It has been said.
That we love those who sing a song only we can hear
I hear Inuit throat singing in three part harmony
I find it fascinating, though I'm not entirely clear
What sweet nothings hide within her singular cacophony
She pulls strange faces
When serenading me with vulpine growls
Not exactly looks of love or admiration
Sending love through strangled vowels
But I hear a gentle song of rapturous celebration
I see a gurn and hear a gargle
'Tis true she rarely speaks of love
One could call her manner hard
She'll never be a treasure trove
of honeyed words , no lovers' bard
Is she
But I adore the song she sings
By singing it to me, and me alone
She turns my weary limbs to angel wings
No better wish for the man who will be stone.
I too am intrigued with your poem, it's raising all kinds of questions in my head to do with Inuit folk lore. Who could she be? Sedna? Is the stone man an Inukshuk? A beautifully melancholic poem. Thank you.
I really enjoyed this Steve. I found it intriguing and enjoyed your choice of words and phrase,
it slowly left a slight pall over me, not a negative at all, just that it touched me. Further more, it served to bring emphasis to the final poignancy. Thank you