“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label silence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label silence. Show all posts
Sunday, May 10, 2020
Scab(bard)
What must be done,
the human dilemma,
in life, in love,
two hands
for beginners
two eyes
for choices...
And yet,
the serrated edge
makes its intentional cuts,
back and forth, metronomic
and chronically
applying increasing pressure
while deepening-
Well,
we all know about old wounds
and the salt cure,
yet often preferred,
the tourniquet
methodically
seems to slow things down
when placed snuggly
over our mouths.
Photo credited by: Poliphilo / CC0, 'The Knife Grinder' taken 2015 in Public Domain.
Saturday, April 20, 2019
which explains the silence...
The monkey and the muse
were in the
den
together
waiting for one
to speak-
The muse sat,
arms crossed
across the locked up chest
and the monkey just
gesticulates
in wild attempts
to aggravate
a predicted response-
whereby
two arms finally fell like pillars
allowing a plumage of smile to seep out
of the rubble-
You don't need a hand-
were the only words
I heard
eavesdropping
I struggled
to recognize the voice.
While trying to listen in
I lost sight of where I stood
momentarily,
and then the den was silent
while the world
was deafening,
when I could not
help
but find focus
there seemed only one-
source of the sound,
and only
one shadow
emerged.
Painting by Janis Rozentals, 'The Princess and the monkey' c. 1913 in the Latvian National Museum of Art [Public domain].
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Out-sourcing AI
Of all the books
I have yet to read
There will never be one in the stack
About feelings.
I am a woman. I get these.
F equals M, where F are feelings
And M is motive, unless F equals female,
And M is male, then the former is
Greater than, by approximation.
Genius is not for men alone.
Of all the bizarre curiosities before us,
The greatest Being
Metaphor,
We still don’t know what it is for,
Why we stretch and try not to bounce
trying not to tear truth
from tendon.
It is our tendency to compare that
Distinguishes us, leaving insecurities
like these
all the more prone
To poetry.
The most challenging equations are simply
unsolvable
by a rational mind,
they are Resolved by process,
dissolved by filtration and expulsion,
whereby insight gains a greater perspective
than the outline,
unlike container.
Silence is simply choosing not to say.
That volume,
we hear,
is the best reference
to cite.
There was nothing more to see
that was considered
Tragedy,
so I read
Science or programming.
Photograph by Eli DeFaria elidefaria [CC0].
Sunday, April 8, 2018
id est (in other words)
The ink pot solidified
in the -unpreventable- evaporation
of
all things
considerable.
Words were
the only way we could try
to grasp the conceptual -framework-
of the time
it takes
to become
a person, place or thing.
Of late,
it is more common than not
to notice the disappearance of
what
seems -indescribable- where only by means
of observation
could we conserve our precious
resources.
Artwork by Hugo Charlemont in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, November 25, 2017
Explain yourself
The words were all too long,
became easily tangled and how I kept
pulling at what I thought was an end,
pulling, pulling, pulling, and
thereby taking too much
out of me
the body became barren.
What was understood as a major shift
of power, in direction or by time constraints,
was the anticipated and alternating current
as in that way
opposition acts by force.
Listen, it was my fate,
or decision
to do or not to do.
Small acts, even one
may be a miracle,
after all
this, one thought, one
surviving-
the risks were all there, caution was
issued too. Accuse, dismiss and relish
the sound of ones voice,
and how it comes out, represents
the avatar or holographic image
taken at the ideal angle
or time.
We were all Free
to walk around and not utter a word,
or like me, never give thoughts away with
dignity,
to light, to mind, to mouth, to hand
and inevitably, words were dying.
The Words
were writhing and gasping for shape,
despite the hand that rushed
along-
Definitions, unlike synonyms
carry want and need, unable to
extract and dilute the difference
between
I am and I was.
Painting By Yamashita ShintarÅ (29 August 1881 to 11 April 1966) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Monday, September 11, 2017
echolocation
All the same words. All the
same words in various orders.
All the same orders, word
for word in so many words.
It all sounds the same. It
was.
