I have spent a life in the pursuit of vanishing, not in disappearance, nothing so absolute, but a gradual thinning at the edges of being, a way of standing just outside what I am. I learned early how to lessen the weight of my presence, to speak without settling, to remain without arriving. It was not loss I was after but a kind of refinement, as if what remained might be more true for having been reduced. But nothing resolves this way. The self does not dissolve, it redistributes into habits, into silences, into the shape absence takes when it is practiced. Still, something persists, not defiant, not even aware, only continuing where I have tried not to be. I have spent a life in the pursuit of vanishing and found instead a form of staying that cannot be undone.
We cannot vanish from this world completely while we're still in it, but we can certainly be detached enough to stand a little outside the self, the ego, and all that befalls it, both good and bad - as if we are absent, but ironically more present that ever.
Paul, we discussed once how everyone perceives differently, and it may not be what you’re trying to convey, but this poem hit me. I’ve always been one to stay in the background, a quiet observer per se. I have always avoided, and never had a desire to have the attention to me. Therefore, at times, I vanish, or maybe pull away, from things or people I cannot relate to. I’m not a social butterfly, always been shy until I know someone. I vanish in the way, where I step back, and pay attention to patterns. It’s not that I’m unfriendly, but I’m a cautious observer. Thank you so much for this poem, Paul. And remember it’s better to burnout, then fade away…Neil Young✌🏻
Thank you for this note, Jo-Ann. I’m happy my poem resonated with you in this way. I, too, am a quiet observer, but I don’t necessarily pull away from people or things I feel I can’t relate to. Usually, I want to observe, to see what I’m missing (if, indeed, I am missing anything).
Well, Paul, we are more persistent than we realise - and that's just what we feel ourselves. Then there is the impact we have upon others - even through Poetry....
You are still here alright - in and of yourself, and within your readers also.
I love the distinction between vanishing and disappearing, and the realization that the self doesn't dissolve but "redistributes." There's something deeply true here about the futility of trying to lessen oneself. The ending rings true and lingers. You have a new sub. <3
Answers they wanted to hear always came easy for me. I used to ask a lot of questions. People used to say, “Read the Bible, Sonny—you’ll find all the answers there.” I read the Bible and, indeed, found many answers, just not to the questions I wanted to ask.
Paul, this poem stayed with me for quite a while after reading it. Especially the first four stanzas. I could follow them almost completely from lived experience.
“The self does not dissolve, it redistributes into habits, into silences, into the shape absence takes when it is practiced.”
That landed deeply for me. Especially the idea of absence becoming practiced. Adaptation becoming structure. Presence thinning at the edges rather than disappearing altogether.
Where I initially stumbled was the ending.
“I have spent a life in the pursuit of vanishing and found instead a form of staying that cannot be undone.”
My first reading closed the poem for me. I read the “staying” as the adapted self remaining in place. The habits staying. The conditioning staying. Almost a kind of existential enclosure.
Yet the longer I sat with the final stanza, the more another reading opened.
The “form of staying” began to feel less like adaptation and more like the part underneath adaptation. Something persistent. Quiet. Almost outside conscious awareness. Something continuing exactly where the speaker tried not to be.
And suddenly the poem changed shape for me.
The first reading closes the poem. The second opens it toward the possibility of healing, even though the poem itself never speaks in the language of healing or resolution. I found that tension extraordinarily interesting.
I also appreciate how carefully you leave the speaker unresolved. I never fully know whether I am reading autobiography, persona, observation, or some shifting combination of all three. The ambiguity feels structural rather than accidental, and it allows the poem to keep unfolding after the final line
You’re very much still here, Paul!
Thank you, Carole. I’ve managed to remain.
I’m glad for that.😊
As a Nobdy, I can relate to this
Thank you, Earl.
Very Symboliste, presence and absence.
Thank you, Lev
We cannot vanish from this world completely while we're still in it, but we can certainly be detached enough to stand a little outside the self, the ego, and all that befalls it, both good and bad - as if we are absent, but ironically more present that ever.
Thank you, as always, Martin!
Food for thought, there
Thank you for reading and commenting, Julie.
