Your silence is maybe not violence?

My older son with chickens, while on vacation

Oh, hi.

I’ve been writing a lot, but don’t have much to show for it. I’ve started and stopped so many essays in the past few months. But then over vacation, with one of them, I thought I’d found a way through. Only, when I shared it with Matt, he illuminated a few flaws—places where I was forcing my point.

And so, yesterday, I felt dejected as I took it all apart.

Before we left for vacation, the house had been in mild disarray. Because summer has been so hectic, we still had piles of the kids’ end-of-the-school-year stuff everywhere. So many quarter-filled notebooks and workbooks. I’m not very sentimental, but I wanted to look through everything before I tossed them into recycling. One of the items I came across was my older son’s Poet’s Journal. I remember them doing a few weeks of poetry, both reading it and writing it, but I didn’t know which poems they’d studied. Flipping through the workbook last night (after everyone else had gone to sleep), I felt so many feelings. I felt grateful for the poems and the poets. And also impressed by my son’s handwritten, thoughtful commentary. And then, eventually, I felt inspired.

One of the poems they’d read was “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop—the poem responsible for the name of this Substack. Within the section titled “Independent Writing Practice,” the book gives the following prompt:

Now that you’ve read and studied Elizabeth Bishop’s villanelle, it’s time to write your own!

I read my son’s attempt and could feel the smile on my face. And then, with barely a thought, I started writing my own. I’m sharing it here with equal parts embarrassment and satisfaction. (I’m also paywall-ing the final stanza because I heard that poetry pays big time.)

Xoxx

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Two Art

Your silence is maybe not violence.
Do you hear that? Nothing happened.
So many things need no comment.

Say nothing for an hour. It’s not a science;
write down your thoughts, but don’t press Send.
Maybe—I don’t know—your silence is not violence.

Are you okay or do you want some assistance?
The thing is, once you say it, it can never be unsaid—
so many things need no comment.

I said something mean; a cruel utterance.
I thought you might ease up, but your voice only strengthened.
I guess silence might not be violence.

Who knew that words could cause such problems?
(Anyone who has ever felt their lives threatened.)
So many things require comment.