Pray Silence

image source - hanging up to dry
image source – hanginguptodry

Picture the sound of a thousand colonies
abandoned by bees
battlefields when cannons cease
the ever after rest in peace
of the deceased

unearthly quiet

or imagine the sound of dialogue
intoning on deaf ears – not dumb adage
but muted gasps of language
white noise and a pulsing lub-dub
of internal baggage

deathly quiet

sotto voce I commend
hushed tones, fortissimo pedal dampened
stillness of thought – but pray leave silence til the end

© Laura Granby 2015

Joining the circle of poets united in the Midweek Motif: Silence

32 Comments on “Pray Silence

  1. You have given some chilling examples of silence. The abandoned bee colonies – sigh. Battlefields after battles. Deathly silence is very eerie. Really liked your poem & the ideas you presented. I read it a few times to get the full effect.


  2. You have shown both sides of silence…it made me think that silence is both an acceptance and quietude as well as a physical circumstance..very insightful poem


  3. How beautifully you capture even the dark sides of silence. You’ve written something with much depth. I too, like it all, but especially the end.


  4. “white noise and a pulsing lub-dub
    of internal baggage”–really like the sound of this….ironic comment on a piece about silence, I suppose, but your word choices throughout this are super effective!


    • irony passed on my grandfather perhaps for whom the silence of the deaf was a torment of hearing only his own voice and bodily sounds- especially as a young boy he had loved to sing and play the organ in church


  5. I like how you caputured the feel of that very special silence after a special noise. Enjoyed your poem so much.


  6. That is a true silence of discomfort.. the aftermath of battlefield so devastating, though sometimes when reading, it has almost been the opposite.. the sound of that single songbird in the middle of all death has almost been worse than the eerie silence…


    • so true – without the songbird we cannot digest the eeriness.Remind me of Hardy’s thrush:
      “An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
      In blast-beruffled plume,
      Had chosen thus to fling his soul
      Upon the growing gloom.”


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