Cry, the Quiet Child

Cry, the quiet child, for there is such a stillness
in the air this morning, the meadow seems silent as frost.
So subtle is your murmur, it seems we must confess:
your voice must be the one—or be the one that’s lost.
For we were planned and planted deep at birth
to have the inner strength to free
the earth of all the world’s debris,
it must have all its hopes in grave and gravel earth.
So cry. Cry of august trees awake.
The sky, awake. The lake, awake. Stay, terrain.
Cry of song and psalm to shake
the house alive, massive in refrain.
Cry of moss and flowers frozen in the frost.
Cry the quiet child. Your meadow now is lost.

Published by extrasimile

define: extra: excess, more than is needed, required or desired; something additional of the same kind. define: simile: a simile is a type of figurative language, language that does not mean exactly what it says, that makes a comparison between two otherwise unalike objects or ideas by connecting them with the words “like” or “as.” The reader can see a similar connection with the verbs resemble, compare and liken. Similes allow an author to emphasize a certain characteristic of an object by comparing that object to an unrelated object that is an example of that characteristic. define: extra: an minor actor in a crowd scene

3 thoughts on “Cry, the Quiet Child

  1. Sorry to hear about that fall Jim. No bones broken you say, but obviously darned unpleasant. Take better care of yourself, my old Internet buddy.
    I’ve been rereading your poem – always worth doing – in the light of your comment. New insights and fresh enjoyment!

  2. Thanks John for spotting the typo. Of course, I meant ‘planned’. Let me be plain. I planned to plane the sentence, making it look planned, not pained (or painted). But my plan took flight…
    No, I’ll stop here.
    Your take on ‘the Quiet Child’ as being a plea is interesting. As I’m sure you know, I don’t claim any special authority in interpreting the poem—but I’ve recently come to the belief that the quiet child is me. The poet talking to himself as other. ‘Your meadow now is lost.’ It is a sobering interpretation, I know, but there you have it. See also Robert Duncan’s ,’Often I am permitted to Return to a Meadow.’
    i’m going to look at your recent poems over this weekend. That is my intention anyway. last weekend i fell and spent my time in the hospital. (I’m okay, no broken bones.) Let’s not do that again.)

  3. Hi Jim. This is an arresting sonnet, perfectly crafted with subtle rhymes and a turn after the octet. As always with your poems there is a mystery, but one senses a plea to the quiet child to raise their voice, to raise it with the trees of August and the rest of the natural world before it is too late. And there are many beautiful lines and phrases in the poem – too many to mention almost.
    (You might check line 5: planed or planned?). All the best, John

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