Raven Publishing
Giving wings to great books since 2002

A Language without Words by Michael Raattama Tripp

A Language without Words is a book of poetry inspired by one person’s life. The insights from moments in forests and on farms, on waters of lakes and rivers, through depths of sorrow and the pursuit of fly-fishing touch emotions common to humankind
A LANGUAGE WITHOUT WORDS is a book of uncommon prayer, a summons that palpates one man’s heart in an evening breeze along the lakeshore, at dawn’s light on the riffle of a thawing trout stream, beside the frayed throbbing of a string of prayer flags or in the cozy sarcophagus of a torn wool coat pulled on or reburied in the hall closet. Mike Tripp breaks a trail through snow-crusted woods and across plowed soil of pasts we did not know we shared until the instant we followed. We breathe in and out, exerting prevailing joy and loss. Days slip behind the horizon and resume in bluebird, nighthawks, waxwings and solitaire. The river in the canyon flows as casual and as much a casualty as the currents in our organs and limbs.



- Tim Whitsel, author of We Say Ourselves & Wish Meal
A beautiful collection of poems to immerse yourself in like cool waters, a journey to places of beauty and times of sorrow
- Amazon Customer
Even the title of this wonderful collection of short poems resonates for me. I too have known great loss and reflection. I too have sought understanding and healing in the natural world. The poet returns again and again to the inevitable thrust of life forward as he writes in January Rains.
“…we wait
Waters will clear
Salmon will run”
These brief words speak of the western life, the steady connection to land and creatures. The poet demonstrates trust and hope in the unfolding drama of the place we inhabit.

And yet the terrible truth of our mortal predicament infuses his short and exacting verses. From Early Spring….
“The sun’s warmth
Belies the winter of yesterday”
Tripp rides us across geography from coastal places, dry desert locales and deep river canyons to a beloved cabin on Lake Scandi. On the Road to Scandi he gets down to his endless work assignment.
“Sheltered in quiet
Stating my case
I conversed with death.”
Following up with the wonderful and enticing poem Evening in the Lake Scandi Cabin the poet
launches his readers into the wonder of wonders, flight.
“…..I dream
That my lack of wings
Must be an illusion.”
I found myself nodding in agreement. Yes, yes, that must be the case. Just an illusion.

Michael Tripp has a gift for inserting succinct and telling lines. In Snowshoeing he writes,
“Framing our mortality
In worn anxieties
What a marvelous way of summing up the ongoing sparring with mortality. This mood of
encounter continues in Torn Coat.
“My coat is torn
I wear it still
Though the wind blows cold

Stretched and softened
By exertions past
It fits me well”
The poet questions who will see him, who knows him. The implication being “who will remember us.”

I laughed out loud when reading The Coast This Winter. I identified with the line that said,
“Reading an essay on mindfulness
A challenge to one’s focus.”
A delightful understatement.

The repeated incantation in Voices spoke clearly of the pain of loss, the bewilderment of traveling on.
“In the heat of evenings
I listened for your voice.
…..
In soundless snowfall
I listened for your voice.
…..
I cry to hear your voice
To learn this language without words.”

The book’s poems touch on prayer flags, fluttering, tattered and “written in ancient script,”
the desperation of prayer. Closing his collection with poems dedicated to his late mother and father, the poet pens the line “Bouquets not sent.” As he says, “In balance, hauntings.”

One of the final poems is an intimate conversation with the one lost. In John Day Canyon Mike Tripp shares the bounty of his musings and reflections.
“Life’s journey cannot fill your absence
Give us guidance
Travel well


Even the title of this wonderful collection of short poems resonates for me. I too have known great loss and reflection. I too have sought understanding and healing in the natural world. The poet returns again and again to the inevitable thrust of life forward as he writes in January Rains.
“…we wait
Waters will clear
Salmon will run”
These brief words speak of the western life, the steady connection to land and creatures. The poet demonstrates trust and hope in the unfolding drama of the place we inhabit.

And yet the terrible truth of our mortal predicament infuses his short and exacting verses. From Early Spring….
“The sun’s warmth
Belies the winter of yesterday”
Tripp rides us across geography from coastal places, dry desert locales and deep river canyons to a beloved cabin on Lake Scandi. On the Road to Scandi he gets down to his endless work assignment.
“Sheltered in quiet
Stating my case
I conversed with death.”
Following up with the wonderful and enticing poem Evening in the Lake Scandi Cabin the poet
launches his readers into the wonder of wonders, flight.
“…..I dream
That my lack of wings
Must be an illusion.”
I found myself nodding in agreement. Yes, yes, that must be the case. Just an illusion.

Michael Tripp has a gift for inserting succinct and telling lines. In Snowshoeing he writes,
“Framing our mortality
In worn anxieties
What a marvelous way of summing up the ongoing sparring with mortality. This mood of
encounter continues in Torn Coat.
“My coat is torn
I wear it still
Though the wind blows cold

Stretched and softened
By exertions past
It fits me well”
The poet questions who will see him, who knows him. The implication being “who will remember us.”

I laughed out loud when reading The Coast This Winter. I identified with the line that said,
“Reading an essay on mindfulness
A challenge to one’s focus.”
A delightful understatement.

The repeated incantation in Voices spoke clearly of the pain of loss, the bewilderment of traveling on.
“In the heat of evenings
I listened for your voice.
…..
In soundless snowfall
I listened for your voice.
…..
I cry to hear your voice
To learn this language without words.”

The book’s poems touch on prayer flags, fluttering, tattered and “written in ancient script,”
the desperation of prayer. Closing his collection with poems dedicated to his late mother and father, the poet pens the line “Bouquets not sent.” As he says, “In balance, hauntings.”

One of the final poems is an intimate conversation with the one lost. In John Day Canyon Mike Tripp shares the bounty of his musings and reflections.
“Life’s journey cannot fill your absence
Give us guidance
Travel well




- Joy McDowell

Editions:

2020 ebook ISBN: 9781937849917

$2.99
2020 Paperback 60 pages ISBN: 978-1-937849-92-4
Preorder before September 30, 2020 and save $3.00

$10.95 (regular price: 13.95)