Ode to Silence
Ode to Silence
for H.
Here’s to the silence of unspoken word,
The heart held in abeyance, like a clam,
Shut tight against indifference, but still heard
By men who give these nameless things a name—
Who never watch reality TV,
Nor rush to reconnect at Wi-Fi stations,
Who apprehend implicits, and that we
Lose them, in our relationship discussions.
Here’s to the wordless hurts that do not whine,
Begging for recognition, and remain
Silent, as pulp psychologists opine
Better for mental health that they complain.
Here’s to the silence before SMS,
Instant translator of our ups and downs,
Became the inner life we could express
Cheaply; before emoticons, like clowns
Pulled a long face, exaggerated smile,
To summarize the soul. This age of noise,
“You should have had the balls to speak,” this style
Everyone shares, this feelingness that cloys,
Like squeezing a banana in your fist—
This is the Age of Treacle, someone said,
And Facebook gripes. How has self come to this—
As if these tell-all postings, half-unread,
Were proof of being? Let silence reign
In the unspeakable chasm they perceive,
Mothers whose only gift from life is pain,
Prodigal sons, lovers who cannot grieve—
Here’s to the gated silence in the pause
Poets can hear, while glib men only post,
What Beckett found in wordlessness, because
Saying nothing sometimes says the most.
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