ASK ME ABOUT THE SILENCE A shorter version appeared in di-verse-city; Anthology of Austin International Poetry Festival, 2004 (ed. Vicki Goldsberry ); a runner-up in the competition for The Christina Sergeyevna Award. Ask me now about Thelonious Sphere Monk and Vincent Van Gogh their walk along the Hudson river or was it the Rhone? I am not sure where they hang out these days. Maybe at a sidewalk cafe on the Place du Forum, in Arles or at the Five Spot Cafe, in New Amsterdam listening to blues. Thelonious in a pin-stripe suit a flask of burbon in his pocket wearing one of his funny hats (perhaps a "rogatywka" he got while touring Poland) and a diamond ring that would be glistennin', shimmerin', siverin' and then scratch the keys of a piano. Vincent in a green coat, buttoned up takes a puff from a pipe, a sip of absinthe his ear covered by a bandage a furry hat on his head. They talk about blossoming almond trees olive groves and irises sunflowers on blue and pink roses and white roses as if flashes of light in Monk's tunes: "Light Blue, "Ask Me Now," and "Coming on the Hudson." Yes, coming on the Hudson or was it the Rhone? I am not sure where they hang out these days.

They trade chords full of colors palettes filled with bent notes broad strokes and steps in which the silence comes home. Why was Monk silent? For 6 years he had not touched a piano no music at all (at least, none we could hear) then death. Doctors say he was ill and burned out. True, and so was Vincent. But the illness does not shed light on what they really heard, saw, carried from the previous lives perhaps from the hills of Arles along the path with willows and cypresses to a yellow house a bedroom with pale violet walls a green window a night table, a water carafe, a vase a bed covered with light greenish-citron sheets and something red and two chairs almost collapsed under the heavy burden of shades and yet standing standing firm not falling. Ask me about Monk's dream in which, on a starry night Vincent is painting round lights. What happens between one stroke of a brush and a note played on a piano? What holds it all together? Ask me now ‘round midnight while we are watching starlight over the Rhone. Ask me about the . . .     The calligraphy, by the Zen Master Sengai, reads: "The spring color all over the fields"

Poetry