Are we saying the same
thing?
Are you reading the same
thing? We are saying the same,
reading the same things, so
those are not mine?
If it is all the same to you
too, it must be as disappointing to you too.
What is this maddening
monotony, cacophony?
I am trying to say something
original. Nothing was left.
No wonder none
understands-meaning-deeper than face,
used all the same pretty
words until threadbare, there,
two too many times. Make
more!
Also, and Silence, I have
said. I have changed for a mind,
momentarily in lieu of
reverberating or reiterating more
echoes in empty rooms, pantries,
and needs nearly nothing
for nourishment, nothing can
be said hereto hear,
to hear only the same small
words all lined up
in repoemed formation,
loaded with an air of epiphany,
see, repetitive can be
reflective, refractive, prismatic
mirror opposites 'true to
scale'
said enough, with lips red
wardback
‘devil’
Painting by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot, (c.1870) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, September 2, 2017
(Indebtedness)
Do I owe
an explanation
For the
lack of contribution,
A waning
flow to trickle to dry
Of petty
profundities performed
with choreographed complexities,
chaos and an
absence of exuberance
exploded in
gesticulations,
not i.
Where my
arms dangled limply,
bulging and blue-tipped,
there
was no more holding on
to words
like wind and when
yet with
all
loses I have gained
a fine-tuned
moment-hum…
Artwork by Fernand Khnopff, c. 1883 in [Public domain or CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, August 4, 2017
Resilience
Actions
speak
Louder
than words spoken,
It moves
atoms around in the air,
Between
one mouth with two lips
To two
ears on one head,
Which
alters the space between
And
shifts reds and blues
Where
one views the plan ahead
As
needing more suspense
And
periods
Sharp
words etch punctuation
Like
scars to be read one way.
With
more movement than meaning,
One mind
may make matters
Participate
with Noise.
In one
sense,
Seeing
is believing
In
silence.
Painting by Edward Robert Hughes [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Painting by Edward Robert Hughes [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
liminal
Fine. Pretend, thinly.
Smile. Pull the cord. Middle C.
Pluck the inside strings. Up.
Ply your arms, for others.
Cut. Hung. Behave. Trim and Prop her.
Hear yourself first, thought, same.
Note turned to tone?
Silence is preferred by the self
Above all else.
Despite, to spite the intolerably cruel,
Endure. Niceties, stand still.
Erect, not flinch. Faces. Places.
As though-
As though,
You remember You
From somewhere, around here….
Smile. Pull the cord. Middle C.
Pluck the inside strings. Up.
Ply your arms, for others.
Cut. Hung. Behave. Trim and Prop her.
Hear yourself first, thought, same.
Note turned to tone?
Silence is preferred by the self
Above all else.
Despite, to spite the intolerably cruel,
Endure. Niceties, stand still.
Erect, not flinch. Faces. Places.
As though-
As though,
You remember You
From somewhere, around here….
Painting by Vincent van Gogh, The peasant churchyard (1885) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, April 14, 2017
Edit(her)
Today
I pray
all the words fray
ravel away...
Whole words
carry too much
-much less, defenseless against
strung out sentences, slabs
posed in parallelographic paragraphs,
cover pages and such strata and likewise its
generous detritus
stacks up,
burying A brain within its grooves-
meaning between
pro-fessional and con-fessional
moves too fast to hold,
the rope burns
and I feel smolder.
Sleep did not bother
to muffle the pillow words,
vowels easily pass
through cotton screens.
Threads that vibrate not enough separation.
Too clear to hear, semi-permeable is
the peace underneath, the bubbles inside lips
of white foamed waves.
Those hard consonants could not be avoided.
Sound becomes
a wall between being and story,
bricks and dreams.
Mist always settles.
Black
is the language
when there are more words
than matter.
Painting by Jacob Vrel (fl. 1654–1662) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, April 7, 2017
Where silence lies
you may still smell traces
of a word meant
to echo in only you.
If you heard the way
it becomes spoken with my own lips,
a taste may not be enough
to say you have tried.
