a room

.

A room does not turn its back on grief.

Anger does not excite it.

Before desire, it neither responds

nor draws back in fear.

Without changing expression,

it takes

and gives back;

not a tuft in the mattress alters.

Windowsills evenly welcome

both heat and cold.

Radiators speak or fall silent as they must.

Doors are not equivocal,

floorboards do not hesitate or startle.

Impatience does not stir the curtains,

a bed is neither irritable nor rapacious.

Whatever disquiet we sense in a room

we have brought there.

And so I instruct my ribs each morning,

pointing to hinge and plaster and wood -

You are matter, as they are.

See how perfectly it can be done.

Hold, one day more, what is asked.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from The Lives of the Heart
art by Pierre Bonnard

The gate of heaven is everywhere.

~ Thomas Merton

the conversation

A woman moves close:

there is something she wants to say.

The currents take you one direction, her another.

All night you are aware of her presence,

aware of the conversation that did not happen.

Inside it are mountains, birds, a wide river,

a few sparse-leaved trees.

On the river, a wooden boat putters.

On its deck, a spider washes its face.

Years from now, the boat will reach a port by the sea,

and the generations of spider descendants upon it

will look out, from their nearsighted, eightfold eyes,

at something unanswered.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from Come, Thief

a history

Someone first thought it:

an ox gelded, tamed, harnessed to a plow.

Then someone realized the wooden yoke could hold two.

After that, mere power of multiplication.

Railroads, airplanes, factory ships canning salmon.

~ Jane Hirshfield

after long silence

Politeness fades,

a small anchovy gleam

leaving the upturned pot in the dish rack

after the moon has wandered out the window.

One of the late freedoms, there is the dark.

The leftover soup put away as well.

Distinctions matter.  Whether a goat's

quiet face should be called noble

or indifferent.  The difference between a right rigor and pride.

The untranslatable thought must be the most precise.

Yet words are not the end of thought, they are where it begins.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from After

seawater stiffens cloth

Seawater stiffens cloth long after it's dried.

As pain after it's ended stays in the body:

A woman moves her hands oddly

because her grandfather passed through

a place he never spoke of.  Making

instead the old jokes with angled fingers.

Call one thing another's name long enough,

it will answer.  Call pain seawater, tree, it will answer.

Call it a tree whose shape of branches happened.

Call what branching happened a man

whose job it was to break fingers or lose his own.

Call fingers angled like branches what peel and cut apples,

to give to a girl who eats them in silence, looking.

Call her afterward tree, call her seawater angled by silence.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from Come, Thief

bad year

Even in this bad year,
the apples grow heavy and round.
Three friends and I trade stories:
biopsy, miscarriage, solitude,
a parent's unravelling body or mind.
What is reliable? What do you hold?
I demand of the future, later.
The future - whose discretion is perfect -
says nothing, but rolls another
apple loose from its grip.
A hopeful yellow jacket comes to hunt
the crack, the point of easy entry.




~ Jane Hirshfield
from  After

against certainty

There is something out in the dark that wants to correct us.

Each time I think "this," it answers "that."

Answers hard, in the heart-grammar's strictness.

If I then say "that," it too is taken away.

Between certainty and the real, an ancient enmity.

When the cat waits in the path-hedge,

no cell of her body is not waiting.

This is how she is able so completely to disappear.

I would like to enter the silence portion as she does.

To live amid the great vanishing as a cat must live,

one shadow fully at ease inside another.

~ Jane Hirshfield
from After

The dead do not want us dead

The dead do not want us dead;

such petty errors are left for the living.

Nor do they want our mourning.

No gift to them - not rage, not weeping.

Return one of them, any one of them, to the earth,

and look: such foolish skipping,

such telling of bad jokes, such feasting!

Even a cucumber, even a single anise seed: feasting.

~  Jane Hirshfield

standing deer

As the house of a person

in age sometimes grows cluttered

with what is

too loved or too heavy to part with,

the heart may grow cluttered.

And still the house will be emptied,

and still the heart.

As the thoughts of a person

in age sometimes grow sparer,

like a great cleanness come into a room,

the soul may grow sparer;

one sparrow song carves it completely.

