It was raining. The crowd— too few to be a crowd—perhaps a gathering, or the assembled, more ghosts than listeners, their coats darkened not just by weather but by the weight of waiting.
He stood on the stump, not of authority, but of loss— the remnant of a tree felled long before, as if the forest had once believed in clearing room for prophecy.
He spoke not of thunder, but of hush. Not of redemption, but of what remained after the soil forgot its seed.
The gathering, if such it was, did not cheer, nor weep. They listened with the rain, as if the water itself were translating his broken cadence into something nearly true.
He spoke not of hope, or loss, of tomorrow, or yesterday, or even today. He named no sins, offered no absolution, held no book but the hush of water sliding down his sleeve.
His voice did not rise. It pooled. Like the rain in the hollow of the stump beneath him. He said only: “You have heard the wind. Now hear the stillness it leaves behind.”
And they did not answer. Not from doubt, but because his words were not questions. They were roots— groping downward through silence, seeking something older than belief.
A dog barked in the distance. A child shifted, not from boredom, but from the weight of understanding too early what it meant to stand still in a world that keeps spinning.
He stepped down, the stump left wet, as if it had wept a little too.
And the assembled, if that is what they were, dispersed—no closer, no farther, but marked.
Some were bewildered. Others thought they were enlightened, but knew not how. Still others could not recall what he had said, only that his voice was comforting, his cadence soothing— not the lullaby of forgetfulness, but the murmur of rain on old wood, reminding them of something they had never quite known.
No creed was offered. No call to return. Yet a few found themselves walking more slowly afterward, listening more intently to trees, to puddles, to silences that did not demand reply.
And the stump remained— neither altar nor monument, but a place where words once settled like mist and did not vanish.
The vague glimmer of a head suspended in space (1891, Lithograph) Odilon Redon (1840–1916)
Author’s Note
This poem emerged from reflection upon the moments when something—unspoken, unnamed—shatters the center from which we speak and think. It is not always violence that undoes us, but stillness, silence, a breath held too long.
I Am Undone is not a narrative of healing, nor of hope. It is the descent, rendered faithfully: from coherence to fragmentation, from identity to question, from the sentence to the unsaid. It may speak to trauma, or grief, or loss—or any of life’s other vicissitudes—but it seeks no cause. Only witness.
Let it stand as a record of that moment when words fail, and still we reach for them.
I Am Undone
by Donald S. Yarab
I. Recognition
It came not with fury, nor with fire. Not a blow, but a breath withheld. A stillness uncoiling in the spine. I did not cry out. I did not fall. I said only—I am undone. And the words were true, though I did not yet know how much they would mean.
II. Unbinding
The star chart curled into ash. Landmarks dimmed, receded, folded into fog. I had names once— for the road, the self, the longing. They rusted in my mouth. I said again, am I— but the word faltered. Was I I? Was am still? Was undone the end, or only a door swinging inward with no floor?
III. Disorientation
I wandered, perhaps. Or stood still and the world wandered past. The days no longer linked. Events occurred—but not to me. Faces mouthed shapes I could not hear or remember. I touched a wall that had always been there. It crumbled under my hand. I called it home, or meant to. Or once had. I think.
Un—done—I am—undone am I— I am…am I…?
IV. Unmooring
And the past… no, the shape before the past— was it mine? Or borrowed from the eyes of others? Their eyes are gone. The mirror does not answer. I meant to say a thing— some thing— a small thing— but the mouth no longer forms what the mind no longer sends.
There is no forward. There is no back. There is no—
(nois)
V. Dissolution
I think I said—I was— no. I had said. Once.
Undone. It was the word. I said it. Before. Or after. I do not—
No shape to the day. No frame to the thought. They come—go— without edge.
The name of the thing was… not there. And the word for that— what was the word? The word is gone. The knowing is not.
“Ponder, O Morpheus, the Night Sky” arose from a meditation on the nature of dreams, consciousness, and the silent mysteries that lie beyond both. Rather than seeking to instruct, this poetic work offers a dialogue — between mortal longing and divine wonder, between question and silence. In addressing Morpheus, the god of dreams, the poem invites not sleep, but contemplation: a shared pondering of the night sky, where the known fades into the unknown, and where even gods may pause in awe before the infinite. It is my hope that this work may serve as a quiet companion for those who have found themselves, at least once, standing beneath the stars, asking questions for which no easy answers are given — and finding, in the asking, a kind of sacred beginning.
