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Ndrek Gjini
It happened years ago,
I left.
After I walked just two or three steps,
I heard the door
anxiously being closed.
I don’t know why
but ever since that moment
the sound that the door made
echoes in my ears
like the clatter of a handful of pebbles
on a coffin.
I started to hate the closure of doors.
To me they sound like coffin lids.
the sound of a cat’s foot
like the ground in flight
a little fire whispering up
the bat in the church
so light a wing to polish
the bone of the ear
we listen
to everything new
tent in the woods
the cheer of hawks
a great way off
that familiar sound
in the east as I walk home
I give my viol head
to my viol maker
his name is wise
who deals in sound
a pitch merchant
here for some high words
night desert
I hear discreet things
out in the sand
In the house of rain, all are kin. Consider the toadstool releasing its spores when the rain comes knocking. Many of those spores drift up into the atmosphere, where they become cloud condensation nuclei and give birth to new raindrops—with moisture released by the trees. I recite this true fable to myself as I trudge through the downpour.
that scent
of wet rhododendrons—
Pop-pop’s place
I like how the world is textured.
Visually and aurally and in food webs and ecological niches.
The endless intricacy and beauty of it.
It’s utterly entrancing sometimes, like the best rave ever.
Whatever i tell myself, it’s never enough. Understanding begins with listening.
wind in my ears as if
a wood thrush could whisper
i hear someone taking
improbably far-apart steps
in the sound of black cherry trees
putting their pieces into play
those who like certainty
have the solace of mathematics
those who love the wild
empty themselves
if my ears conspire
to keep me thick-headed
tonight their little begging bowls
have returned to primal condition
let me dream too
in surround-sound
raccoon lifting a rock
lowers the pitch
former field
the ruffed grouse makes a drum
out of thin air
barbaric yawp
you say the coyotes sound
as if they're fighting
I am listening.
The loudest, the most persistent
is the hum of the ceiling fan.
Cawing crows
Horning cars, rumbling trucks
Voices from across the street
Parvati moving about in the next room -
And the slow intake of breath into my lungs.
I turn my ears inward.
Conscious of myself tapping at the keyboard
The cursor blinking.
The little black line, going on and off
On and off, on and off
And waiting, patient.
I am emptying my mind – or so I would like to believe.