And still the room is full,

and still the heart.

Empty and filled,

like the curling half-light of morning,

in which everything is still possible and so why not.

Filled and empty,

like the curling half-light of evening,

in which everything now is finished and so why not.

Beloved, what can be, what was,

will be taken from us.

I have disappointed.

I am sorry. I knew no better.

A root seeks water.

Tenderness only breaks open the earth.

This morning, out the window,

the deer stood like a blessing, then vanished.

~ Jane Hirschfield 

from The Lives of the Heart

 

 

Metempsychosis

Some stories last many centuries,

others only a moment.
All alter over that lifetime like beach-glass,
grow distant and more beautiful with salt.

Yet even today, to look at a tree
and ask the story Who are you? is to be transformed.

There is a stage in us where each being, each thing, is a mirror.

Then the bees of self pour from the hive-door,
ravenous to enter the sweetness of flowering nettles and thistle.

Next comes the ringing a stone or violin or empty bucket
gives off --
the immeasurable's continuous singing,
before it goes back into story and feeling.

In Borneo, there are palm trees that walk on their high roots.
Slowly, with effort, they lift one leg then another.

I would like to join that stilted transmigration,
to feel my own skin vertical as theirs:
an ant-road, a highway for beetles.

I would like not minding, whatever travels my heart.
To follow it all the way into leaf-form, bark-furl, root-touch,
and then keep walking, unimaginably further.



~ Jane Hirshfieldfrom

from Given Sugar, Given Salt: Poems


photo of the Socratea exorrhiza or walking palm
which can move itself up to about a meter per year

 

 

 

seeing "the deep world"

Leonid Afremov

There is a portion of reality which is offered to us without our making any special effort beyond opening our eyes and ears, and this we call the world of pure impressions.  But there is another world built of structures of impressions, which, though hidden, is none the less real.  If this other world is to exist for us, we need to open something more than our physical eyes, and to undertake a greater kind of effort.  But the measure of our effort neither confers any reality on that world, nor takes it away.  The deep world is as clear as the surface one, only it asks more of us.

~ Jose Ortega y Gasset

from Meditations of Quixote, 1914

adapted from a translation by J.W. Jeaffreson

Picasso

These Things whose essential life you want to express first ask you, "Are you free? Are you prepared to devote all your love to me...?"  And if the Thing sees that you are otherwise occupied with even a particle of your interest, it shuts itself off; it may perhaps give you some slight sign of friendship, a word or a nod, but it will never give you its heart, entrust you with its patient being, its sweet sidereal constancy, which makes it so like the constellations in the sky.  In order for a Thing to speak to you, you must regard it for a certain time as the only one that exists, as the one and only phenomenon which, through your laborious and exclusive love, is now placed at the center of the universe, and which, in that incomparable place, is on that day attended by angels.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

from a letter sent to Baladine Klossowska

translation by Stephen Mitchell

both excerpts found in the essay Poetry and the Mind of Indirection

by Jane Hirshfield

love amid owl cries

It is not
the altar that matters,
not that,
nor the shape
that is found there.
The ghostly ideas
come and go, one after another.
But the place endures.
The fact that there is a door.




~ Jane Hirshfield

Flowering Vetch

Each of the tragedies can be read

as the tale of a single ripening self,

every character part of one soul.

The comedies can be included in this as well.

Often the flaw is a flaw of self-knowledge;

sometimes greed.  For this reason

the comic glint of a school of herring leads to no plot line,

we cannot imagine a tragedy of donkeys or bees.

Before the ordinary realities, ordinary failures:

hunger, coldness, anger, longing, heat.

Yet one day, a thought as small as a vetch flower opens.

After, no longer minding the minor and almost wordless role,

playing the messenger given the letter

everyone knows will arrive too late or ruined by water.

To have stopped by the fig and eaten was not an error, then,

but the reason for going.

~  Jane Hirshfield

from After

what the heart wants

See then 

what the heart wants,

that pliable iron

sprung to the poppy's redness,

the honey's gold, winged

as the heron-lit water is:

by reflecting.

