Tomorrow
Looking in the mirror,
walking backwards down the street,
I stumble on my own image:
The list of things I do
but say I disagree with
must be endless...
I have never attempted it
for fear I might discover
I am a thorough hypocrite,
instead of merely human.
What else remains to do
before my hands take over,
I cannot say,
but that’s what the poem
is about – what I cannot say,
as usual,
which makes me seem as if I am rambling,
or at least obscure,
when all I need to say
can be said by remaining silent.
...all I need to say
can be said by remaining silent
That's certainly a memorable conclusion. I don't know whether it's depressing or profound or both.
But let's not forget that there can be music in silence. In the words of the poem 'Helmet Orchid' by New Zealand born, Australian adopted poet, Douglas Stewart:
Oh such a tiny colony
Set amongst all eternity
Where the great bloodwoods stand!
It is the helmet orchid
That will not lift itself
Higher than a fallen leaf
But waits intent and secret
Leaning its ear to the ground.
What could it hear but silence?
Yet where the orchid listens
Low in its purple hood
Among the trees' immensity,
Out of the depth of the world
Dark and rainy and wild
Sounding through all eternity
Silence like music flowed.
Thanks for sharing the piece by Douglas Stewart with us, Ian. "About that which I cannot speak," the philosopher Wittgenstein said, "I must remain silent" often come to my mind.
I was reading "The Hsinhsinming," by Sosan, this morning in the above Blyth English version this afternoon, where he says:
Cutting off all speech, all thought,
There is nowhere that you cannot go.
The editor says:
The "Hsinhsinming" then, is rather the basis for a theory of
poetry, or the philosophic background, an expression of the
implicit raison d'etre of the composition of certain kinds of
poetry, like that of haiku, of Wordsworth and Clare, of Tao
Chinnimg (Toenmei) and Po Chui (Hakukyoi). In explaining and
illustrating the "Hsinhsinming" I have therefore quoted the poets
rather than the religious writers. The poetry is the flower, the
"Hsinhsinming" is the roots.
The irony is that the poet must draw upon the impossibility of speaking.
Salome,
Peter
that’s what the poem
is about – what I cannot say
Every time I write a poem, this is where I either begin or end...
Peter
I have been away too long Peter. I've missed a lot of good stuff and I hope I have time to catch up on more of it. I see you have been contributing generously. Thanks for touching this topic. I like to ponder the mystery of it.
..."Growing toward slience
Is a slow deliberate journey." (Steve Diebold, 2001 -- and still working at it.)
So good to hear from you, Steve. Yes, thanks for the snippet from your old, still new piece.
See you around,
Peter
A pleasure to be visiting again.