And the right story tells us who we are

From the Poet Laureate of California, Dana Gioia.

I am fascinated by the idea of how language and stories shape us and in often unknown ways. From a family of raconteurs, I have grown up with shape shifting stories. The details of a story might vary from telling to telling, depending on the audience, the mood of the storyteller, the circumstances, but the core truth of the story remains the same. It is a marvellous play on what we consider truth - the constituent elements or the meaning taken from the story.

I tell my children stories relayed to me by my grandmother of her mother's childhood. The details of the stories might not stand up to a rigorous research of the records but the story has a life of its own - the way it is retold ensures its continuity. The story "takes on a life of its own" in more than a metaphorical way.

The Lunatic, the Lover, and the Poet
by Dana Gioia

The tales we tell are either false or true,
But neither purpose is the point. We weave
The fabric of our own existence out of words,
And the right story tells us who we are.
Perhaps it is the words that summon us.
The tale is often wiser than the teller.
There is no naked truth but what we wear.

So let me bring this story to our bed.
The world, I say, depends upon a spell
Spoken each night by lovers unaware
Of their own sorcery. In innocence
Or agony the same words must be said,
Or the raging moon will darken in the sky.
The night grow still. The winds of dawn expire.

And if I’m wrong, it cannot be by much.
We know our own existence came from touch,
The new soul summoned into life by lust.
And love’s shy tongue awakens in such fire—
Flesh against flesh and midnight whispering—
As if the only purpose of desire
Were to express its infinite unfolding.

And so, my love, we are two lunatics,
Secretaries to the wordless moon,
Lying awake, together or apart,
Transcribing every touch or aching absence
Into our endless, intimate palaver,
Body to body, naked to the night,
Appareled only in our utterance.