Some

Silence

John Stevenson

ofthe

JohnStevenson

some

of

the

silence

Some of these poems have previouslyappeared in the following books andperiodicals:

Albatross, Brussels Sprout, Cicada,Frogpond, Geppo, Haiku Headlines,

Hummingbird, Lynx, Modern Haiku,Northwest Literary Forum, Raw

NervZ, Seaoats, South by Southeast,Tanka Splendor, The Christian Science

Monitor, Wedge of Light, Woodnotes.

some of the silence© 1999, 2008 John Stevenson

ISBN 0-9657818-7-9

Second Printing 2008

ormp

For Jake and Barbara

Introduction

Silence is a tricky subject. We are told that silence isthe magic presence that makes music possible. Silence isalso that worrisome thing that comes before the drop ofa shoe. We ask it of noisy children but may dread it fromthe person we married. We speak of the silence thatdeafens and of the silence that permits us at last to listen,to hear, when the Monkey Mind has ceased its chatter,awakened. More than one philosopher or sage has calledit a deceiver; the wretched of the earth suffer in itsshadow. Yet teachers of multitudes have drawn fromsilence some of their most enduring lessons, and haveused silence to unmask their revelations about whatmatters most in life—Buddha with a lotus blossom,Christ with the lilies of the field.

What is silence, anyway, and why would anyonewant to read about some of it? What is it good for?Where is it found? Who owns it?

Probably one of the best-selling short-form poetrycollections since first published by Red Moon Press in1999, John Stevenson’s Some of the Silence has intro-duced a generation of readers to a poet’s way of answer-ing these questions. The devoted haiku pilgrim will findhere poems that invite meditation and illuminate thelatent that is in us and all around us:

a deep gorge . . . some of the silence is me

The casual reader will discover paradoxical evi-dence for a world that, just as it stops making sense,makes sense once more in the five lines of a tanka, thehumor of a senryu, or the story power in the prose of ashort haibun. Lovers of the poetry written by Basho,Buson, Issa, Onitsura, et al, will find here poems asknowable and enduring as theirs.

Poetry that matters is poetry that shows us what wealready know, and does so in a way that won’t allow usto misplace or lose that knowledge in the clutter andnoise of a cluttered and noisy world—though thosethings, like the silence, may always be with us. InStevenson’s poetry, silence is not an either/or dimensionbut an all-inclusive one, an entanglement of all thingshaving potential, dormant or vestigial, intrinsic ormanifest.

The poems in this book have lasted, and are lasting.You cannot walk away, having read them through,without coming into possession of a deed to some of thebest real estate on earth: it is measureless, withoutboundaries, and the dwelling there is without walls,ceiling, or floor.

—Michael McClintockSan Joaquin Valley,

May 2008

some

of

the

silence

autumn street . . .some leaves pausein blowing byone day, I just thoughtenough grieving

old slippersthe comfortcoming apart

May morningreading my meditationsthe page brightens

revising poems,a third cup of teafrom the same bag

all those haikuabout the moon in the trees,the moon in the trees

Wedge of Light

One of the first places I lived alone was a basementapartment near my college. A persistent fantasy of thosedays featured the image of a woman waiting for me tocome home. I would savor this wish walking back eachnight, sometimes going the longer way around to the rearentrance just to hold it a moment longer.

One night I was coming down the alley with just this inmind when I noticed that the light in my room was on. Iknelt down to peek inside and saw Hope Sartorio sittingon my bed. I hadn’t seen her in nearly a month and hadn’texpected to see her again. But now she was back.

I floated down the steps and opened the door with a bigsmile . . .

And she had come to tell me that one of our best friendshad died, that the funeral would be the next morning.We held each other and cried. That night she slept in mybed for the last time while I sat at the table until dawn.

a wedge of lightin the alleyMay morning

driving toward the sunseta long line

of bright chins

almost home the river fills the horizon

summer night the tide flows from the estuary

doe nestled into the shape of the ditch

midnight trainthe voice of one old-timergoing on and on

border of sleep the sound of nearby breathing . . . mine

frosty morningthe campers hatchfrom their sleeping bags

early snowfall—exposed, an earthwormthins and thickens

he always doubtedthe “subconscious mind”leaving for his funeralI lock my car keysin the trunk

the perfect neighborcutting his grassshorter

nude beach his enormous sand castle

lunch datecarbonation keeps liftinghis straw

A First Impression of Middle Age

After more than twenty years of marriage I am singleagain. When finally ready to try dating, I find it astrange, new experience. I am self-conscious in a waythat makes me feel too young, if you can believe it. That’show it is for me on the first night at her apartment. Sheis my age but she’s a dancer, works out regularly, and isin great shape.

