Silence

On Wednesday, a woman in Barnes and Noble recited this poem to me. And I cried.

Silence
by Edgar Lee Masters

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young.
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities -
We cannot speak.

A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
"How did you lose your leg?"
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg,
It comes back jocosely
And he says, "A bear bit it off."
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.

There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of an embittered friendship.
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered Into a realm of higher life.
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.

There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus" -
Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.

And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.

A Short Short, Written September 13, 2007

The last time I saw him, I knew that I would never see him again. He looked at me, shook his head, and said, "Lola, you are on your own. Have a nice life." And that was it. He just turned and left, walked down the sidewalk away from me, not even once glancing back to see if I was crying. I wasn't crying, of course. Crying is for the weak. I am strong. People have left me before, and I've found my way. I don't need anyone to babysit me.

When he left and I couldn't make him out in the crowd, I turned to walk the other way down Dogwood Avenue, passing the stores and restaurants, hearing people talk and laugh, ice chiming in tea glasses, but I didn't turn to look. Not once. I wasn't even walking with my head down. I held my head high, my back straight, and I walked that avenue the way my momma taught me, like a WOMAN. And a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle, so the song says. I'm no fish, but I'll admit, a bicycle would be nice right now.

Poem Written Three Years Ago, and I Still Like It

addressed

i did not think
you would let me
in, that it was

too late
to stop by; so i
wrote you this letter

slid into a
cream
envelope with an

almost cabbage,
bittersweet seal.
there is not much.

this letter is
addressed to you
who did not want

noise, you who believes
apologies like roots
grow deeper than

this blueberry ink
could sink, deeper into
more than this cream-

colored paper. it is
not enough. but see,
i give you

paper moons
and scissor stars
slipped under your door

word constellations
in a bittersweet
envelope.

Rain

I heard the rain before I saw it. I was lying on the futon in me and Mel's apartment when I heard the hammering of rain beating against the roof. I got up and walked outside and stood underneath the overhang for as long the rain lasted, just watching, listening, and smelling the rain. Being quiet.

I have a lot of rain memories. Walking in the rain. Running in the rain. Standing in the rain.

I think one of my favorite rain memories happened a while back when I was still a camp counselor. Every night, we counselors led devotions with the girls. One night, the rain starting coming down, and I decided to take the girls out on the porch to watch the rain. As we watched the rain come down in silver sheets on the dark green mountain, I read to them the story of Noah's ark from the Bible. When I was done and Noah and his family had seen the rainbow, my girls and I continued to watch the rain in a hushed quietness. We all sat, hugging our knees, watching, listening, smelling that rain.

She Beat Me To It

I once told a friend of mine that I had met someone that reminded me a lot of her. She replied, "It's always fun/interesting to hear that there is someone else out there in the world that reflects you in some small way."

So, browsing through my music tonight, I stumbled across this video of Imogen Heap, who is my musical heroine. She is so cool, and I feel like she is everything that I would want to be as a musician. The way she dances reminds me of myself, although she looks way cooler, and I love her voice. If I ever did a music video, I would want to dress up like her.

Reflections of the people we wish we would become are somehow reassuring and frustrating simultaneously. Check it out, one of my favorites, the ultimate stalker song:
Goodnight and Go

Doodles

So, I found these doodles of mine from three years ago. Funny how some things never change.

A poet who knows it

When I got back from the most wonderful retreat of my life on Sunday, I checked my email to view an email from poetry.com. This is the bulk of it:

Dear Mary Rodgers,

I am delighted to inform you that your poem "June, July, Mostly August, 2004 (Common Era)" has been awarded our prestigious Editor's Choice Award because it displays an original perspective and unique creativity -- judged to be the qualities found most in exceptional poetry. Congratulations on your achievement!

I laughed when I read this. I mean, really? Really? And the thing is, even though I posted it on poetry.com, who is poetry.com anyway? Who is this Editor?

Now, you might be saying, Kat! That's awesome! Why aren't you stoked?

Here's why:
Of course, the rest of the email informed me that if I wanted to buy a copy of the book it was to be published in, I could. How many of these Editor's Choice Awards are awarded? This is the skeptic in me talking, which rarely speaks up.

And yet,

To be a poet. For my livelihood. For my life.

I'll take what I can get. Someone (poetry.com) is publishing my poetry, and even though it might be a joke or a way to get money from me, part of me still lights up at the idea that someone is reading my poetry and saying, "Promising."

It's like that bubblegum song by Mandy Moore, "And now I'm ready to be extraordinary." And I think I just might be.

There are so many extraordinary people in my life, for which I am so thankful.