Lovers far away, pining. Two poems — one which offers everything and asks for nothing. The other has almost nothing left to give — just a few words, saved carefully all day.
Margaret Atwood's poem is one of the most breathtaking acts of devotion in the English language. The speaker doesn't ask to possess the beloved — only to watch them sleep, to walk beside them through their dreams, to hand them the one word that will protect them from their worst fear. And then, in the final lines, to be nothing more than the air they breathe — unnoticed, and that necessary. It is love at its most selfless and most aching.
Jeffrey McDaniel imagines a world where the government allots each person exactly 167 words per day. The speaker uses fifty-nine — and saves the rest for a long-distance lover who has already used all of hers. So he whispers I love you thirty-two and a third times. And then they just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe. Two poets, one silence — the kind that holds more than words ever could.
Variation on the Word Sleep
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of blue green leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment only.
I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Margaret Atwood
We share poems in good faith and with full credit. A Letter to the Poets →
The Quiet World
In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
Jeffrey McDaniel
We share poems in good faith and with full credit. A Letter to the Poets →