The Language of Silence

A poem about the things we fail to hear.

XII-V-2010 4.00p.m

______________________________________________________

 

This is about

The strands of sun

Filtering diagonally through a heap of branches

On the first day of autumn

The sound of light falling on the palms of leaves

And the mute flapping of butterflies

In an open space between two graves

 

And the murmuring softness

Of silk against silk

And breeze over breeze

 

This is about

The echo one hears, after the recent death

Of a momentary thought,

And the uncomfortable calmness that follows a regret

 

And maybe the inspiration one gets

From the deafening roars of an audience

Hypnotizing the hero himself

 

This is more about the explosion one hears from

An old poem, a sudden approval of old fetishes

And the words which have just lost their originality

 

And maybe only for us to realize

As humans our silence is only a temporary excuse

To free our own chaos from its source

 

This is about a language

we use when

Others around us have forgotten what it is to be a nightmare

Amongst a bunch of accomplished dreams.

_____________________________________________________________________________ 

Reviews

[Rodrick Franklin McLare..]

*********************************************************************************************************************
~ One word: VIVID... good one, My Brother ~ Perfection ~
~ Excellently Rendered: Prose & Poetry ~ combined~~~~~
~ Great: Framework & Creative Presentation of Format!

A Master-Work ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I'm Breathless.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jesus... I shiver, my God. Soon follow, slightly by envy. To stop, such utterly silly foolishness. To recognize, genius. As it is portrayed: in stunning Prose. That vivify again, that term. That place of expression. That hold, no word... but. Awe...

Let us not pretend, to hear. But listen, to the souls express. Progression... yes.
Let's not turn our back out of pride and again, pretend. That this not move you at some core, premise. To some decree! That you know exist. In this presented piece. Pristine. I bow, to my pride and give to this Poet. Such Regard, as it duly delivered. ~~Classical-ism~~, at its best. All Hail... this Modern Master... for such Diligence of Depths. To the very deepest Ocean Floor. Hold his breath, to fair to Bursting. The choice, that perfect. Living Clam. Return, with his prize... the one & Perfect Pearl of Poetry. That now flow, from his Breast. Relieved!
To be un-burdened. From the Creative Souls depths of Spirit. Intact & Preserved.

To the Light: of Wonderment...

To this. High Praise in deed and a most Regarded Recommended Read...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~For all that love. The written word~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yet, enough of praise. As I tire of my paltry words. This young man, is gifted. So far beyond words, and his Poetry. Will live in the heart of millions, an Eternity... To this Mark my words, predict. All should, follow. In applause, here on this page. For a thing, so rare. As incalculably Prodigious. Not, the Poem... the Poet!

Now, to more personal reasoning. The presence was tantalizing, in its contrast of Light & Dark representation. The meter of it's delivery, what stoke my heart. To such above, praises. The cadence, again. The Ebb & Flow: Masterly. Sigh to some degree, limited. Only by Youth and Experience. That will, all too soon. Mature and Sadly. Disappear. IE; And the words which have just lost their originality...
I pray this fault, an drying of privilege. Never arrive, for Ishan Sadwelkar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Yet, the sun rise and set, on us all~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Rhythm & Rhyme, swam with Cadence. A rare treat. This Dance with Delight.
Of it all, I had but one falter. In the phrasing. That could have capture greater, in my humble opinion ~~Timeless Classical-ism~~ That hang, of a signature. Line...
That, one expression. That makes. Immortality... as are: Heroes.
I mean, to be so bold. As to present this, and mean. No disregard;

Hence mayhap, inspiration proceeding
the deafening roar of audience, sent repleting
Hypnotize, the hero. Self. Himself & Decay. Decline...

The turn around, I believe Ishan. Express, in this underpinnings. Sweeping Iliad..

Poetry or Prose. One, is the license to abbreviate. To prosed meaning or emotion. Tis the knife, that pare. Deep. To the bare~bone of utterance. The other, is add the clutter of small addition. That make, the spoken English language. Complete. An thusly, only clutter. Great Poetry. Immortally Memorable... satisfying. Pallet.

Bravo bravo. Sweet Champion. Romon... in Review. Wed.May, 11 2010.
*********************************************************************************************************************

[Prateeksha Khot]

i believe this is one of your best writes till date

[deeps]

This is so wonderful and ever so amazing.
I enjoyed this write.

[Miss Coral]

This is without a doubt one of the best pieces that I have read on here.

Incredible descriptions and imagery... an insipirational poem. This quality of writing is something I could only aspire to.

Excellent piece. 100/100

[Ruth]

This is profoundly staggering! A stunning piece of awesome work friend! xx

[Devons]

Immensely profound piece of work. I've not ever before come across anything that deals with such a subject as this, and certainly not with as much abstract insight. It is very powerful, like an indescribable feeling in itself. Many great allusions contained within these lines, and very intellectually contrived.
These are those that struck a loud chord within me:-

"And maybe only for us to realize
As humans our silence is only a temporary excuse
To free our own chaos from its source."

So much meaning comprised by these three lines. A monumental piece of work, echoing many of my own sentiments.

[Emily Paige]

WOW I love every thing about this!!!!