The Poet
by Jane Hirshfield
She is working now, in a room
not unlike this one,
the one where I write, or you read.
Her table is covered with paper.
The light of the lamp would be
tempered by a shade, where the bulb's
single harshness might dissolve,
but it is not; she has taken it off.
Her poems? I will never know them,
though they are the ones I most need.
Even the alphabet she writes in
I cannot decipher. Her chair --
let us imagine whether it is leather
or canvas, vinyl or wicker. Let her
have a chair, her shadeless lamp,
the table. Let one or two she loves
be in the next room. Let the door
be closed, the sleeping ones healthy.
Let her have time, and silence,
enough paper to make mistakes and go on.
© Jane Hirshfield
Just came across an article on Jane Hirshfield in Buddha News and reminded me how much I like her work. Thought I would post a poem of hers here.
2 comments:
SELF-FORGETFULNESS AND SELF-REALIZATION
(with thanks to Jane Hirshfield)
I sometimes wonder, as I go about documenting my life for a future time, if anyone will ever read these words, if they will ever serve a purpose. Some curious faith inspires me; it is not certitude; it is a combination of hope, belief, the pleasure of writing, the desire to make all moments part of some central intention, some desire not to have any time off, to make it all count. The American poet Jane Hirshfield says that this should be the approach to Zen monastic life. I like to think this should be the approach to the Baha’i life, at least that there is some wisdom here for this Bahá’í.
Jane goes on to say in an interview at AGNI at online internet site, that we must immerse ourselves in the life of this world, be inhabited by it and speak for others as well as those beyond, as far as we are able. We must also go deeply into the self and into silence.—Ron Price, Pioneering Over Four Epochs, 12 November 2007.
Yes, Jane, there is intimacy here
and a meaning in all things like
some great scroll with hidden
secrets for us to discover each
in our own way—and you and
I with this craft of writing to craft
a self, ourself, a life that is our own,
our uniqueness in a world of exile,
imprisonment and immense revelation
where the wind, everywhere the wind,
as you say, carries us home, a place
we learn to make wherever we are.
Our poems are always personal--for
sure Jane, for sure, and what we write
generates attention, expands our life
and, perhaps—hopefully--that of others.
And prayer, absolutely unmixed attention,
yes Jane, yes, perhaps the secrets of our
prayerful melodies may kindle our own
souls and attract the hearts of all men
as we recite in the privacy of our chamber.
Will scattering angels scatter our words?
Sooner or later will our own souls be
influenced by these prayerful notes?
I like to think so, Jane, but I don’t like
to take sides and say for sure, Jane, no!
We sure are fully complex beings as
we search with Thoreau to simplify
and forget our own selves which is
the essence of self-realization, Jane.
Ron Price 12 November 2007
Just an aside---I used to attend baha'i functions in Guelph and had a girlfriend there when I was at university. Best wishes from Australia.-Ron Price
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