The Place Where They Call My

[filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] If I think or feel, I turn away, From the one who thinks and feels today. I am not the hand, I am not the flame, I am only the field where feelings take a name. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] I am only the place where you feel or think, The quiet shore beside the water’s brink. Thoughts come like rivers, feelings like rain, I let them pass through me, again and again. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] I have more souls than one, More selves beneath the sun. There are more selves than myself, Like books upon an empty shelf. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] I exist, however, indifferent to all, A house with many voices filling every hall. I silence them: I speak, I stand when they are strong, I stand when they are weak. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] The crossed impulses pull me apart, Some say yes, some trouble the heart. What I feel, what I don't feel, Turns the wheel, but none can tell [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] Which voice is mine, which voice is passing, Which one is falling, which one is lasting. They dispute who I am, Like birds fighting over the same branch again. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] Still I remain where the shadows meet, A road beneath every wandering feet. I need not choose the voices I hear, I am the open sky that holds them near. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] If I think or feel, I let it go, I need not know the one who says so. I am only the place where you feel or think, The endless shore, the river’s brink. If I think or feel, I turn away, From the one who thinks, from the one who stays. I am not the voice, I am not the flame, I am only the place where they call my name. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] I am the field where the wild winds run, A house with many hearts, more souls than one. There are more selves than myself can know, Like seeds in the earth where the green things grow. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] I exist like a stone beneath the rain, Indifferent to joy, indifferent to pain. They rise like rivers, they fall like snow, And I let them pass through the place I know. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] I silence them: I speak. I hold what they cannot keep. A thousand footsteps cross my ground, Yet none can say who makes the sound. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] The crossed impulses pull at the thread, One says yes, while another says dead. What I feel, what I don't, what I might become, Are arguing voices, but I belong to none. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] Still I walk beneath the old oak tree, With every hidden self walking with me. The morning is bright, the road is wide, And all of these souls keep pace inside. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] I silence them: I speak. I wake, I wander, I sleep. More than one heart beneath one name, More than one fire, more than one flame. [filter, phonograph gramophone spoken-word poetry] If I think or feel, I let it go, Like a song through the valley, like a river's flow. I am not the thinker, nor feeling's shore, I am only the place—and nothing more.