Tune to the frequency of the wood and
you’ll hear the deer, breathing; a muscle, tensing;
the sigh of a field mouse under an owl.
Now listen to yourself —
that friction — the push-and-drag,
the double pulse, the drum.
You can hear it, clearly.
You can hear the sound of your body, breaking down.
If you’re very quiet, you might pick up loss:
or rather the thin noise that losing makes — perdition.
If you’re absolutely silent and still,
you can hear nothing but the sound of nothing:
this voice and its wasting, the soul’s tinsel.
Listen . . .
Listen . . .
~ Robin Robertson, Tinsel from Sailing the Forest: Selected Poems (Farrar, Straus and Giroux. 2014 )
Notes:
- Poem: Thank you Beth at Alive on All Channels
- Photo: Elif Sanem Karaoke with High