Sleep by Jean Bernard Restout (c. 1771). Oil on canvas, 129.5 x 96.5 cm (38 x 51 in). Cleveland Museum of Art. Depicting Morpheus
Ponder, O Morpheus, the Night Sky
“Beyond dreams lies a silence where even gods wonder.”
Prelude: The Summoning of Morpheus
Morpheus, Keeper of the Silent Looms, hear now the summons not of those who seek forgetfulness, nor of those who plead for soft illusions to cradle their weary minds— but of one who, standing alone beneath the immeasurable firmament, dares to bid thee ponder.
Ponder, thou Weaver of Shadows, the night sky: the endless, ink-deep vault where Orion’s belt cinches the waist of darkness, where scattered fires—blue, white, and ancient red— whisper of secrets too vast for mortal tongues.
Not for dreams of idle comfort do I call thee forth, but for contemplation; to set aside for a moment thy ceaseless crafting of mortal visions and lift thine ancient gaze upward, where the silent percussion of dying stars beats out the hidden music of creation.
For if thou, master of phantoms and bringer of luminous memories, shouldst pause to wonder at that boundless mystery, then perhaps the soul of man, frail and flickering though it be, might dare likewise to ask:
Who dreams the dreamers, O Morpheus? Whence come the visions thou bestowest? And what lies beyond the last dream, beyond the last star, beyond the last breath of sleep?
Thus the greater query is born, trembling on the tongue of the sleepless, yearning toward the silence that gathers all speech.
The Greater Query: A Dialogue with Morpheus
Soul: If thou, O Shaper of Phantoms, canst be stilled by wonder, then hear the questions borne upon my waking breath, fragile as they are, yet earnest as the stars are ancient:
Who first whispered the dream into being, before ever thou didst fashion it? From what unseen wellspring do the rivers of vision flow? Are the dreams of men but fractured echoes of a deeper song, or do they weave even now the hidden fabric of worlds yet unborn?
Morpheus (in thought): Dreams are the trembling of the soul against the veil of the infinite. They are not born of my will alone, Seeker, but arise from the deep soil where memory, longing, and the first light entwine. I but give them form; I do not summon them from the abyss. Some dreams, frail though they seem, stitch the very edges of what is to be. Mortals, in dreaming, unknowingly shape the unborn dawn.
Soul: Is it given to us—dust briefly animated, clay granted momentary breath— to pierce that veil? Or must we first unmake ourselves, falling through forgetting, to be remembered by the nameless light?
Morpheus: Beyond all dreams there is a silence older than stars and deeper than death. A silence not of absence, but of fullness, where neither waking nor sleeping holds dominion, and the soul, naked and unafraid, beholds itself as it was before all weaving began.
There the true Dreamer dwells— not I, but He whom none can name, the source of all dreams, the end of all seeking, the unspoken, the unseen.
Soul: And if we seek it, do we not risk all—memory, longing, even self itself?
Morpheus: It is the risk of being lost to be found, the surrender of knowledge to come to knowing. To seek the Silent One is to set sail upon a sea without stars, to abandon the safe shores of image and name, to become at last what thou hast always been: a breath upon the waters of infinity.
Ponder well, O Seeker, for in the seeking, thou thyself becomest the dream, the dreamer, and the silence beyond.
The Blessing of Morpheus: The Sending Forth
Morpheus: Go forth, Child of Earth and Stars, go forth lightly, as one who walks upon waters not yet created. Carry no burden save the yearning that kindled thy question; bind no certainty to thy brow, nor shelter fear within thy breast.
Let dreams fall from thee like withered leaves; let even the constellations become but distant embers, for thou seekest now what neither dream nor waking thought can compass.
Take not with thee the names men have carved into the bones of the world, for names shatter against the face of the nameless. Take not the proud trophies of reason, nor the soft nets of hope, for these will tear upon the thorns of the infinite.
