A question from Omphileneo which inspired an uncharacteristically spiritual poem from me, which possibly owes something to T.S. Eliot’s The Naming Of Cats.
Maybe we’re born
With a name of our own
With a name we forget
When we learn about words
And the things that we knew
Back before we had words
Seem to falter and fade and to go,
And how would we know?
And the out-aloud name
The name that we get when we’re born,
It replaces the name
(The original name)
That we knew.
Long ago, long ago,
And it’s gone and forgotten and lost
Because how would we know?
But the name
(Our original name)
Well, it isn’t a word.
Isn’t something we write.
Isn’t something we say.
It is just who we are
Deep inside.
It’s the name of our soul.
And somebody will know
Your original name
And they’ll call you
Without even knowing.
And you, even you
Will call, one day, the still, secret name
Of another one’s soul
Oh yes, you will call somebody too.
Because, somehow, you’ll know.
And although we forget
Our original names
Just as soon as our new names
Are given to us,
Yes, although that is so…
When we’re called by them,
Then we remember
And that’s how we know.
Tom Juniper Poetry 