Nonko, a Seventeenth-century Ceramicist

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The black bat makes its sounds beyond my ears,

A pitch too high for human nerves to hear,

But, is there, like ultraviolet tears

From stars, and certain bowls of black, severe

In beauty shaped in old Japan appeal

To tastes of quiet sorts.  The Master’s tea

Bowl glows as if an inward god can feel

His way from it to you and modern me.

Caress it with your reverence, your eyes

Made holy in its presence.  Let it speak

Restrained in silence.  Centuries bring surprise

Of loveliness, of silence at its peak.

  We smell the bitter tea, its words unheard,

    A darkest almost hidden view conferred.

~ Phillip Whidden