Do You See?

All things become islands before my senses

When one knows everything is quiet, everybody’s gone. A small dose of silence suffices, and one can never tire. Also, the night doesn’t matter. It’s so much solitude after all, so much passion:


I’m eating a little supper by the bright window.
The room’s already dark, the sky’s starting to turn.
Outside my door, the quiet roads lead,
after a short walk, to open fields.
I’m eating, watching the sky—who knows
how many women are eating now. My body is calm:
labor dulls all the senses, and dulls women too.


Outside, after supper, the stars will come out to touch
the wide plain of the earth. The stars are alive,
but not worth these cherries, which I’m eating alone.
I look at the sky, know that lights already are shining
among rust-red roofs, noises of people beneath them.
A gulp of my drink, and my body can taste the life
of plants and of rivers. It feels detached from things.
A small dose of silence suffices, and everything’s still,
in its true place, just like my body is still.


All things become islands before my senses,
which accept them as a matter of course: a murmur of silence.
All things in this darkness—I can know all of them,
just as I know that blood flows in my veins.
The plain is a great flowing of water through plants,
a supper of all things. Each plant, and each stone,
lives motionlessly. I hear my food feeding my veins
with each living thing that this plain provides.


The night doesn’t matter. The square patch of sky
whispers all the loud noises to me, and a small star
struggles in emptiness, far from all foods,
from all houses, alien. It isn’t enough for itself,
it needs too many companions. Here in the dark, alone,
my body is calm, it feels it’s in charge.



Slow jog around Airthrey Loch. Then a long brisk walk to Bridge of Allan and beyond. Quite far, before it seemed the road could get lost on its own. Smell of licorice in the air. A group of little boys in kilts. The sun was kind today. Even night was not in a hurry to fall. Only the magpies were sharpening their beaks.


One comment on “All things become islands before my senses

  1. Do You See
    May 20, 2012

    Vatsa, you kids don’t sleep! I’m sitting at 5 hours difference. Past midnight. And it feels late.

    And if you read this poem, also note — the “food” reference is a different performative here: “a supper of all things”…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s


This entry was posted on May 20, 2012 by in Cesare Pavese, Nabina Das, Passion for Solitude, poetry.
%d bloggers like this: