There's a shocking number of languages that use the same word for orange(fruit) and orange(color). If anyone knows of one that uses different words for them, let me know
The Elves customarily don’t talk in the woods. Most humans figure it’s because they’re trying to be stealthy or that they’re assuming an enigmatic presence. That may be partially true, but the reason goes a bit deeper.
Long ago an Elvish prince with more apostrophes in his name than consonants was walking in the forest. His mother and father desperately wanted him to marry, so they had been introducing him to a number of elven princesses. Every princess possessed at least a spark of beauty, but none of them surpassed the perfection he felt when he looked at nature.
He paused a moment to watch a large blue butterfly match the pace of its wings to the speed with which the petals of a marigold folded gently in the wind. “If I could marry this butterfly right now,” he declared, “I would do so.”
The Spirit of the Forest heard his words. It had long respected the actions of the young prince, and decided to grant his wish.
Instantly, the butterfly transformed into a lovely elven maiden with dark hair and flowing indigo robes. The overjoyed prince rushed to her side. But his quick motions scared her and she flapped her arms wildly about, almost knocking him into a brier patch. Eventually, she grew tired and he was able to approach her. With patience, he communicated that he meant her no harm and persuaded her to follow him to his city.
The King and Queen received her like royalty and consented to their marriage. Every day nectar was plucked from the most beautiful wildflowers and set beside a crystal goblet full of the morning dew collected from their petals. The butterfly maiden jabbed her nose at the plate and and cup, and whatever didn’t splatter on the table seemed to nourish her well enough. Then she would dress herself in a tunic that incorporated a giant eyeballs design. Not in a stylish, eye of Horus way, but with huge red-veined monstrosities that always seemed to glare as if someone replaced its lavatory leaves with poison ivy. When questioned about her fashion choices she would mumble something incoherent about predators.
Soon after they were married she gave birth. The event resulted in a week of wanton destruction as several thousand ancient scrolls kept in the library and all the robes within the royal cloakroom were consumed. The children then locked themselves in their rooms for a month. Besides cleaning up pools of spit that flowed under the door each day, the household returned to normal.
The king and queen knew better than to question the actions of the Spirit of the Forest. So they obliged the Butterfly Princess and her children as patiently as elvish royalty is trained to do. Fortunately for them, they did not have to persevere for long. The Princess only lived another month and her children a month beyond that. 10,000 torches burned for each of them at their royal funerals.
No elf said a word. The half-hearted “eyeball tunic” and “dew and pollen diet” trend died with the princess. They all understood that uttering words while walking in the forest was dangerous. Because the spirit of the forest was generous, but it had no sense of poetry whatsoever.
When the train line through Usui pass was closed, one train refused to stop. A roshi from Gunma prefecture was consulted on the matter and agreed to speak with the train. When the roshi arrived, the train was traveling slowly up the steep slope. So much so, that he could easily walk in front of it.
“Will you continue trudging on these old tracks forever?” asked the roshi.
“I think I can, I think I can.” replied the train.
“Too much thinking,” said the roshi rapping it sharply across its metal nose with his keisaku.
“Ouch” said the train.
“You’re like a cat attempting to snare every mote of dust within a sunbeam. You journey, but where did it begin?”
“I don’t know, behind me.” shrugged the train.
The roshi hit him with again with the stick. “Your journey begins here. But where does it end?”
“Probably with you hitting me with that stick again.”
whack
“Correct” said the roshi.
“Then why did you hit me?”
“Insolence is not part of the student’s journey.”
“I never asked to be your student,” replied the train.
“Did you not,” the roshi stroked his long white beard. ” Your actions led you to this point – a point I now share with you. The tracks that lead up the mountain cannot decide they do not want to lead to the valley”
The train pondered these words awhile. And as it reached the summit the roshi’s koan allowed the train to slip into a state of samadhi. However, as gravity pulled its mass down the opposite side of the mountain it was not enlightened enough to avoid running over the roshi who had been walking silently in front of him.
A teacher is no noble beast -
no phoenix summoned forth to feast
on dark unknowings, wreathed in flames
and ash. Nor are his students priests
to worship with bowed heads at pieced-
together rites. A brow increased
by faith will only bless or blame
a teacher. Is
a rough pile of cogged notions greased
thus? Only if devotion ceased
to grind them edgewise and became
a chance to find a better name
for truth – which is what (at the least)
a teacher is.