Instead, take this only: a heart made naked in wonder, a mind made silent in awe, and feet made light as wind upon waters unseen.
And know this, O Soul: thou art neither lost nor found in this seeking, for to seek the Silent One is to be gathered even now into His dreaming.
Thus do I, Morpheus, who weaves the veils of sleep, send thee forth beyond all veils, beyond all sleep, beyond the last trembling breath of mortal wonder. Go, and become the question thou hast dared to ask.
Epilogue: The Pondering of Morpheus
And Morpheus stood long in the hush of the night, his ancient hands unclasped, his brow unburdened of dreams.
He lifted his gaze once more to the immeasurable vault, where scattered fires—blue, white, and red— burned against the black breast of infinity.
He pondered— not as god to mortal, nor as master to servant, but as wonder to wonder, breathless before a mystery he too could not wholly grasp.
In the stillness beyond weaving and shaping, he glimpsed, as in the faintest shimmer of distant nebulae, a vastness where even gods must bow their heads, where even dreams dissolve like mist before the morning sun.
And in that silence, older than all his songs, Morpheus smiled— not because he understood, but because he wondered still.
He felt a pang—brief and piercing— a mortal ache for the fleeting fierceness of human wonder, so bright and brief.
And so he pondered, and the night pondered with him, until speech was stilled, and he was lost—and found—within the endless deep.
As one who is new to crafting poetry, I am aware that my journey is one of growth, learning, and exploration. What follows is a discussion of the approach I have consciously adopted to refine my poems and avoid the criticisms and condemnations so freely voiced by those such as Wilde—“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic”—and Bloom, who remarked, “All bad poetry is sincere.”
The Art of Moving the Soul: My Approach to Poetry
My approach to poetry is grounded in a vision that goes beyond crafting words into aesthetically pleasing forms; it is about shaping language into something that moves the reader deeply. Poetry is, at its heart, the pursuit of connection, of reaching into the depths of an emotion and distilling it into a form that resonates universally. To accomplish this, I focus on balancing the technical mastery of language with an awareness of emotional truth—crafting a poem not to be admired for its sophistication but to stir something fundamental within its audience.
Mastery of Language and Artifice
A poet must be a master of language—but this mastery is more than an extensive vocabulary or a mastery of grammar. It encompasses an intimate understanding of all the artifices of language, from metaphor and rhythm to sound, cadence, and imagery. Each of these elements is a tool that, when used with precision and intention, can amplify the emotional power of a poem.
Metaphor and Symbolism are central to my work. I believe that a well-crafted metaphor can reveal truths that straightforward language cannot reach. Metaphor allows me to take the deeply personal and translate it into the universal. It transforms emotions into imagery that transcends the particularity of my own experiences, inviting readers to see their own reflections within the lines.
Sound and Rhythm are equally crucial. Poetry is inherently musical, and I strive to create an aural experience that mirrors the emotional landscape of the poem. The rhythm of a line, the careful use of alliteration or consonance, can evoke a specific mood—whether it be urgency, tranquility, or dissonance. This musicality helps bridge the gap between the reader’s intellect and their emotional response, drawing them into the essence of the poem.
Precision in Word Choice is another aspect of my approach. Every word in a poem must be chosen with purpose, as the weight each carries is amplified by the brevity and density of poetry. Words must be evocative, precise, and imbued with the potential to convey a spectrum of meanings. The challenge lies in selecting words that are capable of evoking the complexity of emotion I aim to convey, while still maintaining accessibility for the reader
What I Seek to Avoid
While I strive to use all the tools of language, I am cautious of letting craft overpower emotional authenticity. There is a risk in focusing too heavily on technical mastery—in creating something that is elaborate but lacks heart. A poem must not be an exercise in showing off the artifices of language; it must always remain rooted in emotional truth.
Additionally, I seek to also avoid the temptation to use language that is obscure simply for the sake of complexity. My aim is to create poetry that is layered and nuanced but still accessible. Complexity should be employed to deepen meaning, not to obfuscate it. When a poem becomes a puzzle that requires solving, it runs the risk of alienating readers, making them admire or – more likely – curse the poet’s intellect rather than inviting them to connect with the poem’s core. To me, poetry should not be a performance to impress but a bridge to connect—to take a feeling, a moment, and expand it in such a way that it becomes a shared experience.
