The Frank O’Hara poem “Katy” features seven lines of self-assessing declarations. It is the fifth line that I get the most mileage out of: “I am never quiet, I mean silent.” When I am teaching writing workshops, specifically with young writers, teen-agers who—in many cases—have not let their sense of wonder be battered by waves of irony or cynicism, I ask them what distinctions they see between “quiet” and “silent.” There is no correct answer, no sweeping conclusion. I’m asking them to tap into that sense of wonder and invent an explanation for what O’Hara might have been suggesting. One participant insisted that even a bird with no capacity for song can still make a kind of song, with its wings beating against the wind. Another added that a person can attempt silence but will often fail:
Racing Mount Pleasant Makes Quiet Emotions Sound Grand

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