by Jane Monson ©
The audience are in winter; it is visible in their backs, in the hills they make that lower into the wind and wait for snow. They are stopped from the cold and the hunger bred by silence. They are tightly mooded, curled up in a half listen, the eyes turned inwards and the face down, the floor of the room cast back at them, dimming the skin with shadows. The author stands before them, opens his book, removes his hand from the blanketing of the pages, leans his head towards the print, peers over the view and opens his mouth. His story leaves him, with the apologetic gait of a new boy at school. The small crowd remain unmoved; the breath reserved, a small bare mist that comes and goes. The author moves towards the centre of the page. Men seen from the road play chess outside their doors; the game is balanced on a tilting table that follows the slant of the street; a light shout ensues from the slow slide of a chess piece. Over the page crickets set off their songs like laughter in the dark. Waves bruise the shore. The sky turns and reflects black over the sea. The air freezes. He leaves it there. Rises to show he has finished, and looks out from his book. Stretched before him is the ocean. The audience are gone. The room is pitch black and steel wintered. Something like an echo sounds itself out near his toes. He watches himself listening. Listens to himself watching.
Prose Poem from Speaking Without Tongues (Cinnamon Press: Oct 2010)
The audience are in winter; it is visible in their backs, in the hills they make that lower into the wind and wait for snow. They are stopped from the cold and the hunger bred by silence. They are tightly mooded, curled up in a half listen, the eyes turned inwards and the face down, the floor of the room cast back at them, dimming the skin with shadows. The author stands before them, opens his book, removes his hand from the blanketing of the pages, leans his head towards the print, peers over the view and opens his mouth. His story leaves him, with the apologetic gait of a new boy at school. The small crowd remain unmoved; the breath reserved, a small bare mist that comes and goes. The author moves towards the centre of the page. Men seen from the road play chess outside their doors; the game is balanced on a tilting table that follows the slant of the street; a light shout ensues from the slow slide of a chess piece. Over the page crickets set off their songs like laughter in the dark. Waves bruise the shore. The sky turns and reflects black over the sea. The air freezes. He leaves it there. Rises to show he has finished, and looks out from his book. Stretched before him is the ocean. The audience are gone. The room is pitch black and steel wintered. Something like an echo sounds itself out near his toes. He watches himself listening. Listens to himself watching.
Prose Poem from Speaking Without Tongues (Cinnamon Press: Oct 2010)
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