Within a Month of Silence

Where I live lightning is a constant element in our lives. Often, the lights go out and the phone lines too. I have been unable to communicate with anyone for a month now. It has been a month of silence.

It is interesting the thoughts that come during such times, when shadows form on the walls because of the candle light and ones pen scribbles familiar letters by the flickering warm yellow dim glow. There comes the moment of profound pondering. There are those dreams one had for the future, and those one thought would be attained by now. Immersed into this silent darkness I found home again.

Upon my writing desk I keep a few familiar friends at hand, they are my favorite authors. Leaning between Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends is a collection of Emily Dickinson’s Poems, it is a sky blue colored cover book with Victorian, dark and light pink, roses stamp designed in the center. I stare at this one most because, I almost hear her words whispering in my mind from the countless times I’ve read them.

By the flickering light, I recall having stood in her room, two years ago, when I visited her homestead in Amherst Massachusetts. I saw the lace cream yellow colored walls and the small desk, gas lamp, and chair where she probably worked on her poems. The rainy gray afternoon light slipped in through windows which faced west out towards Amherst Main Street, some trees, and her brothers home. Although her portrait hung in the living room wall, and we walked through every floor of the house, it is Emily’s bedroom which has remained in my mind. It was perhaps here, if one stood long enough one could feel it, or imagine it, the spark of her coming to life as a poem spilled onto a page or was reworked from a candy wrapper. Such a simple place and yet it is said that “over 1,700 poems were discovered in her dresser drawer by her sister, Lavinia.” ( Johanna Brownell, Poems, pg. 15)

It is the silence which allows this deep well of expression. In a room filled with shadows and a warm glowing light, a whole world opens up within. The voices of the past, forever new upon a page, inspiration brings, and on one such occasion, as this, I wrote:

For Emily

1,700 poems
You wrote and no one knew
Tucked into a bedroom draw
To sleep the whole night through
I’m glad your stash was found
Glad it was published too
1,700 poems I seek to read from you.