If you ever wondered
where the essence has gone, it is cold;
I only ask you to exhale me enough so
I may hear you near inside thick air.
If the silence were not
as sublime
as the word,
would we have this between us?
Art entitled, 'Woman at the Piano' (1889), oil on wood panel, 26.0 x 13.1 cm) by Tom Roberts (1856–1931).
The painting is in the collection of the Art Gallery of South Australia.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Per: Fect Reader
to have sparked your interest,
already, at first sight
I’d like to lift your chin,
letting my lines leach into your lips.
My fruit, my conception, bursting its peel-
Alas, I have known this thirst we share,
It was none but you, alone
more real to me, together
We both imbibed insatiably, yet emptiness
abounds until whole words were filled
in utterly
every open space drowned in white.
Open and sere,
I wish to saturate this dry dirt with
One of our tears
To make something you can use, of utility
To make more time
For thisness in these.
These twirled up murmurs were merely me,
reaching out with invisible waves
for your quiet, distant ear,
And just when I thought
The silence meant
I had nothing to say
To make any better-
You heard every word
Fulfilled
with this.
Painting by William McGregor Paxton (c. 1900) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Wont you let the wind in
No poetry-
Silence it said.
It was raining and how could we live without
The yellow porch light, that lit the drops aflame midair
sent falling matches while we inhaled its sultry cologne,
It smelled like kerosene.
Nothing should be said,
but sound jumps and throttles anyway,
hits its edges
and snaps.
Let it fly,
was another way to lay claim on wind and smoke rings.
Seasonings and salt made new flowers, steeping in the dark
deeds have been doled to uncharted territories, stay-
what else is there to see?
The words will escape me just
this day without poetry…
Painting by Paul Cornoyer [Public domain], 'Madison Square after the rain' c. 1900 via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, February 17, 2017
Piece of quiet
Recluse, recover
Head on pillow, tucked in, begin to think peace and quiet-
Meanwhile
A riot swings a racquet the tighter my eyes try not to see
so many sounds blanket as epiphanies.
Snuggly, cotton covers partially, crinkling fibrous shifts-
sounded, a trumpet climbs up the scales, ring in speakeasy tones
two doors down from this bed, this horizontal head.
A boxer dog boofs over the fence, again and again,
the microwave chimes in.
My son strategizes and vocalizes his next cyber move with friends in virtual vociferousness.
In the next room, my daughter squeals, secrets I guess, tamping down her girlie giggles.
The man on the couch coughs, catches his breath then chuckles at the idiot box,
in muffled notes the next door neighbors converse in tension talking circles all tied up in Nots.
in muffled notes the next door neighbors converse in tension talking circles all tied up in Nots.
A muscle car motors by, fuel floats in the window crack, the bass is left behind
on the pavement, the other side, by the five, waves of autos roll by as white noise,
white caps, following white perforated lines, swooshing along over catseye caps.
The neighbors' small child cries in huge bursting idles this bedtime,
the grey cat on my left side sighs, letting down his heavy head, insisting
nothing is that interesting.
A dove coos to his lover, and purr
the phone vibrates atop the oaken tiny rec-table, my stomach churns bile,
Blood swirls around my wetware, grey matter, then hits the fingertips hard,
my heart sinking a steady beat,
my heart sinking a steady beat,
a door creaks down the dark hall, a glass in the sink, the faucet flows, pipes hiss,
door whines,
and falls shut.
Painting by Augustus Egg [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Painting by Augustus Egg [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, January 28, 2017
What is thine is divine and is feline
How sweet it is!
He chose me, he did.
Lucky to be
There then
when he wanted on his wild whimsy.
A seven-year itch, though it may be.
You see, it is quite easy to
cherish thee more every day
feeling more spiritually on air
by him just being there
by choice. His voice
calls and beckons for little me
whose heart feels about to burst forth
and spill thy weaknesses all over
with emulsified energy,
found the warmth we each seek
From the sun
this is how he follows thy heat
day by day.
That is all we can do, soak it up,
sound would only muffle the space.
