Saturday, April 19, 2008

The Art of Disappearing

The Art of Disappearing
by Naomi Shihab Nye

When they say Don't I know you?
say no.

When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
Then reply.

If they say We should get together
say why?

It's not that you don’t love them anymore.
You’re trying to remember something
too important to forget.
Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished.

When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven't seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don't start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.

Monday, April 7, 2008

journal entry, April 7, 2008, 4:34 pm

Silence. I spend my life in silence.
Dr. Barrett tried to make me talk in class today. Professors don't understand. It's not that I have nothing to say. It's not that I can't find the words. I just can't speak. I feel all jumbled. Thousands of voices inside of me. Each knows exactly what it needs to say. Each fighting to live on more minute. Each begging to be the one released. But the only voice I want to listen to, the only voice that really matters is silent. I still haven't found my voice. I'm still being pushed down into nothing. Sound can't travel in a vacuum. My body is a vacuum. I can't push my voice out. My ideas aren't new or radical, but I fear the repercussions of voicing them. You can't control what people think of you, but you can control what you give them to think about. Words. In the end, that's all there is. "Don't forget your obituary." He asked me what I thought that meant. It's what's left you when you're gone -- what people think of you. "But that's not what an obituary is." But that's what it made me think of. Silence. "Go on. You've got a good idea. You need the participation points." I can't. They don't understand. Am I the only person who feels like this? Am I the only person who's forced silent by something inside? I cry. That's the only way my words can escape. Even poetry can't hold this pain. Even poetry can't help me escape. My voice has been silenced. Not by society, men, or God. I've been silenced by the most powerful force -- myself.