By Marilyn Zuckerman
Instead of photos, these poems use words to tell of the phenomena while I sit on the deck drinking it all in.
For Pico Iyer, whose thoughts about silence and the sacred I have borrowed.
In the distance
someone is beating a rug
or wet laundry,
children’s voices shouting
then fading away,
their cries muffled
as though under water.
Overhead a silent plane
its lights flickering like stars,
a crow cawing,
a train whistle.
within this irresistible silence
while I lay splayed on the lounge chair
like a TB patient
when suddenly the sound of traffic
soars like the growling of a storm cloud
and the deep silence returns
that first empties your mind,
then brings you to the true self
that lies trembling beneath your heart.
Pictures at an Exhibition
like a Turner painting.
The sky’s afire
and we are looking
into the hot heart of a furnace.
Thick clouds streaked with Blakean light
streaming through, as the sun slips down
to the other side of the earth,
leaving a rosy shadow of itself
silhouetted behind the mountain
as black-cloaked night falls
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