So we should hold silence gently
and stay in this moment, you noticed me
waiting to be saved. You made me
meet you more than half way.
And now, this is we,
joined in verse where eternity is
guaranteed and easily granted
permission to feel what is happy.
We should
be happy, now,
with our own two eyes
and keep holding on to each other
for as long as little life will keep
holding us back.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Weightlifting words
There is not enough silence
or white in the world.
There seems to be enough water,
when you look around
the circumference of the globe-
have you noticed
how long
we have been wrong
about power and drainage-
As magnets naturally defy resistance
or make magic with retrograde,
nothing else matters
but shine...
And distraction, interruption, and
compulsion
become utilized and oxidized
to fill in the surrounding blanks
with loud, explosive air
we refer to this as
white noise
and we are sinking in.
Sketch by Lorenz FrÞlich [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Scanned by Haukur from a reprint in the illustrated 2002 Prose Edda edition by Gudrun. Originally published in GjÞgleriet i Utgard (1872).
Monday, August 15, 2016
Swing, swing
If given enough strong rope to swing safely on
we should all say less and do more.
None of us think there is time enough for all,
some never start running until the finish line
is in sight.
Mountains and hills are of course the same things,
inclinations of opposition.
See,
Sin is simply super-stition, I pray for them too-
on the other side.
I fear it is all downhill, smooth sailing and paragliding-
how much a free fall feels like flying
-while suspended-
-with limbs tied-
-stretches the silence-
into reasonable soundness
(with words in between).
we should all say less and do more.
None of us think there is time enough for all,
some never start running until the finish line
is in sight.
Mountains and hills are of course the same things,
inclinations of opposition.
See,
Sin is simply super-stition, I pray for them too-
on the other side.
I fear it is all downhill, smooth sailing and paragliding-
how much a free fall feels like flying
-while suspended-
-with limbs tied-
-stretches the silence-
into reasonable soundness
(with words in between).
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Ripples of rhyme
There were poems in there...
A whole slew.
Now all I hear is a faint
whisper of you.
The pond is still
from over-fishing.
I have no more pennies
for poetic wishing.
The water waits
without reflection...
Photo By NPS Photo [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
Fence-lines
The grey fence
leans sleepishly against the morning fog
that lay dew upon the field
which will turn into pixie dust
as the plain rolls into the suns warm gaze.
Before the birds
muster a lilt to try;
the sound of swimming
between tidal flows of atmosphere
immersed, they listen to the mist.
A dappled doe blinks its black eyes
rapidly twitching its ears
seeking the source of the crunch
by the hare munching greens for breakfast,
whose nose twitches up
at the white whir of a hurried wind
chalking up the slate of new day.
A heavy scream shatters the stillness
as the birds scatter in spider cracks
folded inside, the echo
doesn't bother coming back.
What was here
always moving on.
Photograph by © Dietmar Rabich, rabich.de [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0), CC BY-SA 3.0 de (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/de/deed.en) or CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Bottled Up
I took your advice
and put a cork in it.
Silence!
(on repeat)
Compression under strict repression,
taut me tension.
When you said
Keep your lid on,
it went flat anyway.
Impatience spoils the fizz…
Bite your lip-
Don't speak when being listened to!
We thirst as one must lust for
quenching and regurgitation.
I heard you the first time-
Flinch it back and glimpse
-Potential-
Here,
Anything explodes
amidst the churning sea of noise
a message contained
in a clear bottle
is shaken.
and put a cork in it.
Silence!
(on repeat)
Compression under strict repression,
taut me tension.
When you said
Keep your lid on,
it went flat anyway.
Impatience spoils the fizz…
Bite your lip-
Don't speak when being listened to!
We thirst as one must lust for
quenching and regurgitation.
Flinch it back and glimpse
-Potential-
Here,
Anything explodes
amidst the churning sea of noise
a message contained
in a clear bottle
is shaken.
Composed 12/26/15.
Image by Juan Gris [Public domain], Jar, Bottle and Glass, c. 1911, via Wikimedia Commons.
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