When a poet makes a list, death cannot be far behind. He says, I will go here and there, I will see this and I will touch that. But that is all, that is all he will stay for, he is a poet at the end of his life. He has better things to do than live. These are the things he has promised himself. He makes a list of all the things. And quietly checks them off, one at a time. He hears the clock ticking down, knows it’s time to slip into that well worn funereal suit. But he is reluctant to go, he adds to his list. I have not yet seen this, I have not yet touched that, Things will be different,
if only I touch that one last thing. And then he’s in the mountains one day and he shouts and shouts, and no man, no woman, no child responds. He knows he is utterly alone, but this time he remembers that it has always been this way. Alone is no longer lonely, he steps in the puddle at his feet, decides he does not need the list.
He sits and adds all the things to a new list, this one of reasons
not to die just yet.
Poetic silence is a three step process.
First step, you must relinquish all tears. They help the words to flow. While you break, words crystallize pretty and big.
Second step, you hold your breath, this is the in-between phase where nothing happens but the passing of time. Healing occurs, like an underwater lake being made into mud as it steams away.
Third step, you have nothing left to say, lost in your own fleeting happiness, the poems run dry
as words left to rot
in a noonday sun. You revel in the joy that incidentally killed them.