Certain Silence

Certain Silence

 

So when is the short story like a nymph? When the echo of it answers back.—Ali Smith

That sounds like something you have heard before?—Robert Frost

Jove loved the mountainside’s illicit joys,

The bathing nymphs beside the riverbed.

Deep waters rushed and flushed away the noise

Of pleasure rolled by him and his unwed.                                       

Clandestine dwellers of the forest green,

These masters of obscurity and charm,    

Nymphs never wanted their discretions seen,

So Echo played the role of their alarm.

And every time when Juno came to hunt,

To catch her husband in a loathsome tryst,

Sweet Echo stalled her at the waterfront,

’Til all the fleeing wrists and heels were kissed.

And no secret affairs were ever found,

As long as Echo’s chatter flew around.

 

The joys

of 

obscurity 

found,

 

A maddened god, the scorn of Juno burned,

She needed to come closer to the truth.        

She’d leave no branch nor mossy stone unturned

Until she saw Jove tangled with a youth.

She stayed in hiding, not to be perceived,

And saw Jove pet his dainty nymph’s fresh bud.

She realized Echo had her all deceived

And vowed loquaciousness to drown in mud.                                  

“The tongue that made a fool of me will rot,

Have shorter use, the voice brief evermore.”

Then Echo’s throat restricted into knots.

Now choked from speaking words but an encore.

So gone were her expressive days and dreams,                  

No one could truly understand her screams.

 

Closer

to

dreams.

 

And now we meet the effervescent lad:

Narcissus, sixteen years of age and proud,

With golden hair that floats like lily pads,

A waltzing gait as light as ribboned cloud. 

All men and women do wish him their prize.

A doe might volunteer to meet his bow.

Although with his mind more or less unwise,                                  

His beauty fades beyond an afterglow.                                         

But blind to vain and self-important views,                                     

As Echo sees him stroll along the bank,

She pulsates with desire and pursues.                                                

She tip-toes, not knowing which gods to thank.

Though yearning to be held within his reach,

What should he think of her without a speech?

 

Effervescent

mind,

beyond

vain

desire.

 

By chance, Narcissus finds himself alone.                                       

He calls aloud, “Is anybody here?”

Then “Here!” Echo allows herself to moan.

“Who are you?” But his missive is unclear.                                       

He sees no company, so goads again:

“Why do you hide from me? What secret’s kept?”

With faint hope and a mumbling refrain,                                   

She shows herself. Her heart his to collect.                                 

But as her arms stretch toward her prize’s neck,

Narcissus shouts a panicked, “Don’t touch me!”

“Touch me, touch me!” Echo cries for a peck,

A kind caress to make her less lonely.                                                      

Narcissus thrusts the nymph away with ease,

And heckles Echo back into the trees.

 

Alone

with

herself,

with ease,

 

In shame, Echo retreats from all the world.

She vanishes and feeds on suffering. 

Within her cave, she never sleeps, all curled                                      

And clinging to her constant wondering.

Narcissus overwhelms her weary brain,

The sweetness she would whisper in his ear

If only he could learn to not disdain,

To listen and reciprocate what’s dear.

Alas, this pining shrivels up her bones.

She’s nothing but a disembodied voice

That ricochets from hollows of limestone,

An empty sound gut-wrenched of all its choice.

Invisible and isolated soul,                                                  

Yet for her one love, willing to patrol.

 

And

all

the sweetness

of choice.

 

Narcissus, in his own due fate, is seen.                                             

One day, by silver pool with shallow tide,

He comes to rest, delighted by the sheen,

A gold reflection gazing and green-eyed.

Then all the world washes away from him,                                 

Just his infatuation with the stream

Like insignificance at ocean’s brim,

Or delicate, fair light of the moonbeam. 

This foolish boy. He only sees himself. 

Delusion mocking his tease of soulmate,

As Echo spies from nearby mountain shelf,

She seeks a way to help his wits restate.                                     

What makes him so attractive is the face

Of statues, portraits, lined with ink of grace.                      

 

Insignificance,

the only way to 

grace.

 

But gravity is too much for the boy.

The one that he is seeking seems so near. 

A dappled love, a disappearing toy.

Into the blue, Narcissus cries a tear.

The only kiss denied to him in life                                               

Is but an image breaking his daft heart.

He burns with love, how curious a wife–   

Equally fair, and never meant to part.

In pained abiding silence, Echo waits

And prays for words to break the river’s spell,                            

Narcissus, though, can only concentrate,

Sinking to die within the wishing well. 

 

“Farewell, dear one, my beloved in vain.”                  
“Farewell, dear one, my beloved in vain.”

 

Disappearing

into

life

with curious,

abiding words:

My beloved.

***

Dear Echo,

I want to write, but I can’t seem to sustain a train of thought.

It’s odd. There are so many things in my life I wish I had never said. But I suspect there are also honest words that should have been.

You’ve probably heard all the wisdom under the sun. What would you have me know about creativity?

Nadine

***

Dear Nadine,

Listen. You are less important.

Words should vanish. The invisible is expressive.

Stay at the tide of what you do and do not understand, and allow the water to wash over you.

Echo

 
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