One breath taken completely; one poem, fully written, fully read - in such a moment, anything can happen.
Jane HirshfieldTags: poetry
It is, of course, we who house poems as much as their words, and we ourselves must be the locus of poetry's depth of newness. Still, the permeability seems to travel both ways: a changed self will find new meanings in a good poem, but a good poem also changes the shape of the self. Having read it, we are not who we were the moment before.... Art lives in what it awakens in us... Through a good poem's eyes we see the world liberated from what we would have it do. Existence does not guarantee us destination, nor trust, nor equity, nor one moment beyond this instant's almost weightless duration. It is a triteness to say that the only thing to be counted upon is that what you count on will not be what comes. Utilitarian truths evaporate: we die. Poems allow us not only to bear the tally and toll of our transience, but to perceive, within their continually surprising abundance, a path through the grief of that insult into joy.
Jane HirshfieldZen pretty much comes down to three things -- everything changes; everything is connected; pay attention.
Jane HirshfieldTags: inspirational
One way poetry connects is across time. . . . Some echo of a writer's physical experience comes into us when we read her poem.
Jane HirshfieldTags: experience poetry time connections
Perimeter is not meaning, but it changes meaning,/as wit increases distance, and compassion erodes it.
Jane HirshfieldTags: compassion
You must try,
the voice said, to become colder.
I understood at once.
It's like the bodies of gods: cast in bronze,
braced in stone. Only something heartless
could bear the full weight.
Poetry's work is the clarification and magnification of being.
Jane HirshfieldTags: poetry
The Cloudy Vase
Past time, I threw the flowers out,
washed out the cloudy vase.
How easily the old clearness
leapt, like a practiced tiger, back inside it.
Tags: poem self-improvement
as some strings, untouched,
sound when no one is speaking.
So it was when love slipped inside us.
The heart's actions
are neither the sentence nor its reprieve.
Salt hay and thistles, above the cold granite.
One bird singing back to another because it can't not.
Tags: poetry
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