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Wednesday, July 18, 2012

I speak to you with silence


S O M E   L I K E    P O E T R Y 

BY WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Some -
thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority.
Not counting schools, where one has to,
and the poets themselves,
there might be two people per thousand.

Like -
but one also likes chicken soup with noodles,
one likes compliments and the color blue,
one likes an old scarf,
one likes having the upper hand,
one likes stroking a dog.

Poetry -
but what is poetry.
Many shaky answers
have been given to this question.
But I don't know and don't know and hold on to it
like to a sustaining railing.





I'm in need of silence this morning.  And it is very quiet.  But it's the inner silence that sometimes eludes.  Summer is a noisier season.




I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.

~ Czeslaw Milosz




Our being is silent, but our existence is noisy. Yet when our noisy actions stop, there is a ground of silence always there. Contemplatives must be in contact with that ground and communicate from that level to keep silence alive for other people.

~ Thomas Merton


How to keep silence alive for other people?  How to lead others to the ground of silence?  (It's always there....)

How to lead people to poetry?  Is it true that only 2 people in a thousand 'like' poetry?  I suppose I would have said 1 in five thousand.  And yet, I think a lot of what people are seeking in their lives is poetry, they just don't know exactly what it might be.  But then, even those who write poetry are shaky on that.  Even nobel laureates.  





This morning. A summer morning.  A rough draft of a poem sitting on my desk.  Mid way through the writing of this current manuscript, I stopped asking myself, is this poetry?  It's poetry. I will hold onto it, a sustaining railing.


The photographs above are of my front yard.  One sunny morning (not this one - last night's rain still dampening the sidewalk).

Below is the vine in our backyard.  The one I hide behind and write, in the noise of our backyard, too close to the freeway.  I'm inordinately proud of this vine, which grows with little help from me.  Everything we planted in our yard was so small - and now 13 summers later - you could even call parts of the yard overgrown.  Which is fine by me.




The writing spot:



And lastly, a photograph that keeps getting shuffled aside, but that I wanted to share.  The blossoms are already gone, but these were late bloomers.  Our mock orange shrubs which are outside R's studio window.  The shrubs are much taller than I am, and I'm tall.  The scent, overpowering, glorious....































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