Brevity
by Judith Wright
Old
Rhythm, old Metre
these days
I don’t draw
very deep
breaths. There isn’t
much left
to say.
Rhyme, my
old cymbal,
I don’t
clash you as often,
or trust
your old promises
of music
and unison.
I used to
love Keats, Blake.
Now I try haiku
for its
honed brevities,
its
inclusive silences.
Issa.
Shiki. Buson. Bashō.
Few words
and with no rhetoric.
Enclosed
by silence
as is the
thrush’s call.
From
“Notes at Edge” in Phantom
Dwelling (North Ryde, Australia: Angus
and Robertson, 1985).
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