Thursday, September 3, 2015

Soonest Nathaniel Scholes writes

         In your silence

..... For Ronke Fapohunda...

I’ve lost my ears
To your rancorous silence,

A stone. I shed no tears,
Lest I bear summer’s consequence.

Echo in octaves, 

Sleepers murmur;
I have my staff paper, but your music I cannot score.

Dots, dashes,
Notches, lozenges:

They’ve become conventional again,
I’ve gotten used to summer rain.

The reindeer still crosses the ford;
I still remember how to find God;

I find him even now through your cold body,
Every curve a testimony of his glory.

Oh, forgive this Dante speaking from hell,
Of a heaven where angels dwell,

But sometimes reality speaks no language,
She only gestures, grunts and grimaces.

Do we need a tongue to express change,
Or a voice for the joy the sun’s kiss plants on flowers’ faces?

I know how ants tell truth from falsehood,
I don’t need a diviner to tell when the nymph is in the mood.

Don’t call, don’t ping,
Heavens will fall if the phone does ring,

Don’t chat, don’t text,
Hell will rip my heart, and then what next?

Graves are temples, mourning is ritual,
But don’t bury me just to mask the odor of putrescence;

Woman what we share is beyond the physical,
The taste on my lips is valid evidence.

Rio, this bond is beyond spiritual,
Oh, mother I hear God still, I still hear him even in your silence.


1 comment:

  1. Love is probably the most popular theme in poetry, with death undoubtedly a close second. Oftentimes, the same poem has both themes. Here is one by Wlliam Blake:

    On Another's Sorrow

    Can I see another's woe,
    And not be in sorrow too?
    Can I see another's grief,
    And not seek for kind relief?

    Can I see a falling tear,
    And not feel my sorrow's share?
    Can a father see his child
    Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

    Can a mother sit and hear
    An infant groan, an infant fear?
    No, no! never can it be!
    Never, never can it be!
    And can He who smiles on all
    Hear the wren with sorrows small,
    Hear the small bird's grief and care,
    Hear the woes that infants bear --

    And not sit beside the next,
    Pouring pity in their breast,
    And not sit the cradle near,
    Weeping tear on infant's tear?

    And not sit both night and day,
    Wiping all our tears away?
    Oh no! never can it be!
    Never, never can it be!
    He doth give his joy to all:
    He becomes an infant small,
    He becomes a man of woe,
    He doth feel the sorrow too.

    Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
    And thy Maker is not by:
    Think not thou canst weep a tear,
    And thy Maker is not near.

    Oh He gives to us his joy,
    That our grief He may destroy:
    Till our grief is fled an gone
    He doth sit by us and moan.


Join the conversation! What is your reaction to the post?