Poetry of Robert Fisher
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I told my husband I heard a nightingale sing.
He smiled and put in the garden recorders and microphones.
He knew nightingales were in Africa in the winter
And in Europe in the summer.
But I heard warbles, tweets, trills and chirps
Flowing in improvised beauty
Last night in our garden.

My voice comes from the warmth of the sun at my back,
Whether in Cape Verde or Dublin or Shiraz.
It passes through my throat and just as you
I listen to beauty, every note perfect,
And I know not where it will go next.
I know it matches the trees I am perched in,
Matches the sea, matches the Moon.

My song to Venus transports us
Beyond our lonely separateness
To boundary-erasing love
Where we pour ourselves from our solitary vessels
Into vessels holding each other.

Sometimes a person hears my song to Venus
Even when I am an ocean away.
They will themselves to hear me
Because they love someone more than words can say,
Even more than the words of poetry,
No matter how mysterious or thrilling.

Only my notes can mix them in a single vessel.
Tonight among the drumming Africans
And the singing Irish and the chanting Persians
There will be fewer of the lonely.
January 28th, 2016