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#Jane Hirshfield
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Reminder to value my own idiosyncrasies and let go of perfectionism. 
Found objects. Text excerpted from “I have no use for virgins” by Jane Hirshfield.  
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luthienne · a day ago
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Jane Hirshfield, from After; “It Was Like This: You Were Happy” [transcription below cut]
It was like this: you were happy, then you were sad, then happy again, then not. It went on. You were innocent or you were guilty. Actions were taken, or not. At times you spoke, at other times you were silent. Mostly, it seems you were silent—what could you say?
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dk-thrive · 2 days ago
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Stay, I said to my loves
Stay, I said to the cut flowers. They bowed their heads lower.
Stay, I said to the spider, who fled.
Stay, leaf. It reddened, embarrassed for me and itself.
Stay, I said to my body. It sat as a dog does, obedient for a moment, soon starting to tremble.
Stay, to the earth of riverine valley meadows, of fossiled escarpments, of limestone and sandstone. It looked back with a changing expression, in silence.
Stay, I said to my loves. Each answered, Always.
— Jane Hirshfield, “The Promise” Come, Thief.  (Alfred A. Knopf, 2011)
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mulika · 3 days ago
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A poem’s meaning requires an engineered, structural soundness, not so different from that of a building or bridge. Language, syntax, verb tense, soundscape, the placing of ink and ink’s absence on a page, are material things, just as steel is.
Jane Hirshfield
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erisolympia · 6 days ago
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Mortal, your life will say, As if tasting something delicious, as if in envy. Your immortal life will say this, as it is leaving.
from When Your Life Looks Back by Jane Hirshfield
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aaknopf · 6 days ago
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Today, a poem from Jane Hirshfield’s collection Come, Thief (2011). As a poet of profound attentiveness to her surroundings, Hirshfield has kept her eye trained on the underlying mathematics—the facts we can see and account for—as well as on the movements of spirit and beauty that live invisibly within.
First Light Edging Cirrus
1025 molecules are enough to call wood thrush or apple. A hummingbird, fewer. A wristwatch: 1024. An alphabet’s molecules, tasting of honey, iron, and salt, cannot be counted— as some strings, untouched, sound when a near one is speaking. So it was when love slipped inside us. It looked out face to face in every direction. Then it was inside the tree, the rock, the cloud.
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Come, Thief by Jane Hirshfield.
Browse other books by Jane Hirshfield, including her recent collection, Ledger.
Hear Jane Hirshfield read her poetry on April 13 (The LOGOS Collective), April 26 (Terrain.org), and April 29 (Northshire Books).
Share this poem and peruse other poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.
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luthienne · 7 days ago
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Jane Hirshfield, from After; “Jasper, feldspar, quartzite”
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luthienne · 7 days ago
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“I wake with my hand held over the place of grief in my body. / ‘Depend on nothing,’ the voice advises, but even that is useless. / My ears are useless, my familiar and intimate tongue. / My protecting hand is useless, that wants to hold the single leaf to the tree / and say, Not this one, this one will be saved.”
— Jane Hirshfield, After; “One Sand Grain Among the Others in Winter Wind”
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erisolympia · 8 days ago
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A few times, you stood on your head. A few times, you chose not to be frightened. A few times, you held another beyond any measure. A few times, you found yourself held beyond any measure.
from When Your Life Looks Back by Jane Hirshfield
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dk-thrive · 10 days ago
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When your life looks back —  As it will, at itself, at you —  what will it say?
When your life looks back— As it will, at itself, at you—what will it say?
Inch of colored ribbon cut from the spool. Flame curl, blue-consuming the log it flares from. Bay leaf. Oak leaf. Cricket. One among many.
Your life will carry you as it did always, With ten fingers and both palms, With horizontal ribs and upright spine, With its filling and emptying heart, That wanted only your own heart, emptying, filled, in return. You gave it. What else could you do?
Immersed in air or in water. Immersed in hunger or anger. Curious even when bored. Longing even when running away.
“What will happen next?”— the question hinged in your knees, your ankles, in the in-breaths even of weeping. Strongest of magnets, the future impartial drew you in. Whatever direction you turned toward was face to face. No back of the world existed, No unseen corner, no test. No other earth to prepare for.
This, your life had said, its only pronoun. Here, your life had said, its only house. Let, your life had said, its only order.
And did you have a choice in this? You did—
Sleeping and waking, the horses around you, the mountains around you, The buildings with their tall, hydraulic shafts. Those of your own kind around you—
A few times, you stood on your head. A few times, you chose not to be frightened. A few times, you held another beyond any measure. A few times, you found yourself held beyond any measure.
Mortal, your life will say, As if tasting something delicious, as if in envy. Your immortal life will say this, as it is leaving.
— Jane Hirshfield, “When Your Life Looks Back” in Come, Thief (Published August 23rd 2011 by Knopf, first published January 1st 2011) (via Read a Little Poetry)
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sagmoonn · 10 days ago
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I dream you, doubt, nightly— for what is the meaning of dreaming if not that all we are while inside it is transient, amorphous, in question?
Jane Hirshfield, My Doubt
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solo-loba · 11 days ago
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There are names for what binds us: strong forces, weak forces. Look around, you can see them: the skin that forms in a half-empty cup, nails rusting into the places they join, joints dovetailed on their own weight. The way things stay so solidly wherever they've been set down— and gravity, scientists say, is weak. And see how the flesh grows back across a wound, with a great vehemence, more strong than the simple, untested surface before. There's a name for it on horses, when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh, as all flesh, is proud of its wounds, wears them as honors given out after battle, small triumphs pinned to the chest— And when two people have loved each other see how it is like a scar between their bodies, stronger, darker, and proud; how the black cord makes of them a single fabric that nothing can tear or mend. For What Binds Us - Jane Hirshfield
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apoemaday · 11 days ago
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The Promise
by Jane Hirshfield
Stay, I said to the cut flowers. They bowed their heads lower.
Stay, I said to the spider, who fled.
Stay, leaf. It reddened, embarrassed for me and itself.
Stay, I said to my body. It sat as a dog does, obedient for a moment, soon starting to tremble.
Stay, to the earth of riverine valley meadows, of fossiled escarpments, of limestone and sandstone. It looked back with a changing expression, in silence.
Stay, I said to my loves. Each answered, Always.
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specialink · 13 days ago
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Jane Hirshfield in The Lives of the Heart
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weusetobegiants · 18 days ago
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and in my tongue borrowed by darkness, in hours uncounted by the self-clock, they speak in restless syllables of other losses, other loves.
Jane Hirshfield, from The Beauty
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weusetobegiants · 19 days ago
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Even these words that praise you further disguise you.
Jane Hirshfield, from The Beauty
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innervoiceartblog · 23 days ago
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LATE PRAYER 
Tenderness does not choose its own uses. It goes out to everything equally, circling rabbit and hawk. Look: in the iron bucket, a single nail, a single ruby-- all the heavens and hells. They rattle in the heart and make one sound. 
 ~ JANE HIRSHFIELD in *Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry* © 1997, 1998, Harper, New York, page 211
 ~ Artwork by Andrea Kowch.
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iampoetnotarockstar · 24 days ago
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“Let her have time, and silence,enough paper to make mistakes and go on.“
— Jane Hirshfield, from “The Poet”
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