As an all-too talkative ENFP, I don’t do silence well. That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a poem on the subject, even as it reminds me how often my own words — both spoken and written — are inadequate, overwrought, self-indulgent, and unnecessary.
This Billy Collins poem was in the Guardian just this past weekend, but I’m putting it up today anyway.
Silence
There is the sudden silence of the crowd
above a motionless player on the field,
and the silence of the orchid.
The silence of the falling vase
before it strikes the floor,
the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child.
The stillness of the cup and the water in it,
the silence of the moon
and the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.
The silence when I hold you to my chest,
the silence of the window above us,
and the silence when you rise and turn away.
And there is the silence of this morning
which I have broken with my pen,
a silence that had piled up all night
like snow falling in the darkness of the house-
the silence before I wrote a word
and the poorer silence now.
Oooh. Not to act like a bit of Amazon.com software here, but if you liked that, you might also like David Wagoner’s poem, Stand Still.
Wagoner’s poem got me through a bad time. It has a “centering” effect that goes beyond its surface literary merits (which are significant enough in their own right).
that’s beautiful.
i really like your thursday short poem thing. funny how when one leaves higher education, her intake of good poetry drops off precipitously! so thanks for filling a gap for me.
Thanks, Kate and Victoria. Though Billy Collins is well known, I always try and pick more obscure, modern poets. Just knowing that I have to come up with a Thursday Short Poem every week forces me to hunt and read and explore a lot. I’m glad others enjoy it.
Beautiful!
I read this poem again, I think it’s wonderful! Trully beautiful! Silence, it’s peaceful, reassuring, nice. So, do you write poetry Hugo?
No, I don’t — I write doggerel from time to time, which is unprintable, and I make up gently obscene limericks to amuse my friends when we are on long runs, but I don’t write poetry. I feel about poetry as I do about ballet or football — I can appreciate it as a fan without feeling much interest or inclination to do it myself.
I’m sure that all your readers would like to read some of your doggerel verse–bet you it’s good!