One layer at a time he peeled me
Like an onion
His hands wrapped around my outer skin
From top to bottom he found my flesh
And I made him cry
Like water
Running down the side of rock
In a cascade of drops becoming
A river below
Into which we jumped
His tears breaking our fall.
One page at a time he turned me
Like a book
His hands against the leather
Bound around my story, all my words
Unspoken and broken
He read and knew and studied
Like art
Smeared across a canvas
With descriptions written below
Telling of the image
Sitting still and wanting
To be known.
One note at a time he sang me
Like a song
Released from the beak of a bird
Whose daily life is filled
With music because music is
Like emotion
Strong and loud when the air is enough
And slow and soft
When there is tenderness in the touch
A balance of adagio and
A quickening of the pulse.
One sip at a time he drank me
Like wine
Held inside a carafe
Until the day my breath met his
At the edge of a glass
And stained our mouths with red
Like a flower
Vibrant with color and life
Not pulled but watered instead
By attentive hands
That understand
Petals cut or plucked
Are already dying.
Whatever the measures by which he moves
Whatever the story he tells
Whatever the words he says or unzips
I am undone
And his.
© Jill Szoo Wilson
Tag: Poet
Slow Art: Unhurrying Your Mind
Museums invite looking, yet most visitors treat art the way they treat emails: a quick skim, a polite nod, and on to the next thing. We spot a recognizable subject or a pleasing color, think, “Ah yes, culture,” and keep walking. Studies suggest that viewers spend less than thirty seconds with a work of art before moving on. It is possible to tour an entire gallery without truly arriving anywhere at all.
Slow Art suggests another way to exist among masterpieces.
Rooted in the broader Slow Movement and formally organized with Slow Art Day in 2010, the practice encourages viewers to remain with a single artwork long enough for something meaningful to happen. The idea is simple: stop rushing. Stop conquering exhibitions like they’re errands. Let a painting interrupt the pace of your day.
Of course, the mind resists immediately. The moment we sit down and dare to look, our thoughts fling themselves into crisis: seventeen neglected texts, three unpurchased groceries, and the intrusive belief that productivity is our moral duty, and this bench is a crime scene. Apparently, stillness is very dramatic.
Yet if we continue to sit, the noise eventually settles. We start to notice the obvious things we missed when our thoughts were busy staging a coup: light falling across a shoulder, a line of color we would have sworn was not there a moment ago. Philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty argued that seeing is never passive; we do not merely observe the world. We are in conversation with it. Given time, a painting stops acting like an object and begins to behave like a presence. It answers back.
Meanwhile, neuroscience is offering evidence for what artists have always suspected. When we linger with an artwork, the brain does more than register shape and shade. Regions connected to memory, imagination, and empathy start sparking awake, as though the mind suddenly recalls it has a richer job than survival. Interpretation emerges. Emotion slips in without asking permission. You are no longer deciphering the art. You are encountering yourself.
Slow looking becomes a decision to let meaning unfold at its own pace.
It is a tiny rebellion against the cult of efficiency. Instead of demanding results from a painting — explain yourself, be profound, hurry up — we allow the experience to be unmeasurable. Sometimes revelation arrives. Sometimes quiet does. Both are victories over the museum sprint that ends with a gift shop purchase and no recollection of the gallery that preceded it.
This week, I sat with a painting of moonlit fields and distant wind. Nothing moved, yet somehow everything did. The air itself seemed to stretch across my skin, my breath eased, and the horizon widened inside me. It felt like remembering how to be a person rather than a calendar.
I answered the art’s invitation in the only way I know:
by writing.
Hush
By Jill Szoo Wilson
My dear, now hush. Unburden every care;
The silent fields invite your breath to slow.
The wind lifts strands of worry from your hair
And strokes your cheek with touches soft and low.
O moon, shine steady, hold your silver ground;
A lantern calm above the world’s unrest.
Pour down a peace too deep for any sound
And press a quiet knowing to the chest.
Kind wind — sweet wanderer — move as you will;
Let coolness glide along these open hands.
Brush thought from thought, invite my heart to still,
And ferry calm across the quiet lands.
Here, nothing strives. The wide horizon sighs—
At last, the soul grows spacious as the skies.
Poem: Opposite Sides of the Wall
I wrote this poem after visiting Berlin in 2015, where I was fascinated by the messages people had left on the remains of the Wall. This piece was inspired by one of those messages.
From the highest story
Of a building gray and cracked
Peer two eyes
Through dusty window panes
Pestered by a mosquito
Flying along the edges.
Below the eyes
A hand
Holding tin
Filled with coffee
Cold and strong—
A cigarette burning.
