Silence

— For Frank Pein, and myself

Even the greatest silent movies needed
something more than Keaton, Lloyd, or Chaplin —
someone, usually not at all a genius,
thumping the keys, slower or faster
as the scene demanded. Even now,
when one might wish for silence
(fed up with modern noise), imagine
seeing those films in perfect silence —
bound and gagged, not even having the solace
of your own laughter in the dark
and soundproof room. Silence!
and another world unfolds, as chilling
as a city siren, hovering, ominous
as an eagle with a snake,
the unshared images of dreams,
the allegory of the cave
but without meaning — watching, watching
with bitter longing and elation,
knowing at last that Truth is distance —
as if this light were all in all,
this black and white, these glowing
pratfalls, wringings of hands,
the chase — they seem the efforts
of fools at best, of empty forms at worst,
and only you can see it, only you
are like the universe, with nothing else
to turn to. And now it floats there, hours, days,
like sunlight on the arctic snow.
Listen! Not even a birdsong.
This could be Nothing, but you feel it.
This is reality. This is you.


Published in Berkley Poets Cooperative 15, 1978