Names... full of meaning, and sometimes not
Does anyone remember the post I did a few years ago about names? Well they continue to fascinate me, and I found this poem in The Sun magazine, a literary journal I subscribe to that says it so well:
Names by Danusha Lameris
What happes to the ones that fall out of favor:
The Dorises and Archibalds,
the Theodores and Eunices?
They all had their day,
once roamed the earth in multitudes
alongside Gerties and Wyatts,
as though there would always be
at least one in every classroom.
Names written in neat block print,
scratched into tree bark side by side,
engraved on heart-shaped lockets,
or filling the morning paper
with weddings and engagements.
How could they have know
it was their last hurrah?
That one by one the Constances
and Clydes would disappear,
replaced by Jennifers, Jacobs,
Ashleys, and Aidens?
That few would ever dance again,
corsage pinned neatly to thier breasts,
or hear thier names on the radio
read by the DJ in whispered dedication
or uttered in darkness
by a breathless voice,
even shouted out in anger-
"Seymour! Seymour!"-
as they grabbed the keys and stormed out the door?
Each name would fade quietly from daily life
as though it had never existed,
except for the letters etced into gray stone,
warmed by the sun in the day,
at night lit by a crescent moon.
This is the perfect thought for this, the 44th birthday of Toby Wilson Neal.
Names by Danusha Lameris
What happes to the ones that fall out of favor:
The Dorises and Archibalds,
the Theodores and Eunices?
They all had their day,
once roamed the earth in multitudes
alongside Gerties and Wyatts,
as though there would always be
at least one in every classroom.
Names written in neat block print,
scratched into tree bark side by side,
engraved on heart-shaped lockets,
or filling the morning paper
with weddings and engagements.
How could they have know
it was their last hurrah?
That one by one the Constances
and Clydes would disappear,
replaced by Jennifers, Jacobs,
Ashleys, and Aidens?
That few would ever dance again,
corsage pinned neatly to thier breasts,
or hear thier names on the radio
read by the DJ in whispered dedication
or uttered in darkness
by a breathless voice,
even shouted out in anger-
"Seymour! Seymour!"-
as they grabbed the keys and stormed out the door?
Each name would fade quietly from daily life
as though it had never existed,
except for the letters etced into gray stone,
warmed by the sun in the day,
at night lit by a crescent moon.
This is the perfect thought for this, the 44th birthday of Toby Wilson Neal.