Tag Archives: silence.

Emma Gonzalez, march for our lives

EMMA GONZALEZ’S BRILLIANT, MESMERIZING SPEECH

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THIS IS THE GENERATION WHO WILL SAVE US AND SAVE THE WORLD. BRAVA, EMMA!

AND AN EQUAL BRAVO TO EACH AND EVERY SURVIVOR WHO SPOKE SO BRAVELY TODAY.

As Brandon Wolf said, survivor of the Pulse massacre and a young man who lost his best friend to that carnage, Emma’s silence is the silence of all the Sandy Hook mothers who come home to empty houses, all the mothers of Columbine and Parkland students and all the other surviving mothers who come home to empty silent houses…It is a silence that screams, DO SOMETHING! But will we dare? Will this march lead us finally to vote those who do nothing out of office?

Art, Poetry

NEW POEM, OR REWRITTEN POEM, ABOUT BEING MUTE

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ON NOT SPEAKING

Over the seasons of my sixties

and unwillingly

suddenly silent

no wonders spark in my visual brain.

But a reason why’s no wonder.

For so many years schooled

into naming everything

words and sounds categorize the world

and wordify my senses.

Precipice, for instance,

with its sliced peaks.

And acrid’s encaustic, that bite on my tongue.

Even blench

somehow leaves me paler

and more livid than before.

But there are descents into being speechless

for reasons besides pathology.

Although these may not seem any reason

or even be

reason enough, to many,

who believe only talking out pain aloud

makes sense.

Sensible or senseless

I know when shutting up is preventive.

or at least is less insane

than trying to be heard

by those inured to hurting

or being hurtful

when they indeed would rather hurt me

than pay heed, having heard me.

But if silence as you claim

overspeaks the chattering air

why do you refuse

to hear all I cannot use

my voice to say.

Abuse, Poetry

POEM THAT CAN FORGET BUT NOT FORGIVE

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THE POEM THAT CAN FORGET BUT NOT FORGIVE

 

This poem is afraid

because I am afraid.

This poem is always cold,

and shivering, making my teeth clatter

like cheap tin tableware

on a bare plate.

This poem wants to die,

and be rescued too late

to regret it.

 

This poem has been all its life scared,

and still is: scared, trembling

on the brink, trembling,

knowing the truth that lies

beyond the lies

told over and over,

though it has never been taken in.

 

This poem has a voice

small, smoke-rasped, hungry,

and it has much to say

about what really happened

when no one else was there

to stand to protest.

 

This time it wants to be heard.

This poem wants to be heard!

It will spit and curse and claw

out bejesus if it has to,

this poem means to be heard!

 

This poem will tattle-tale

sit back and smile smugly.

This poem will wring satisfaction’s neck

and revenge will taste like chocolate.

This poem is sad as water, poor as sand.

This poem wants to live well,

but it doesn’t know how.

 

© Pamela Spiro Wagner, 2009 (from WE MAD CLIMB SHAKY LADDERS, CavanKerry Press, Fort Lee, NJ)

I may have posted this before but it is especially relevant at the moment because i have been mute for more than 6 weeks now and do not know why it has lasted or what to do about it…

Art, Health

Pamwagg’s Art from the Wonderful “Care Bed” in Northeast Kingdom, Vermont

Gallery 12 Comments
BioHazard Head and Face with Bugs...first drawing done at Care Bed in St Johnsbury Vt in Nov 2014 by Pamela Spiro Wagner
BioHazard Head and Face with Bugs…first drawing done at Care Bed in St Johnsbury Vt in Nov 2014 by Pamela Spiro Wagner

 

Silent Scream by Pamela Spiro Wagner, 11/2014
Silent Scream by Pamela Spiro Wagner, 11/2014 Drawing # 2

 

Fist Protesting Restraints
Fist Protesting Restraints Drawing #3 (restraints would NEVER be used at Care Bed)

 

Listen Up Collage -- A message more than art.
Listen Up! Free Your Soul! Collage — More a message about my treatment in Connecticut hospitals (never at Care Bed!) than “art” (#4)

 

Rocking Chair at VT "Care Bed"
Rocking Chair at VT “Care Bed” Drawing #5

 

Care Bed Living Room with bedroom in background
Care Bed Living Room with bedroom in background (at night) Drawing #6

 

Mischief and Kitten among Ornaments!
Mischief and Kitten among Ornaments! Drawing #7
Poetry, Writing

New Poem: On Not Speaking

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ON NOT SPEAKING

 

When I went temporarily mute at age sixty,

it sparked no visual wonders.

After decades schooled by dictionaries,

vocabulary categorized the world:

“precipice,” “acrid,” “blanch;”

words even defined my senses.

But one can fall into

speechlessness for reasons

beyond pathology

though these may not seem reasonable

to people who believe that only talking things out

or about them makes sense.

Speaking or not, I knew

when silence was less insane

than trying to be heard

by those who would rather hurt me

than pay attention.

But if, as they say, silence is so eloquent,

why couldn’t anyone hear

what I so desperately didn’t say?