More Telling Than Words - Dec 27 2021

 

More Telling Than Words

Dec 27 2021

I'm bad at dialogue.

The way people talk

in real life,

shooting the breeze, idle gossip,

conversations that wander

or advance the plot.

But often, more telling than words

are the silences,

which are even harder

to convey in verse.

The hemming-and-hawing

awkward pauses

tongue-tied stop.

The dead air,

when your thoughts race

a cold sweat breaks out.

Until eventually, you say something inane

just to move on.

Yet it's these moments

that often mean everything,

when you smile through the silence

and nod knowingly inside,

your antennae twitching

that look in their eyes.

Because truth can lie

in the silences;

what gave him pause

made him hesitate?

And then, you must patiently wait,

let him know

you're really listening.

Trouble is, poetry demands words.

It feels almost desperate,

this pathetic need to fill

the empty space,

babble on, elucidate, over-share,

show off

one's cleverness.

Anything

to contradict the silences

that so fill us with fear.

So I will take a breath.

Sink back in my chair, and rest my head,

gazing outside

as the light slowly fades.

Then invite you in

to sit by my side

and quietly contemplate;

to simply be present

no pressure to talk.

Or leave a white space

even a whole blank page.

So, like virgin snow

I can be the first

to leave my mark,

a set of footsteps

finding their way

until they trail off and disappear.

Where all it would take is a gust of wind

to obliterate the evidence

I was ever here.

In reading the New York Times obituary of Joan Didion, this short paragraph struck me. As a teenager, Ms. Didion typed out chapters from Hemingway novels to see how they worked. She was deeply influenced by Hemingway’s handling of dialogue and silence.

I immediately wondered, how did Hemingway convey silence, of all things? And then thought how great actors aren't afraid of silence; instead, they use it brilliantly. Even long uncomfortable ones. While in radio, of course, "dead air" is heresy. And in conversation, incredibly awkward. Even though sometimes simply being present is just what's needed. Trained therapists know that silence is gold: to hold their tongue, knowing that the client will feel the pressure to talk and eventually fill it with their unguarded thoughts.

Mostly, though, I thought how lousy I am at dialogue. Which may be one reason I write poetry, not stories. And that if I'm bad at dialogue, then how terrible must I be at the silences? This is where the poem began.

Although I think may have ended as a contemplation on the fear of death — the ultimate silence: of leaving no mark, no lasting impression. Does this explain the compulsion to write?