The Geography of Silence
1. Laundry drooping at midday.
2. She dreams off-key, in pastels.
3. With misunderstanding comes anger.
4. Mata! Mata! Again!
5. Ashes crossing the ocean.
6. Sweat, and the taste of separation.
7. Reaching for past moons, she cries.
8. Death’s shade.
9. Rice.
10. Self-sacrifice, the centered gift.
11. Inward, always. Inward.
O at the Edges 
Outstanding title! I really like the cadences of this, too. If you were to read this aloud, Bob, are you saying the numbers? I especially find intriguing the last line. “Inward, always. Inward.” My gut tells me that “Inward. Always inward.” would be the expected punctuation, lending it a certain cadence, but you’ve defied that convention (if you will), and that made for a really special moment. Bravo, a brilliant WCW-esque poem with startling strokes of imagism (laundry, moon, ashes, rice, ocean) if I may say so. I think it’s time for you to do another reading! 🙂
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Yes, I’d read the numbers, too, as I consider them a part of the poem. The last line was written with the expected punctuation, but I liked the change in emphasis with the final version – it sounded better, more final, perhaps, when read aloud. And speaking of readings, I’m joining four or five other poets for a Tupelo Press 30-30 reading here in Austin on April 15. It’ll be fun!
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Nice! Location and time and cost? And may I share with my mom. Um, I mean readers! 🙂
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It hasn’t been officially announced yet, but I’ll let you know when it has been. There won’t be any cost. And yes, please share!
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Wonderful poem! I really enjoyed reading this – I’m curious about the numbers too, I think they work really well as part of the poem. Some beautiful imagery and use of language here, and a fitting title to such an approachable – and relatable – moment. Thanks for sharing!
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Thank you. I also believe that they are an integral part of the poem. So pleased you like the language and imagery.
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Great title, great poem! Mata, mata…もう一度！
You are easily the greatest poet currently walking the planet…
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I think, for my circumstances, a more accurate translation would have been “You in a heap of trouble now, boy,” as my mother would utter the word when she was upset with me. Now that the mockingbird has left, I am the best poet in my backyard. Which is more than enough. 🙂
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You need not be modest. A FACT carries no arrogance, a TRUTH does not inflate. As far as I am concerned e.e. cummings travelled forward in time, stole your mojo, and returned to write ‘I Shall Imagine Life.”
Real poetry is like mold found between slices of bread, it carries an “I was here… for better or for worse…” quality. Poems are found in empty alleys behind an old crate filled with broken glass. Poems are found in a spider’s web in the attic of a recently deceased grandparent, and as you stated, in a midday laundry droop.
Formal poem making is the craft of the fascinated amateur – whose poems have never caught a cold, or been bored in a bus station, and will never know the salty chocolate of a lover’s neck during a Newport sundown or the stink of a catfish-y riverbank in Louisiana. The ‘craft of poetry’ rots on the vine while you go about uncovering the living poem in your armpit or bathtub or next meal.
Your poems are found in all the places poems MUST be found. Your poems are alive because they are living-as-such.
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This poem’s title alone is music. 🙂
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Just connecting dots on the path from here to there. And thank you!
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Being born in the US and spending 73 years there before moving to Sapporo, Japan in early 2008, this poem has a world of meanings to me, as I’m never in just one place, but dragged back and forth across the Pacific Ocean time and time and time again. Thank you for writing and sharing it.
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Though I spend most of my time in one place, I feel as if I’m moving back and forth through place and time.
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Can I canonize you? Then get somebody to paint me an icon, with a bridge on fire in the background, because one of the meanings of kaji is conflagration and I am always saying we will burn that bridge when we come to it and poetry is about building bridges between the heads of the poets and the heads of the readers… I clearly need more coffee…
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Oops. Wrong canon. I pictured myself wearing a football helmet and peering out the barrel of a cannon in preparation for being, uh, fired. I’ve had plenty of coffee. Probably too much. 🙂
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Adore this!
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Thank you, Jean.
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