Voices

There are voices.

Some stand over you: Uncle Sam pointing his finger (the ‘oughts’).

The godlike voice of the headmaster, ‘You boy!’

Pinning you down, bearing the image you have missed.

There is the voice at 4am: while the birds sing their hearts out,

inside, under the bed clothes, you eat yours.

(Like a coiled snake, its voice slides under the pillow to your hidden head

bearing a basket of worry - a ridiculous image, but then it,

too, is ridiculous in the light of day).

There is the voice of the knife, underhand, unseen, that gets the guts:

the self-doubt that deflates you and you collapse.

And there is the voice of panic: the frenetic utter loss of reason

which has fled the room, seemingly. The mind runs from wall to wall

checking again and again, ‘are you still there?’.

There are other voices, too.

The quiet smile that, virus-like, rises from the heart

and spreads a rash, unbidden, across your face. You catch

it in a mirror and are surprised: where did this joy come from?

All the ingredients are there, I see, but who the chef?

There is the voice of the well-oiled machine the craftsman made,

whose cogs cut by hand have lain about the workshop for years,

and now, put together with a drop of oil, begin to move with smooth

efficiency as if they were meant.

And there is the descending stillness, like a diaphanous cloth dropping from

heaven knows where, which rests upon your shoulders, nobly clothing you

with a peace like Rublev’s angels, sitting patiently

with nothing to do but gaze attentively.