The fog of stagnation
Fills the room
As one wisp of smoke
Links arms with another
A silent dirge
Circling like vultures.
Her gaze is blank
She closes her eyes
Then opens them wide
Each closing a respite
Followed by
Disappointment.
She sighs
She coughs
She smiles for a moment
As the mosquito
Bumps against the glass
Bruised and trapped.
Above her head
Noisy neighbors shout
The song of frustration
Rings out and falls
Pulled by gravity and
By doubt.
She begins to hum a tune
She has not heard
Since she held a doll
Inside chubby arms
And kissed its head
With sugary lips.
Her raspy alto
Lays itself on the notes
Her Now
Transposes the music
From major to
Minor keys.
The mosquito brushes past
Her hand
And then lands and
Sticks his needle
Into her skin—
She observes the transaction.
A flashing light—
Her gaze arrested
Handcuffed to a mirror
Reflecting the sun a
A Morse Code message
.-.. --- ...- .
Which translates, “Love.”
She dunks her cigarette
Into her mug
Shakes her hand
The mosquito falls
Disconcerted but
Full.
She strikes a match
Holds it to a candle
Thick and matted
Like a paint brush
Spotted with colors
Dried from previous use.
A thin line rises from the flame
Gentle in its approach
And dancing in the haze—
She lowers and raises her hand
.- .-.. .-- .- -.-- ...
“Always,”
She replies
In this expression
They devised
From opposite sides of
The wall.
She blows out the fire
Puts her hand to the glass
Closes her eyes and
Kisses the air
As though it is
The last kiss in the world.
He lifts his fingers
Catches her lips
In mid-air—
Hungrily brings them down
Pressing their sweetness hard
Against his own.
The moment has passed
But their love
Will last—
Reach beyond time and space
Breaking past
The Wall.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2015
Poem: Ice
The moment before, he knew.
She knew it, too—but she didn’t know
What it meant.
He had spent all he had in love
And in time—
For time is all we have to spend—
Not knowing that one second would turn into
Years.
The moment before, he felt.
She felt it, too, but it was in her mind—
What it meant.
Dripping with memories, mundane,
Like coffee brewing slowly—
For love steeps one drop at a time—
Her daydreams were painted in
Love.
The moment before, he released.
She released, too, but she didn’t expect
What it meant.
Embracing and letting go, to embrace again,
Was like brushing her teeth—
For some rituals cleanse even as they return—
He knew her expectation and knew he would
Fail.
In the moment, he could smell her.
She could smell her, too—and she knew
What it meant.
He started a fire between his head
And his heart—
For the heart stokes the kindling the mind provides—
But the embers burned deeper than he
Expected.
In the moment, he could see the glow.
She could see it, too, and she knew
What it meant.
The lingering warmth of his hand on her back
Felt like ice—
For ice signals death—
The frigidity was new but not exactly
New.
In the moment, his conscience writhed.
She writhed a little, too, and she knew
What it meant.
His goodbye lingered near,
Like a rattling snake—
For snakes wait, and then they strike—
And she stiffened her heart, bracing for
The end.
The moment was gone. The seconds counted
And done.
The hem of her gown swished away;
His countenance melted
Like fire melts ice,
And ice turns to water,
And fire boils it all to steam.
The end was the beginning.
The beginning was now.
He sat on the ground.
He looked to the sky.
The moon turned out its lamp—
And he knew what it meant.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Stillness
I stood beside the ocean once
And dared the waves to drown my breath
Toes nestled below the sand
Sinking further with the tide
I did not move
But the world moved around me.
The swells and crashes
Just beyond my reach
Roared against the sky in a game
I could not understand
And did not dare to join
But the world spun around me.
Nearly invisible spheres of water
Jumped from the fray
To cover my face one lick at a time
Until drenched my eyes and hair
Pulled me closer to the earth
But the world danced around me.
Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog
Salt-filled gifts from places
Dark and rolling with darker tones
Stumbled toward my knees
And buckled me into the shore
But the world pushed around me.
Without becoming any more fierce
And not with a call to war or anger
The ocean pushed closer
Like a drowning man clawing toward
The horizon and I waited
But the world melted around me.
It meant me no harm
I was a stranger to the swells
And standing small before the darkness
I asked, “Why haven’t you heard me?”
The ocean smiled and I stood still
But the world leapt around me.
I fought a war inside my mind
And all the soldiers writhed in sweat
The battles long with rising smoke
Unseen and big but small
I sat instead of dying, marveling at the moon
And the world breathed around me.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Un/Forgiven
I have not forgiven my friend
And so the poison swells
Like maggots crawling through my veins
Stealing life
And trading it for
Death.
