Maurice Manning

Dreaming and Swaying and Staring

I like to imagine an unknown man
following moonlight into the woods
to enter the listening silence there.
It isn’t total silence because
there are still twittering bugs and owls
whirring and something to snap a stick
and crackle dry leaves on the way,
but it’s silence enough for the man to know
something is listening to him.
Silence sometimes also speaks,
but this time it’s only listening
and the man, paused in a pool of light,
wipes a string of spider web
from his face and says to the silence, thank you.

Another Thought Can Come to Mind

I’ve needed a being place with birds
who trill, and ironweed and asters
rising up in drowsy pastures
and morning rain to drizzle words,
for what the words bring down is sound
and I am bound to listening—
there often is no other thing
to do, but listen to the rain
and let it soak the mind with saying
the shushing verse of falling down.
I go out in it and let the verse
fall down on me.  A universe
of music is at once the sound,
but starkly through the blaze of notes
the melody of old Dry Bones
plays softly, as if motes
of yellow pollen were only blown
by fickle wind and suddenly
I hear the voice of immensity.
In cool rain my thoughts now turn
and the thirsting pasture seems to burn.
Come thistle, phoebe, potato vine,
may your music sing to mine.

Back to Issue XV…