The Whispering Hall
Around its corners housed are
the essence of knowledge.
Lined neatly where thoughts
ravaged yesterday,
and now, these are abused & broken
in the rampage of our monde.
There is so much we have to hold
inside, in the narrow space
between fear and resolution.
Without either we are not ourselves,
with only one we are nothing
but wandering women in the forest green.
It is really a cave of sorts,
one filled with many pecking
at the meanings of the skin blue signs
meandering the walls.
It is a convocation of needs:
for quiet, for meeting, for whispering.
A regimen of stiff chairs, and
long initialed tables, dusty torn books,
high amber light, serious faces,
worried looks, and stifled laughter.
In this chamber-cave,
this rectangle of multi-volume sets,
and curt assistance--
sometimes the whispering of the hall
may be heard.
In thought, it was only the chant of voices there.
In reality it was the room itself
that took the sounds of voices--
and absorbed them,
and with time, released them from its height.
There was no way to point
to there or maybe — there
to find the source and the reason.
The clearly pitched but whispered
voice would just be;
investing the ear with worlds.
It was not something that could be done,
it had to happen.
And when it did, the eyes would roam
and search and seek
but never move, for it would stop.
If one could only just find the face
that formed the words,
that made the whisper.
If one could only just find,
what really wasn't there.
And sometimes, no matter where one is,
the whispering voice will be heard.
If you stop and listen, listen carefully
and look quickly to match voice and face.
But do not stop long,
for the words do not have meaning
—though always clearly heard--
And if you tarry,
you will be carried screaming from the room.
East Lansing
March 26, 1983
Normal Series
©1983 The Whispering Hall — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
the essence of knowledge.
Lined neatly where thoughts
ravaged yesterday,
and now, these are abused & broken
in the rampage of our monde.
There is so much we have to hold
inside, in the narrow space
between fear and resolution.
Without either we are not ourselves,
with only one we are nothing
but wandering women in the forest green.
It is really a cave of sorts,
one filled with many pecking
at the meanings of the skin blue signs
meandering the walls.
It is a convocation of needs:
for quiet, for meeting, for whispering.
A regimen of stiff chairs, and
long initialed tables, dusty torn books,
high amber light, serious faces,
worried looks, and stifled laughter.
In this chamber-cave,
this rectangle of multi-volume sets,
and curt assistance--
sometimes the whispering of the hall
may be heard.
In thought, it was only the chant of voices there.
In reality it was the room itself
that took the sounds of voices--
and absorbed them,
and with time, released them from its height.
There was no way to point
to there or maybe — there
to find the source and the reason.
The clearly pitched but whispered
voice would just be;
investing the ear with worlds.
It was not something that could be done,
it had to happen.
And when it did, the eyes would roam
and search and seek
but never move, for it would stop.
If one could only just find the face
that formed the words,
that made the whisper.
If one could only just find,
what really wasn't there.
And sometimes, no matter where one is,
the whispering voice will be heard.
If you stop and listen, listen carefully
and look quickly to match voice and face.
But do not stop long,
for the words do not have meaning
—though always clearly heard--
And if you tarry,
you will be carried screaming from the room.
East Lansing
March 26, 1983
Normal Series
©1983 The Whispering Hall — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.