On the eve of the last day of National Poetry Month, I give you this gem from the marvelous poet Jane Hirshfield:
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.
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.
(Read the rest here, at The Atlantic.)
10 comments:
That's an absolutely perfect poem -- the end is so surprising!
She creates such an atmosphere in this poem, the world of an earnest poet trying to get something right.
Time and silence, for her the gift. Thank you, Karen, for this gift to us!
Oh yes! Let her have the time, the silence, the paper to make mistakes! This is priceless. Thank you so much for sharing this.
Beautiful poem!!
What a delightful poem for the writerly heart.
ohh! I need to send this poem to my sister!
Her chair==let us imagine her chair.
I love it. Thank you, Karen.
I'm thrilled that you all loved this one as much as I did. :) Hirshfield hits the target every time.
It was a poem about me until these lines,
"Even the alphabet she writes in
I cannot decipher."
Well, and that fact that my lamp has a shade.
But that ending. May it be true for all who write.
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