The poem that first drew me to poetry - when I was a H.S. Junior, and I still believe E.L. Masters best, Silence is about our innate inability to express ourselves, not only to others - but even to ourselves.
He touches upon the underlying fears, questions, and mysteries of life that are all around each of us - and which no one fully comprehends.
He lists the great wonders of nature, the tragedy of sickness, death, and the unfaceably recalled horror of war. Through it all - the animal that we are, “we are voiceless in the presence of realities - we cannot speak”.
He almost paints marriage and parenthood as a tragedy, a bridge never quite crossed, which to those who have lived it there is an underlying truth to that. Where words ought to come, there is silence, even though we, “be misunderstood for it”.
We are placed at the scene of Joan Of Arc’s being burned at the stake, in Napoleons’ thoughts after his monumentous defeat, and other such times and places, and yet even these epic experiences render us speechless – perhaps a self-protection mechanism, for, “...if he could describe it all he would be an artist. But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds which he could not describe”. Still, silence.
Through this, he comforts us – it’s alright that we don’t know, can’t articulate, or cannot understand – no one can, and perhaps we are not meant to (all this being found to the uninitiated, “too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it in words intelligible”). Therefore – we remain silent at such crucial moments.
He sums it up in the final stanza: "we who are in life cannot speak of profound experiences". Even in death, we are not promised life’s answers, but rather will “interpret” each, “as we approach them”.
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