Sunday, November 17, 2013

somewhere in the silence

Somewhere in the silence, like a
remnant of silk in a clenched fist,
my cicada wings buzzed, my
moth brain burned.

I thought I could fly
to the sound of your name,
but my toes grew roots with tendrils,
and the moon frowned in disapproval.

I opened my mouth to scream,
when out came the buzz of a mosquito.

A minor annoyance, or so I thought.
Then every time I opened my jaw,
out popped a hiss or hum or murmur or purr,
and soon I was swarmed with sounds.

If I could reach with a net and catch these things,
these whispers, this whirring, these words,
if I could lasso a cluster of them altogether,
would they
 spell your name, in hieroglyphs?

Or would they tell me of my negligence.
That I am burning the food of the poor,
while I sit and enjoy my leisure?

The thought stings me back to
the symmetry of the moon,
and her silence.

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all is translation (and every bit of us is lost in it)

Rilke (Leonid Pasternak, 1900) Image credit to Wikimedia Commons GONG Sound, no longer measurable with the sense of hearing. As ...

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