I take a turn in the bathroom before coming to bed.Squinting to check my hair, as best I can without myglasses, I grab the toothpaste and begin a vigorousbrushing, which stops suddenly. Spitting and rinsing,rinsing and spitting, I am already certain, though I lookagain in disbelief. The tube on the sink contains, nottoothpaste, but Bengay.

used car salesmanhis warm smilewon’t quit

so clear, years laterthat when he called his daughtera “heartbreaker”it was not my hearthe had in mind

her eyes narrow,seeing for the first timemy little house

morning afterhis cold keys hangingfrom the door

“Just Married”the attendantpumping too much gas

on the subwaya woman with sheet musicmoving her lips

stairway descending into her perfume

her eyes closedshowing me a faceshe’s never seen

a long lookat the winter stars . . .someone else’s wife

not dead roses she corrects me . . . dried

winter beacha piece of driftwoodcharred at one end

For Seneca

She is four years old and desperately ill: has beenairlifted from one hospital to another, fighting a battlethat she is not yet winning and no one can say if she will.On one occasion her parents were told that she might notlive through the night.

But she is still here, emaciated and with just a few wispsof her beautiful hair remaining, connected by tubes andcatheters to a bank of monitors, oxygen, morphine,intravenous food. Lately she has been guarding herenergy, refusing to engage in any unnecessary talk. Shepretends to be asleep when she wants people to leave heralone.

She has an older brother. He is her hero. One day hediscovers that the hospital has a video game cart. He setsit up beside the bed and gives her the controls, watchesand guides her through the first level of a Mario game.She sits up and plays, using her hands and arms for thefirst time in several days. Despite all the tubes and wires,she even uses a fair degree of body english.

a spiderbehind the curtainall abdomen

the train picks up speed,in a paper coffee cupconcentric waves

heat lightningthe cow’s uddershivers

clear skiesthe river darkwith old rain

children’s ICU—a tissue boxbeside the pay phone

luxury car—a sparrow’s quietthump

checking the driver as I pass a carjust like mine

Saturday nighta priest crosses the roadwith an armful of palms

morning sun enters the sleeper’s ear

Census Bureau—a secretary’s new babydraws a crowd

I smile at her smiling at the baby smiling

tourist townpostcards of the waterfallracked upside-down

summer trafficmy shadow rides upa stranger’s neck

my son asks casually what a tree costs

he locks downthe roller coastertoothless grin

Bedtime October 30th

Last year my son received a plastic jack-o-lantern, aboutthe size of a crab apple, as a Halloween party favor.Pressing a button on the back made it laugh a high-pitched cackling laugh and flicker with a simulatedcandle light.

Sometime during the year this object came to rest in mycatch-all top bureau drawer and tonight, after gettingmy son off to sleep with some effort, for he is looking for-ward to trick or treating once again, I turned out my lightand tossed my watch into the drawer, accidentally set-ting off the long forgotten jack-o-lantern. Suddenly, Iwas painfully aware of a multitude of my single parentfears.

battery weakenedthe low, slow laughterof a demon

goblins at the doorin the darkness behind thema cigarette flares

stifled laugh: a November wasp rousing itself

between my rush to be readyand her arrival—

a space

alone againmaking an eventof a sandwich

Christmas Day the exchange of custody

deadline approaches my nose dripsfaster

sleepless . . . the baby’s age in days

train’s aisleat the end of a line of childrenthe adult

Night Trains

At the Al-Anon meeting a woman is talking about howfrightened her children were last night when their daddytook a late night walk. They heard a train whistle andimagined him reeling along the tracks. Strangely, per-haps, this reminds me of a favorite childhood memory.

I was three or four years old when one night I got out ofbed and stood at the window to watch a passenger trainpass along the far edge of a field across the road from ourfarmhouse. It seemed magical, a snake of moonlightpassing through the dark grass, a holy dream. To thisday, whenever I am on the train at night, it is that train.

night trainpassing throughthe barley fields

the thumpof a thousand rumpsreturning to their pews in unison

proud hosthis orchard burstingwith fireflies

the three-year-old making their big dog sit

train stationa redcap carriestheir camping gear

a deep gorge . . . some of the silence is me

Full Professorputting an extra syllablebetween us

wind-beaten marqueesaying only“Coming Soon”

Sunday morninglooking up the wordfrom my dream

done bloomingthe peoniesunbend

About the Author

Since the first printing of Some of theSilence John Stevenson has serveda term as president of the HaikuSociety of America, three years aseditor of Frogpond, and currently ismanaging editor of The Heron's Nest.

“John Stevenson’s poems are unadorned, with nothing inter-

fering with their simple clarity. The way haiku should be.”

—Kenneth C. Leibman, Frogpond

ISBN 0-9657818-7-9$12 Haiku/Poetry