{"id":18912,"date":"2024-04-19T14:35:50","date_gmt":"2024-04-19T19:35:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/?p=18912"},"modified":"2024-04-19T15:03:57","modified_gmt":"2024-04-19T20:03:57","slug":"on-silence-intentionality-and-ethical-listening","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/archives\/18912","title":{"rendered":"On Silence, Intentionality, and Ethical Listening"},"content":{"rendered":"

with lines by Christian Wiman<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It was always all aftermath, your life.
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>Riven now,<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>and too close to your voice still
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>I feel. Mad<\/p>\n

-den the missing gods tonight. There are too many, and we are
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>too seldom<\/p>\n

responsible. What is it that Levinas
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>said? We are each<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>responsible for the other. The tumor, the lack
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>of sight in the sky\u2019s one good<\/p>\n

eye. The dead are pages
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>unfilled with words, end-stopped instead of god<\/p>\n

-stopped. What does it mean to have lost
\nsomeone? That you might be found? In that lacuna,<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>I sat next to you the last fall
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>that a child died inside me. Silence ate<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiii<\/span>the fat from the hours
\nuntil even time was skeletal. You listened,<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>that I might let
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>my grief speak. In the hauntology of language:<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>love is not a memory
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>of light falling, but the oak\u2019s sprawl<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>that the light falls through
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>as though pain<\/p>\n

might pass
\nas scripture. You sat next to me<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>as the light drew your shadow
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>in the past. Now, I sit inside your silence<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiii<\/span>knowing I invented it
\nwhen I wrote to you that last time<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>in hospice. The only answer, my own
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>stormdying<\/p>\n

pulse. In the intervention of midnight
\nrain and that midnight<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>for which there is no cure,
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>I see your voice<\/p>\n

in the sodden fields
\niiiiiiiiiii<\/span>of my mind. I want to ask if worship<\/p>\n

is that music in the water
\nyour body was\u2014<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>the ash that floats there
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>trying to get back<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiii<\/span>to fire. Who gets to be whole
\nhere? Or hereafter? What we will become is that date<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>that holds our deaths. Fields of loss
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>drowned in us. I<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>want to be anywhere
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>it is not too late<\/p>\n

now. In the hard grasses, an ache
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>belongs to the blades<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>beaten by rain and wind
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>until they are water. Though water<\/p>\n

can\u2019t be held. Though I knew you
\niiiiiiiiiii<\/span>once, not as I remember<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>you. It is love I must forgive
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>along with the goldenrod<\/p>\n

and the god my mother rented
\nin a hard year<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>and the wolf
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>moon and the pretense of happiness<\/p>\n

my brother finds in the white
\npowder he can\u2019t put down<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>and the arrest that follows
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>the protest of the heart against all this wetness<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiii<\/span>that is breath. That is the distance
\niiiiiiiiiii<\/span>between two hands. You gave me a poem<\/p>\n

once. You said save yourself. It was dark
\nfor thousands of days. No one slept<\/p>\n

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>in the silence of birds. The past went on.
\niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii<\/span>We lived in the long intolerable called God.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chelsea Dingman<\/b><\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

with lines by Christian Wiman   It was always all aftermath, your life. iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiRiven now, iiiiiiiiiiiiiand too close to your voice still iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiI feel. Mad -den the missing gods tonight. There are too many, and we are iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitoo seldom responsible. What is it that Levinas iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisaid? We are each iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiresponsible for the other. The tumor, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2292,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[81],"tags":[25],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-4V2","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18912"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2292"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18912"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18912\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18921,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18912\/revisions\/18921"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18912"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18912"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18912"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}