The Silence Anthology, edited by the distinguished Kenyan poet and academic Christopher Okemwa, is a profound new collection that redefines silence—not as emptiness, but as presence, divinity, and creative force. Published by BoD – Books on Demand, this 336-page anthology gathers voices from across continents, offering a polyphonic meditation on silence in all its meanings and metaphors.
In this groundbreaking work, silence is not the absence of sound, but the echo of existence—the flutter of a butterfly’s wings on a windowpane, the clap of thunder in stormy rain, the murmur of wind through trees. As Okemwa writes in his preface, “It is the visit of a Muse, a piece of God’s hair, which breaks off and hovers in the air, infiltrating our creative compositions.”
Through hundreds of poems by celebrated and emerging poets from every corner of the world, silence becomes a sanctuary, a mirror, a veil of snow, and a lullaby. It is golden, deafening, and redemptive—a metaphor that binds human experience to the natural and spiritual realms.
This anthology brings together poets from over fifty countries—including voices from Africa, Asia, Europe, the Americas, and the Pacific—each contributing a unique reflection on what it means to listen, to pause, and to exist within the stillness of the world.
Silence Anthology is available for purchase through Amazon, Books-A-Million, BoD – Books on Demand, and major online bookstores worldwide.
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Silence is not the absence of anything; it is the presence of something, the existence of a god, or a sort of divinity, as heard in the flapping wings of a butterfly on the windowpane or as heard in the claps of thunder in the stormy rain; or, as heard in the susurration of the wind among the trees; it is simply the visit of a Muse, a piece of God’s hair, which breaks off and hovers in the air, infiltrating our creative compositions. Indeed, it is the presence of something, not the absence of anything, a domain of possibilities, a shade of emotions, and a mirror to the soul.
In this anthology, silence embodies various metaphors, such as silence is golden, silence is deafening, silence is a veil of snow, silence is a mirror, silence is a veil of secrecy, silence is a sanctuary, silence is a lullaby, etc. With its many metaphors, as used by poets in this anthology, silence then seems to play a role in our existence and the way we human beings perceive things.
The Silence Anthology gathers an impressive constellation of poets from across the world, each bringing a unique cultural and linguistic voice to the shared theme of silence. From the United Kingdom, contributors include A. C. Clarke, Antje Bothin, David A. Banks, David Mccorkindale, Irene Cunningham, Mark Andrew Heathcote, Shanta Acharya, and John Tunaley. The United States is represented by a remarkable range of poets such as Aline Soules, Allison Murdach, Ann Pineles, Anne Mccrady, Beata Pozniak, Chanel Spellman-Timmons, Daphne Barbee-Wooten, David Holper, Duane Vorhees (also of Thailand), Eileen R. Tabios, Frances K. Ransley, Joan McNerney, Kathrine Yets, Linda M. Crate, Nina Kossman, Peggy Morrison, Sandra Rogers-Hare, Susan Dambroff, William Wolak, and Zev Levinson. From India come Alka Singh, Chandrama Deshmukh, Dilip Mohapatra, Dilip Mewada, Manjula Bhadraswamy, Neelam Saxena Chandra, Pravat Kumar Padhy, R. P. Singh, Sherin Mary Zacharia, Shyamala Sathiaseelan (also of Ireland), and Sujata Dash.
Switzerland is represented by Andrea Grieder and Lilian Frei, while Scotland offers voices like Annie Mitchell, Chrys Salt, Laurie Donaldson, and Tom Docherty. From Belgium, we hear Antoon Van Den Braembussche and Germain Droogenbroodt (who also represents Spain). The Egyptian poet Ashraf Aboul-Yazid (Ashraf Dali) adds a distinguished Arab voice, and Morocco is present through Awatef El Idrissi Boukhris. From Nigeria come Ayo Ayoola-Amale, Isinaego Chibueze, and Jeremiah Durotinu, while Ireland is represented by Bernadette Gallagher, Daithy Kearney, Jimmy O’Connell, Matt Mooney, and Susan Bailey.
The anthology also features Asian voices such as Cao Shui, Ma Di’er, Zhang Zhi, and Zhou Duanzhuang from China; Chen Hsiu-chen, Lee Kuei-Shien, Ming-Keh Chen, and Tsai Jung-Yung from Taiwan; and Kamala Wijeratne from Sri Lanka. Greece contributes Christos Dikbasanis, Kapardeli Eftichia, and Sotirios Pastakas. The Turkish poet Derya Avşar, the Bangladeshi poet Rezauddin Stalin, and the Vietnamese voice Mai Van Phan add rich regional tones.