As an aged elephant answers

the slightest, first gesture of hand,

it puts itself at the mercy -

utterly docile, the forces

that brought it there vanished,

fold into fold.

And the old-ice ivory, the unstartlable

black of the eye that has traveled so far 

with the fringed, peripheral howdah

swaying behind, look mildly back

as it swings the whole bulk of the body

close to the ground.  Over and over

it does this, bends to what asks.

Whatever asks, heart kneels and offers to bear.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from The October Palace

habit

The shoes put on each time

left first, then right.

The morning potion’s teaspoon

of sweetness stirred always

for seven circlings—no fewer, no more—

into the cracked blue cup.

Touching the pocket for wallet,

for keys,

before closing the door.

How did we come

to believe these small rituals’ promise,

that we are today the selves we yesterday knew,

tomorrow will be?

How intimate and unthinking,

the way the toothbrush is shaken dry after use,

the part we wash first in the bath.

Which habits we learned from others

and which are ours alone we may never know.

Unbearable to acknowledge

how much they are themselves our fated life.

Open the traveling suitcase—

There the beloved red sweater,

bright tangle of necklace, earrings of amber.

Each confirming: I chose these, I.

But habit is different: it chooses.

And we, its good horse,

opening our mouths at even the sight of the bit.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from Given Sugar, Given Salt

Ripeness

Ripeness is

what falls away with ease.

Not only the heavy apple,

the pear,

but also the dried brown strands

of autumn iris from their core.

To let your body

love this world

that gave itself to your care

in all of its ripeness,

with ease,

and will take itself from you

in equal ripeness and ease,

is also harvest.

And however sharply

you are tested --

this sorrow, that great love --

it too will leave on that clean knife.

~ Jane Hirshfield

(The October Palace)

against certainty

.

.

There is something out in the dark that wants to correct us. 

Each time I think "this," it answers "that." 

Answers hard, in the heart-grammar's strictness. 

If I then say "that," it too is taken away. 

Between certainty and the real, an ancient enmity. 

When the cat waits in the path-hedge, 

no cell of her body is not waiting. 

This is how she is able to so completely to disappear. 

I would like to enter the silence portion as she does. 

To live amid the great vanishing as a cat must live, 

one shadow fully at ease inside another.

~ Jane Hirshfield
from After

sweater

What is asked of one is not what is asked of another.

A sweater takes on the shape of its wearer,

a coffee cup sits to the left or the right of the workspace,

making its pale Saturn rings of now and before.

Lucky the one who rises to sit at a table,

day after day spilling coffee sweet with sugar, whitened with milk.

Lucky the one who writes in a book of spiral-bound mornings

a future in ink, who writes hand unshaking, warmed by thick wool.

Lucky still, the one who writes later, shaking.  Acrobatic at last, the 

sweater,

elastic as breath that enters what shape it is asked to. 

Patient the table;  unjudging, the ample, refillable cup.

Irrefusable, the shape the sweater is given,

stretched in the shoulders, sleeves lengthened by unmetaphysical

pullings on.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from Come, Thief 

february 29

An extra day -

Like the painting's fifth cow,

who looks out directly,

straight toward you,

from inside her black and white spots

An extra day -

Accidental, surely:

the made calendar stumbling over the real

as a drunk trips over a threshold

too low to see.

An extra day -

With a second cup of black coffee.

A friendly but businesslike phone call.

A mailed-back package.

Some extra work, but not too much -

just one day's worth, exactly.

An extra day -

Not unlike the space

between a door and its frame

when one room is lit and another is not,

and one changes into the other

as a woman exchanges a scarf.

An extra day -

Extraordinarily like any other.

And still

there is some generosity to it,

like a letter re-readable after its writer has died.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from The Beauty

a person protests to fate

A person protests to fate:

"The things you have caused

me most to want

are those that furthest elude me."

Fate nods.

Fate is sympathetic.

To tie the shoes, button a shirt,

are triumphs

for only the very young,

the very old.

During the middle:

conjugating a river

mastering tango

training the cat to stay off the table

preserving a single moment longer than this one

continuing to wake whatever has happened the day before

and the penmanships love practices inside the body.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from The Beauty