A Place to be Still

by bobbymillerwriting


My poetry burst up from between clumps of soil, soaked down from weathered skies, and drank sweetly from storied rivers. I first felt the need to write in the wilderness; however, being a poet in the wilderness is not being a poet at all. I sit, I listen, watch, feel. I absorb, if only a fraction, the cacophony let out by land unaltered and undisturbed to the human eye. These places, the numbered yet many that still exist speak the most basic tongue, unknown to us, really, who learned first English, or Mandarin, or Inuktitut. The air, all the way through the heavy dead of night when insects have ceased their hum and receded behind a velveteen curtain cast over the land, is filled with orations. I doubt I will ever learn to listen with any semblance of fluency, to these far-off-yet-immediate speeches. We are too far-gone down the rabbit hole of progress, another story is now laid before us; but with time and patience and courage to walk off into a world that is bigger than your knowledge of it we can become translators. Crafting a word here, a phrase there, finally a volta: whispering “I didn’t come here to write, only sit quietly and be still for a while.”