I wrote the first stanzas of this several weeks ago and finished the last few in the wilderness of Knoydart (I think there is a “missing” stanza yet to come). Here is a .pdf of the poem with proper formatting:
In the MSc course I’m on, we’ve spoken much about finding voice—about trying to find words to relate the human condition. I believe poetry is the language one uses to express what can’t be said with words.
Facing the sunset glare
A hundred-thousand vehicles flee
This given city—no matter the language
Of traffic reports or calls home
To keep dinner warm—
“There are clots of cars and I’ll be late again.”
A hundred-thousand single souls sealed
In mechanical motion
Cannot listen to
Gaia embodied in a voice too soft to hear.
The electric suburban evening
Brighter than all the universe combined.
Inside, the shared Family of Man
Flickers excitedly before my listless kin;
Their warmed-over TV dinner trays with 33% extra portions
Cool in the blue-green glow of
Advertisements for happiness.
The enticing sound so enveloping
They need not notice
Gaia embodied in a voice too soft to hear.
A bedroom’s curtained darkness.
Silent.
Quiet—nothing but the tousled sheet
Or sometimes hiss of heating pipes.
Though the unchecked onslaught of daily sound now presses
Upon his mind—assails him,
Prevails over sleep and composure
Returning to the origins of thought
And running the analysis of every
Hopeless action.
Too much to hope—for
Gaia embodied in a voice too soft to hear.
The diffusion of sunrise behind him,
A hundred-thousand shells of men
Take to the streets without protest.
Only to slowly file in order and disgorge
Their naked passengers in appointed boxes.
They sit silenced
In grey padded cubes with no ceiling or sky.
The hum of process overtakes
Gaia embodied in a voice too soft to hear.
He escapes—a three day
Wilderness excursion—for one
To face Nature, slightly conquer her, return with stories
Travel to and from nature not included in package
Price—some restrictions apply. See website for
Further detail.
But he returns no wiser.
Though he read a dozen books in preparation,
He read nothing of
Gaia embodied in a voice too soft to hear.
A life?
Of workweeks pass.
He grows accustomed to the baseline hum.
Inside, Inside, he can’t feel to feel
Himself fading.
Pulse, Pulse, Pulse —A clot slows the traffic of his blood.
A terse doctor with his medical entourage,
“We’ll do all we can.”
No hands now—no touch; only tubes and
Pumps—thin wires and the glow of instrumentation.
Subtle sifting silence down till breathing stops.
One breath removed from
Gaia embodied in a voice too soft to hear.