Paul, we discussed once how everyone perceives differently, and it may not be what you’re trying to convey, but this poem hit me. I’ve always been one to stay in the background, a quiet observer per se. I have always avoided, and never had a desire to have the attention to me. Therefore, at times, I vanish, or maybe pull away, from things or people I cannot relate to. I’m not a social butterfly, always been shy until I know someone. I vanish in the way, where I step back, and pay attention to patterns. It’s not that I’m unfriendly, but I’m a cautious observer. Thank you so much for this poem, Paul. And remember it’s better to burnout, then fade away…Neil Young✌🏻
Thank you for this note, Jo-Ann. I’m happy my poem resonated with you in this way. I, too, am a quiet observer, but I don’t necessarily pull away from people or things I feel I can’t relate to. Usually, I want to observe, to see what I’m missing (if, indeed, I am missing anything).
❤️
Grateful that you're still here, dear Paul. Grateful for your poems.
Happy Birthday, Paul!
Thank you, Lor
Well, Paul, we are more persistent than we realise - and that's just what we feel ourselves. Then there is the impact we have upon others - even through Poetry....
You are still here alright - in and of yourself, and within your readers also.
Best Wishes - Dave
Today is my birthday—thank you for the gifts of reading and commenting on my writing.
Does practice refine us - or leave us even more stubbornly persistent? I’ve been wondering lately, not having vanished as I’d expected.
I think practice leaves us as a bit of both, Patris.
yes. Just wondering. the poem is perfect, Paul. x
Dear Paul,
Your beautiful poem reminds me of Keeping Things Whole by Mark Strand, and has sat softly on my heart.
Best,
Mahdi
I have not read much of Strand’s work, but he’s on my list to explore. I will check out the poem you mention, Mahdi. Thank you.
I love the distinction between vanishing and disappearing, and the realization that the self doesn't dissolve but "redistributes." There's something deeply true here about the futility of trying to lessen oneself. The ending rings true and lingers. You have a new sub. <3
Thank you for reading and commenting, Petra, and for subscribing. I’m honored!
You’re welcome! I’d feel honored for you to do likewise. <3
Done!
Thank you <3
One. Existential.
Two slumps seated at fixed chair in classroom not to be called upon. Answer is not to say anything.
Thank you, Richbee. I have been one of those slumps in the classroom. Sometimes, I’ve even been both!
One day called upon. Knew correct answer. Learned lesson. Pursuit of knowledge follows.
Answers they wanted to hear always came easy for me. I used to ask a lot of questions. People used to say, “Read the Bible, Sonny—you’ll find all the answers there.” I read the Bible and, indeed, found many answers, just not to the questions I wanted to ask.
I asked the tree of knowledge. Took a bite of apricot. Delighted with taste.
Check out Justin Deming’s along the Hudson post.
Which post of his?
Love this!
Love you 😘
Thank you, Jamesina!
Thank you for this restack, @Cecilia
Paul, this poem stayed with me for quite a while after reading it. Especially the first four stanzas. I could follow them almost completely from lived experience.
“The self does not dissolve, it redistributes into habits, into silences, into the shape absence takes when it is practiced.”
That landed deeply for me. Especially the idea of absence becoming practiced. Adaptation becoming structure. Presence thinning at the edges rather than disappearing altogether.
Where I initially stumbled was the ending.
“I have spent a life in the pursuit of vanishing and found instead a form of staying that cannot be undone.”
My first reading closed the poem for me. I read the “staying” as the adapted self remaining in place. The habits staying. The conditioning staying. Almost a kind of existential enclosure.
Yet the longer I sat with the final stanza, the more another reading opened.
The “form of staying” began to feel less like adaptation and more like the part underneath adaptation. Something persistent. Quiet. Almost outside conscious awareness. Something continuing exactly where the speaker tried not to be.
And suddenly the poem changed shape for me.
The first reading closes the poem. The second opens it toward the possibility of healing, even though the poem itself never speaks in the language of healing or resolution. I found that tension extraordinarily interesting.
I also appreciate how carefully you leave the speaker unresolved. I never fully know whether I am reading autobiography, persona, observation, or some shifting combination of all three. The ambiguity feels structural rather than accidental, and it allows the poem to keep unfolding after the final line