A pair of goldfinches in the tall bull
thistle— only the female eats in silence.
Some people, entering a room, automatically turn on
the radio, the tv: almost as if afraid of silence.
I wish I had a porch or balcony where I could sit
until the noise of traffic dials down to silence.
Thrice now we’ve sighted a young night heron— clatter
of the dustbin lid behind the fence, then silence.
My friend texts me about the moon on his drive home:
I imagine the ribbon of coast, water liquid as silence.
Too many times like passing ships, at both ends of missed
opportunities. Why can’t we touch at the center, in silence?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Landscape, with Ruby-Throated Hummingbird
- El Sagrado Corazon
- Three (More) Improvisations
- The Gift
- Goldfinch in the Garden
- What Cannot Eat
- Ode to the Heart Smaller than a Pencil Eraser
- Petition to Fullness
- Heart you Want to Lead in from the Cold
- Unending Lyric
- Dear modest four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath
- Ode to the Pedicure Place at the Mall
- Letter to Attention
- Landscape, with Incipient Questions
- Letter to Stone
- Milagrito: Eye of the Raven
- What You Don’t Always See
- Ghazal of Unattainable Silence
- Going to the Acupuncturist in the Market
- Migrant Letters
- The Road of Imperfect Attentions
- In the Country of Lost Hours
- Morning Lesson
- Song of the Seamstress’s Daughter
- Landscape, with Construction Worker, Ants, and Gull
- End Times
- Dream Landscape, with Ray-bans and Leyte Landing
- Pantoum, with Spiderweb and Raindrops
- Landscape, with Variations in Allegory
- Assassin’s Wake
- Private: Each Question is Always the Same Question
- Shroud Villanelle
- Dear Annie Oakley,
- Landscape, with Red Omens
- Late Summer Landscape, with Twilight and Daughters
- Distance, Then
- Noon Prayer
- In the Convent of Perpetual Adoration
- State of Emergency
- Storm Warning
- Goodbye, Irene
- The Lovers
- Dream of the Four Directions
- Lost Lyric
- Dear recklessness, dear jeweled
- Bearing Fire
2 Replies to “Ghazal of Unattainable Silence”
I could write a lot of pages about why I became a massage therapist and not come anything like as near the nub of it as this does.
“Her Silence” is my poem response to Luisa’s ghazal at:
and today’s FB, 08-18-11