Lessons from Rhetoric: Demosthenes vs. Cicero
In approaching poetry, I often reflect on an anecdote I read years ago about two of history’s great orators: Demosthenes and Cicero. Cicero was celebrated for his eloquence—when he spoke, people said, “What a fine orator.” His speeches were technically perfect, full of rhetorical sophistication, and they garnered admiration for their artful construction. But when Demosthenes spoke, people said, “Let us march.” Demosthenes moved his audience to action; his speeches were not simply admired, they were felt deeply, and they inspired his audience to do something.
This comparison informs my approach to poetry. While I value the craft—the meter, the rhythm, the careful construction of lines—I strive for something more. I want my poems to move the reader, to evoke a response that goes beyond admiration for a well-crafted verse. I want them to feel the emotional urgency behind the words, to resonate with the core truth of the poem, and perhaps even to be stirred to reflect, to act, or to see the world a little differently. My goal is to use the artifice of language not as an end but as a means—to make my words sing, not just for beauty’s sake but for the sake of the emotion and meaning that lie beneath.
Craft and Emotional Truth in Harmony
Ultimately, my approach to poetry is about finding the balance between mastery of language and emotional authenticity. The artifices of language—metaphor, rhythm, sound, form—are powerful tools, but they must be used with intention. They must serve the deeper purpose of the poem, which is to capture and convey something genuine about the human experience. The artifice should be invisible, or at least secondary, to the emotional impact.
Like Demosthenes, I wish to create not just a polished, skillful verse but something that speaks directly to the heart of the reader, that moves them. The art of poetry, to me, is not in the cleverness of its construction, but in its ability to resonate—to create a moment of connection, a shared breath, a glimpse into the universal truths that bind us all.
I hope that my poetry steadily improves and meets the standards I articulated above, growing in emotional depth, linguistic mastery, and its ability to touch readers in meaningful ways.
The Sower (oil on canvas, 1888) by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890). Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.
Note on the Origin of This Poem
This poem was inspired by a recent reflection on T.S. Eliot’s Burnt Norton, the first of his Four Quartets (with a nod to Augustine of Hippo’s Confessions, which I have also recently revisited). Eliot’s meditation on time has long intrigued me, particularly his exploration of the eternal present where past, present, and future are interwoven. His lines, “What might have been and what has been / Point to one end, which is always present,” reflect an awareness of unrealized possibilities lingering in memory, resonating with the tension between choice and fate.
While Eliot does not dwell entirely on regret, his imagery—such as “the passage which we did not take / Towards the door we never opened”—evokes a sense of paths unchosen and moments lost, suggesting an undercurrent of melancholy and reflection on missed opportunities.
This contrasts with my own perspective, which views the past not as a source of sorrow or lamentation but as a guide—a map to navigate the future. For me, the past should instruct us, not torment us. I focus not on what might have been but on the lessons that can inform where we must go next. As I recently discussed with one of my sisters, I learned more from my past failures, whether on school exams, work situations, or personal circumstances, than I did from my successes.
In short, regret is the most useless emotion.
Inspired by this distinction, I sought to explore these ideas poetically, offering a reflection on time that emphasizes the instructive value of the past rather than its potential to weigh us down with regret.
The Past Is but a Map
The past is not a chain of sorrow, Not the dust of what we might have been— But a map unfolding, Marked by lines of roads untaken. The tests we failed are etched more deeply Than triumphs where we passed unscarred. The echo of footfalls is not regret’s whisper But instruction pointing forward. The door unopened is not lamented But a path unseen, Waiting to instruct. Hard lessons carve deeper than easy ones; Each misstep, a mark of progress. The teacher we resisted Becomes the guide we heed. There is no torment in yesterday’s shadow, Only the light of what we must now become. Ever forward, we glance back— Not for grief, But for direction, For the past keeps its own counsel As we shape the days to come.
Northcoast Antiquarian 