jack Gilbert
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.
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