Kenya’s poetic presence includes Christopher Okemwa, Evans Gesura Mecha, Money J. Abala, and Raphael Kieti. From Hungary come Gábor G. Gyukics and István Turczi, while Germany is represented by Gino Leineweber (also of Italy) and Uwe Friesel. The Italian poets include Maria Miraglia and Gino Leineweber. Voices from Australia include Ellen Shelley, John Grey, Mick Mezza, and Rick Warr, while Canada contributes Honey Novick, Richard Marvin Tiberius Tai Grove, and Valerie LeBlanc.
The Balkan region is well represented by Ensar Bukarić and Ranko Pavlovic from Bosnia and Herzegovina, Marina Mijakovska from North Macedonia, and Marjeta Shatro Rrapaj from Albania. From Poland come Krystyna Lenkowska and Norbert Góra; from Bulgaria, Roza Boyanova; and from Romania, Daniela Marian. Latin American and Caribbean voices include Daniel H. Brondo and Nicolás Antonioli from Argentina, Opal Palmer Adisa from Jamaica, and Obediah Michael Smith from The Bahamas.
The anthology also celebrates poets from Ghana (Francis Kwaku Kuma), Philippines (Vim Nadera), Palestine (Moaen Shalabia), and Malawi (William Chiumia). Together, these poets form a global chorus—over seventy creative minds from every continent—united by the language of silence, introspection, and poetic truth.
The Memory of the Silence
By Ashraf Aboul-Yazid
No one reminds you of
Your night companions,
Except a burning head,
Full of the ashes
Of their stories!
A head full of silence.
They left their wives away,
They left their sons
In the alleys of memories.
And they left their brothers framed
In windows.
They came out of the heart of hills,
To sink in the night of silence.
They passed, leaving you
With the cold bread
Of the hot night.
Will you read anything?
Books will not offer themselves easily
Offer to you.
Every evening,
You open a volume of poetry,
Not to read it,
But to just receive your dreams
Between its lines of verse.
What could the texts of the world do
For a head full of
Disaster?
Will you watch the paintings
On the walls of the room?
The crying boy is on the left,
And the weeping girl on the opposite side.
But the poor artist can not paint
A joining way between both of them!
Yesterday,
Dreams were no longer running
On your pillows.
You pass from bedroom to hall,
with your worries:
How many seasons did pass
without having anyone
To look at your window?
How many years did pass
without having anyone
to knock at your door?
The flying bird,
on the neighboring wall
Does not sing for you!
The standing man,
in the opposite window,
does not smile for you!
The faraway crossing female,
does not look at you!
And the cat,
Does not pay attention,
To your mice!
And, the next morning will not carry
Anything new for you,
Except the sorrow of the newspapers,
And the sore of coffee.
I am climbing over the gate of the past,
Looking for those who passed,
Nothing I can see on the ancient glass,
But some shadows of faces,
under naked trees.
I lived the silence tonight,
So I did yesterday,
And the day before.
Do you remember anything?
– When I forgot my sorrows
I forgot my joys!
(The Joy is just an apple cake
burnt in an American oven.)
The trees throw
their dry yellow leaves.
You may walk on them
to break this silence.
The stone you may throw into the pool,
To splash water around you.
This will not force the body of silence
to sink.
The flute of a branch may break
the virginity of silence.
Alone you walk,
Looking at a mirror,
Talking to
The floating face on the ocean;
asking:
Who can break this silence?
Alone,
You will never bear anything!
You wish a fire,
You want the stick of Moses
To drink the river of silence;
The river of disaster;
The river of bad news;
The river of the dead dreams;
Who would give you that
Holy fire?
The towns of the world
Get noise every morning,
And get up.
Except this one!
It has never got up!
The silence of night crept
Into the streets,
Even car horns could not
Speak a tongue:
– This red tea is sour
– Sore sour? Put more sugar.
– A spoon?
– No, ten spoons!
– Is red tea still sore sour?
– Give more sugar?
– Few quips cubes?
– No, ten ones!
The salty towns are sore!
This morning is just a coin,
You do not trust its metal.
With no face,
To suit every time and place.
If you get out of
The cold coffin,
You shall sink
In the solar tomb.
Live human beings have
The faces of dead bodies.
And dead bodies have
The smell of living people.
I am scattered among them.
My green passport’s papers are dry,
As I cultivate my way,
In the heart of the desert!
This land is a mirage,
A womb that gives birth only for our disasters,
It is the land where we build cities,
Will never be the homes of our children!
We shall not know,
How will rains come
On the body where sadness
Is camping in his eyes!
A body is not concerned with anything,
But this red silence,
That looks like the summer’s nights.
There was a bell ringing,
To set fire in the night
With their tales of silence.
(I may through my head away of the door)
And close it after them.