First one offense
And then the next
Like flames wrapping around tree trunks
Stripping a forest
And pulling it down to
Ash.
Condoning silence with justice
And building my case
Like piles of bones in a graveyard
Pricking the air with a stench
And freezing my senses in
Yesterday.
I am prolific in the art of litany–
Telling the song in repetitive stanzas
Like a clown using his flower
To squirt and squirt small children in the eyes
And leaving them
Blind.
Tall grows the wound
And consumes all my mind
Like a bomb detonating inside my heart
Melting what is soft
And drying as hard as
Stone.
“Forgive,” he said
And I laughed at his joke
Like an amused audience stuffing its face
With an excess of food and wine
And vomiting that which was meant to
Nourish.
“Release,” he whispered
And I wondered at his audacity
Like a rich man counting his money
In the secrecy of a vault
And finding the suggested cost
Exorbitant.
“Lay it down,” he sang
And I grew weary of his prodding
Like a woman being courted
With courage and desire
And in stubborn acceptance I
Trusted.
“Here it is,” I offered
And He lifted it from my arms
Like a father removing splinters
From the hands of his beloved boy
And the war that had frostbitten
So many years
Thawed
Into peace.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Poem: Moonlight We
The sun grows hours
Then burns them dry
Like
Tumbleweeds
Blow by the days
And we
The cattle drivers
Saddle the minutes
And ride them,
Guide them from atop
Their prickly backs.
The Sunlight We
Strap on our shoes
Tattered at the soles
To tread
A line
Publicly defined by
The rules of
Marketplace
And who the other
We’s expect us all
To be.
Astride atop
Rolling ticks and tocks
And traveling
Through noon time
Crowds of We
Is She—
An explorer whose eyes
Are lifted
Toward the sky
Inside a sea of eyes
Seeing same.
The busy pavement
Vibrates with progress
As defined
By hand held devices
That shine
In daytime rays
And ricochet
Blinding
The gaze
Of the masked We
Stumbling at a gallop’s pace.
But she—
She sees.
She sees what is real
In the moment defined
Not confined by
What she should
Why she ought or
Questioning
Why she would
She rides the time
And feels the warmth
Of the sun instead of
Using it for light.
Reflection of the sun can be seen everywhere.
Embracing now
A give and take
Of new and ideas
And what does it mean
She offers herself
To the questions
That rise
Dwells in the
Wonder
Of wandering
Free.
And he—
He sees.
Along the trail
Sprawling on every side
Is one—
A He—
Who rides his own
Tumbleweed time
Carrying boredom
Wrapped in
Discontent
Searching for what
Is relevant.
His eyes wide open
Heart behind a shield
He journeys
With a purpose
Gone cold
Like a campfire
Dwindling—
He rubs his hands together
Above reasons
That fail
To keep him warm.
Until the moment
Just one moment
He
Amidst a thousand eyes
Sees
She
The only she
In a sea of
We
Whose awareness
Pierces the shield of his own.
No words exchanged—
Not yet—
But the moment is frozen still
The sun holds its place
And reveals
Details of her face
As though
The opulent
Fiery star above
Is painting
Something new.
“Hello,”
Says she and
“Hello,”
Says he and the sea of
We begins to roar
Once again.
He asks,
“Can you travel
This way?
If only
Today?”
He smiles—
Not only his lips
But eyes brightly
Joining as
His hands begin to warm.
She accepts
His invitation,
“I will come
Your way
Let’s not delay
The sun will set into night.”
Two journeys become
One moonlight We
As the day stumbles
Behind the moon—
The moon that stops
The growth of time
Replacing stars
For minutes
And silence for sound
When all around
Disappears
Into a single
You.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2023
Read more by Jill Szoo Wilson on Substack.
Poem: The Reaching
If ever a UFO landed on your head—
“She thinks that's a weird question.
No UFO has!”
I wasn’t talking to you.
But to you . . .
Pretend one has.
What do you think it would feel like?
Imagine it.
Go on.
I will wait.
[A sparrow flies by]
I am not asking how heavy it is or
Cold or
Bumpy or
Smooth:
You could not really know such things
At all.
I am asking what you would feel like inside—
“She would feel like an idiot!”
But if it was really there . . . on your head—
“On her head? What is this ridiculous riddle?”
Okay not on your head, but over . . .
If you ran out of your home
With no where to go
Your hair was torn and
Bruises and
The smell of whiskey
And cigars
On your face—
If your shoes were untied
And you saw your mother cry
And you didn’t want to stay
One more second
In that place.
