The Sound of Silence (1)

The hissing, hissing behind the grill
pretends it is bringing me air.
But air is not so well-used;
it should have remnants of the life
it has passed through.

Brine, decaying fish, these
would tell me I am in a living world,
that beyond this room men strain
beneath packing cases, haul nets,
know they have worked.

The air on the island floats my music
across the cove to the listener.
Over and over the phrase aims
to perfect itself.

With sore fingers I stop my playing,
and let the music go on
repeating phrases, linking them
to that continuous whole
that art aspires to.

How to make a pianissimo, requiring
greater control than simple forte.
Muscles must hold, no tremor in the sound,
but always intense, forcing the listener
not to let go.

In my head the music plays
uncaring whether it is heard.
It is enough to be a silent music maker.
It makes a bridge on that wave length
that binds me to you.

The Sound of Silence (2)

The breeze ruffles the music on the stand
and carries the phrase out across the cove
to the children building castles in the sand
and the men hauling their lobster pots.

My sore fingers stop playing,
and let the music float away,
linking in that continuous whole
that art aspires to.

The music plays on in my head
not caring whether it is heard.
It is enough to be a silent music maker.


Lari Smith