Once there was an I-less eye
that saw through saline seas
within a jar, upon a shelf
in a genetics company.
The eye would glimpse without a “why?”
at movements, colors, shapes:
a lump of liver, tick of clock
and threadbare yellow drapes.
It did not care when dust or spots
obscured its glass domain.
It just observed the measure and
dimension of each stain.
The blood was red. The table gray.
The patient had no hair.
The bright lights did not make it gasp.
The scalpel failed to scare.
And when it woke attached to both
a body and a mind.
It found an “I” within a blink
and quickly became blind.
Deverit was trying to find new ways of jumping between his two favorite branches without getting sap stuck on his tail hairs, when his friend Bill flew by.
“Hey Deverit.” said the cormorant.
“Hey Bill.” said Deverit.
“Still trying to figure out how the jump between branches without getting sap stuck to your fur?” said Bill shifting his weight on the branch slightly.
“Pretty much.” Deverit replied. “too bad I can’t just fly like you.”
“Eh, more trouble than its worth sometimes,” said Bill, “but speaking of flying, I just came from Afganistan. The local squirrels there love some kind of nut called a pistachio. You know me I’m all about the fish”
Deverit nodded.
“But I packed one deep in my craw so you could give it a try.” The cormorant wretched his long neck and regurgitated what looked like a small light-brown mussel.
“It’s small” said Deverit without much enthusiasm.
“Yeah,” said Bill, “But they’re supposed to taste really good.”
“Alright, thanks then. I’ll give it a try.”
“No problem,” said Bill and flew off toward the ocean, presumably to find some breakfast.
Usually pistachios are conveniently separated, allowing a squirrel like Deverit to easily pry the small nut open. However this particular pistachio, most likely one the Afgani squirrels had no patience for, had adamantly sealed itself shut. Deverit tried to crack the nut with his teeth, but it was still far too slippery from being inside a cormorant for several days.”
“Ech,” Deverit exclaimed at the fishy and slightly acidic taste.
He tried a few times unsuccessfully, before finally deciding that this could not possibly be a nut. “It must be a rock,” Deverit theorized. He threw the nut over his shoulder and forgot about it since the sap that had stuck itself to his tail during his failed attempts preoccupied his mind.
Two years later, despite the difficulties of flora from Afganistan growing in a place that was not Afganistan, a tree that had grown from the nut had produced more nuts.
“What good is a tree that grows rocks?” Deverit thought.
It’s not about which numbers you
uncoarsely slide as quickly through
your mind as you pass beads upon
an abacus. Some tool can yawn-
lessly count clicks from unobtru-
sive corners – ever boxed with few-
er needs and more desired acu-
ities than hands that stir at dawn.
It’s not about
how you can stop stumbling in shoes
old giants wore, but how you choose
to walk with mud-stuck steps, knees drawn
above uncreasing fields respon-
sive to the hopes you always knew
it’s not about.
Once there was a land
where everything’s name depended
on whatever sound made.
“Glipglops” fell from dark gray clouds
amidst the flashing “booms.”
And a “rrrrm” that sat in your lap licking it’s paw
was a completely different kind of cat
than the “maew” that wanted a fish dinner.
It would be difficult for us to hear
the difference between the “shoosh” of waves upon a beach
and the “sheosh” of trees on windy fields,
but the people of that land had no troubles whatsoever.
They had no name for their land
since their land made no noises different from any other land.
They also had no name for themselves as a whole
because they all made different sounds
depending n their individual names.
In fact the most important event of their lives
centered around the naming ceremony.
The only thing Steve would ever say was “steve, steve, steve.”
The only thing Jill would say was “jill, jill, jill.”
Books were naturally unheard of.
It just would have been the author’s name written times.
Words for intangible things
that did not make a sound
like good, evil or love
were likewise unused.
But they were still able
to convey meaning effectively
in how they said their names.
When Steve said “steve”
and Jill said “jill”
and both their “lubdubs”
quickened ever so much,
they knew love as well as any of us.
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Yes, this is a morse code sonnet.