If the air was so cold
You could see your breath
Shooting into the night
Like a jet engine beginning a race
So you slowed your pace
And panted and heaved
And your knees buckle under you
With disgrace.
Let us pretend the aloneness
You feel—
“It’s just a feeling, she's not alone!”
But still . . .
Your aloneness is real
With no one to call
And if you turned back now
You would be thrown against a wall.
So despite your
Aloneness
You crawl
To safety and the blackest woods
You embrace.
If in that space
You held on tight to a
Branch you could reach
Or the neck of a deer
Or the paw of a bear
Until
At last
You saw glowing near
A rounded
Machine with light bulbs you could see
And a sound you could hear
Like a robot giving chase.
What would you think—
“She would think she was nuts!”
Okay, maybe. But . . .
Would you believe your eyes
Or think your sanity was disguised
In the brain of a woman
Otherwise apt?
If you could touch and
Feel
Would you believe it was real?
And what about smell?
If you could smell the exhaust
Coming from the pipe
And taste the metal on the
Wind of the night
And hear a voice shrieking,
“We come from someplace” . . .
If it landed and
A hand
Came out from within
Would you look at your fingers
And kiss them goodbye
In case after touching they never returned
But still reach them out
And touch the warmth
Of an unknown hand
Unrecognizable
And trust
Even before you could see his face?
You can answer now—
“She doesn't want to answer,
She thinks you’ve gone mad!”
But there is no madness in the question. It is only a question . . .
“Yes,” she said.
And continued on,
“If I knew I was alone
Even in a crowd
And the sky delivered a mystery
I would.
Reach out.
And be brought in.”
Thank you for your honesty—
“Thanks for nothing, you mean!”
But thank you for telling the truth.
With a pair of eyes
Belonging only to her
She looked at the man
With the question,
“I would.”
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Poem: Order From Chaos
Long ago two young men drew a map of the sky
Laying on their backs, perhaps,
Like children in tents with holes in the tops
They counted and connected the stars.
Order from chaos was formed in their eyes
Squinting into darkness
Blinded not by light but by enormity
And mysteries invisibly connected.
They traced routes with their fingers, point A to B,
Like homemade kites pursuing the way
With windy anticipation and
Lines to find what was or was not connected.
As the men grew beards, their love of the sky
Fell to the earth and to pieces.
Shatters of themselves were given away
To money, ambition, and work: disconnected.
One of the two held hands with success
Palms sweaty together and traveling
With compass pointed away from the heavens
And down to notifications and contacts: connected?
The other man poured his life slowly
Like a cup spilling over his family—a wife and two kids—
He drained all he had, a deluge of hope
And then gurgled and gasped as the woman fled: disconnected.
Alone—surprised by aloneness—
The un-wifed man lifted the tips of his naked fingers to the sky.
Suspended in air his hand wished to feel
To touch, to reach, to caress, to connect.
No alien hand reached with fingers to intertwine
So the man looked down, instead.
A tear dripped from his eye and onto his future:
Two children—looking up from the ground—
Counting and connecting the stars.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2015
Poem: God of the Street
What if God was as close as
The domed ceiling of an antiquated church—
Walls lines with stained glass
Depictions of before and after
Christ invaded the story
The history of man
A broader narration
An epic
A comedy
A tragedy
A lineage of life and death
And birth and
Resurrection.
The grandiose nature of
The Alpha and Omega—
The beginning and the end—
Could not be contained
The stained glass rattles
The musty, dusty wood
That used to be trees stretching
Tall in majestic places
Now bowing to parishioners
Waiting for
Waiting for
The release of weight
When men and women
Stand to their feet
Applaud and proclaim
Praise to the One that lives
Beyond the dome—
Outside the temple erected
His focus directed on each one
Who walks the streets
Umbrellas and tissue
And glasses and backpacks
Catering to their earthly needs
All the while moving inside
An invisible song
Pervasive notes swirling
In the air
The breath of God in the wind
His playfulness in
The wings of fluttering birds
His rejuvenation in colorful promises
Of spring
His love in the eyes of those
Who hold hands
His peace in the frogs croaking
Their midnight serenades.
He whose visage
Hangs in the churches
Broke through the walls to
Walk side by side
No dome
No tomb
No misunderstanding
No doubt
No running
No running
Can hold the God of
Everywhere
Prostrate
To our wood and plaster and
Ornately
Drawn windows:
It is we whose frames are weak
It is we whose knees
Must bend
Whose heads must bow—
It is our shatters
Our shards that the
Incense picks up and carries
Into the atmosphere
Palpable with life
And into the nostrils of He
Who broke through the dome.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2016
Jill Szoo Wilson 