Saturday, November 19, 2005


There is the silence of sleep,
pink and warm as blood or air.

There is the silence at dawn and dusk,
the pause when all things cease.

There is the silence before creation -
those Samurai at their poem-making.

There is the silence of the swan,
whose one song calls sweet.

History is silent and memory too,
alive in a breath of cell.

Silence is mythic,
imperceptible noise.

I opened the white door, walked
through your bright kitchen.

Unbearable silence calling me
to the sight of you.


Lyle Daggett said...

Ann, liked this a lot.

One of those quirky "accidents" happened when I read the poem the first time -- I read the first line as "This is the silence of sleep" (instead of "There is..."). I caught the mistake, then after I read the poem through, I went back and re-read it, substituting "This" for "There" in each of the first four stanzas. I was fascinated at the difference it made, the immediacy and presence it created.

Anyway just passing this along, for what it's worth. Wonderful poem.

Ann said...

I did the substitution myself. It changes my intention, so I'll probably keep "There is." It's intentionally an objectification of the past, taken as singular moments or views with differences and then, I hope, drawn together as instances which have no contrast. The final couplet (the whole poem) recalls the moments leading to my discovery of my mother, who died in her home on Mother's Day.

Thanks for coming by. I'm always glad to see your name & read your comments,