VOICE
In reading I
Decipher
These marks
On the page
Only
To recall
Once a teacher of
Writing
Told me
Voice is that
Immutable constant
We have no
Control
Over
Yet nonetheless which
Distinguishes
Us from
A thousand-fold
Beings writing
This very minute on
Notebooks keyboards
Whiteboards composing
No matter what
Tonal range
Tragic
Bathetic
Inconsolable
Vituperative
Hortatory
Beneficent
A great-grandmother’s
Sugar-daddy’s
Misanthrope’s
Egghead’s putz’s
Wimp’s salesclerk’s
Onanist’s
Philologist’s
Rasp harangue bellow
Whimper
Requiem tweedle
Ululation bay
Miserere croon laud
Susurration psalm ballad
Halloo warble chant
Halleluiah
All such right here
I suppose
Underneath these letters
Patiently awaiting
A mind to
Give voice to
That running
Dribbling flowing swirling
Gushing
At once throb
And pulse
Freshet puddle pool
Cave seep
Back from the far beyond
Yet close as teeth
IN THE DUTCH ROOM
In the Dutch room, when you enter you find
The light brimming across the dark canvasses,
And it’s so beautiful, that light, museumgoers
Fade away, and it’s only you and the light, or so
You feel, leaning closer to brushstrokes dense
As thunderheads, the light welling up the way
Lightning would if it could come not suddenly
But gradually, the earth and sky meeting slowly,
And the illumination coming just as some dawns
Can sometimes wake you before day’s known,
Where you lie like a prince in clean sheets,
Considering how the light isn’t really dawn yet—
But as soon as you have that thought it’s gone,
Because your room is there, complete, golden,
Which is how the Dutch master must have seen
His canvas before finding just the right brush
And loading it like this, not thinking of anything
Especially, his hand steadying as he approaches
What he feels could be done in the given hour,
So, centuries on, two girls might step closer,
Wearing the same school outfits—plaid skirts,
Knee socks, too-blue shirts—both now grown
Quiet, and I have turned from the art to study
The way they stand looking, almost solemnly,
Not fidgeting or moving on, paying real attention,
Turning older somehow, by degrees aware of
The depths and brushstrokes and richest darks
That surround the lit figure at her dressing table,
Who, only a few years older than themselves,
Is yet teaching them in this moment how to look
Beyond our restless world, block out the scuffle
Of footsteps as classmates begin to wander in,
Into the Dutch room, and a boy staggers backwards
For a joke, while through one window light comes
Slanting down, and they stand there as if just waking,
Shoulders slightly touching, lips parted, as if to ask.
