Though She Would See
A Story
by Jane Hirshfield
A woman tells me
the story of a small wild bird,
beautiful on her window sill, dead three days.
How her daughter came suddenly running,
“It’s moving, Mommy, he’s alive.”
And when she went, it was.
The emerald wing-feathers stirred, the throat
seemed to beat again with pulse.
Closer then, she saw how the true life lifted
under the wings. Turned her face
so her daughter would not see, though she would see.
It Is Not This Constant Thing
On The Current Events
by Jane Hirshfield
(first published in 1988)
The shadow of countries are changing,
like the figures in the dreams of a long sickness.
Argentina, which used to be so full of sunlight
and heroic, whistling pampas cowboys.
Greece, the lovely heifer of curving horns.
Thailand, Palestine, Salvador.
Of course, it is not this constant thing, history,
but ourselves,
like the wooden statue of some sacred figure,
wormed through,
with the bitter aftertaste on the heart
of too much coffee,
any evening,
after too much talk of unimportant things,
when all of it is important:
the cup placed with such a good fit
on its saucer, well and carefully made,
all the still-pieced pieces of our shared consent.
Much More Listening to Do
Evidence (continued)
by Mary Oliver
3.
I ask you again: if you have not been
enchanted by
this adventure–your life–what would
do for
you?
And, where are you, with your ears
bagged down
as if with packets of sand? Listen. We
all
have much more listening to do. Tear
the sand
away. And listen. The river is singing.
What blackboard could ever be in-
vented that
could hold all the zeros of eternity?
Let me put it this way–if you disdain
the
cobbler may I assume you walk bare-
foot?
Last week I met the so-called deranged
man
who lives in the woods. He was walking
with
great care, so as not to step on any
small,
living thing.
For myself, I have walking in these
woods for
more than forty years, and I am the
only
thing, it seems, that is about to be used
up.
Or, to be less extravagant, will, in the
foreseeable future, be used up.
First, though, I want to step out into
some
fresh morning and look around and
hear myself
crying out: “The house of money is fall-
ing!
The house of money is falling! The
weeds are
rising! The weeds are rising!”
***
(final stanza)
Consider, Always, Every Day
Evidence (continued)
by Mary Oliver
2.
There are many ways to perish, or to
flourish.
How old pain, for example, can stall us
at the
threshold of function.
Memory: a golden bowl, or a basement
without light.
For which reason the nightmare comes
with its
painful story and says: you need to know
this.
Some memories I would give anything
to forget.
Others I would not give up upon the
point of
death, they are the bright hawks of my
life.
Still, friends, consider stone, that is
without
the fret of gravity, and water that is
without
anxiety.
And the pine trees that never forget
their
recipe for renewal.
And the female wood duck who is look-
ing this way
and that way for her children. And the
snapping
turtle who is looking this way and that
way also.
This is the world.
And consider, always, every day, the
determination
of the grass to grow despite the unend-
ing obstacles.
***
(to be continued)
Curious and Full of Detail
Evidence
by Mary Oliver
1.
Where do I live? If I had no address, as
many people
do not, I could nevertheless say that I
lived in the
same town as the lilies of the field, and
the still
waters.
Spring, and all through the neighbor-
hood now there are
strong men tending flowers.
Beauty without purpose is beauty with-
out virtue. But
all beautiful things, inherently, have
this function–
to excite the viewers toward sublime
thought. Glory
to the world, that good teacher.
Among the swans there is none called
the least, or
the greatest.
I believe in kindness. Also in mischief.
Also in
singing, especially when singing is not
prescribed.
As for the body, it is solid and strong
and curious
and full of detail; it wants to polish it-
self; it
wants to love another body; it is the
only vessel in
the world that can hold, in a mix of
power and
sweetness: words, songs, gesture, pas-
sion, ideas,
ingenuity, devotion, merriment, vanity,
and virtue.
Keep some room in your heart for the
unimaginable.
***
(to be continued)
Just So
All the Difficult Hours and Minutes
by Jane Hirshfield
All the difficult hours and minutes
are like salted plums in a jar.
Wrinkled, turned steeply into themselves,
they mutter something the color of shark fins to
the glass.
Just so, calamity turns toward calmness.
First a jar holds the umeboshi, then the rice does.
Always Blowing
Best not to forget there is no respite from the “eight worldly winds” of gain and loss, pleasure and pain, praise and blame, fame and disrepute.
Feedback
by Billy Collins
The woman who wrote from Phoenix
after my reading there
to tell me they were all still talking about it
just wrote again
to tell me that they had stopped
The Way It Slows You Down
Sometimes things don’t go the way you want them to. Sometimes you handle this well. Sometimes you don’t.
It’s helpful to remember it’s not really about feeling comfortable, or successful, or right, or whatever… it’s really about staying present with whatever arises, seeing what leads to suffering, and acting on that.
As best you can.
Disappointment
by Tony Hoagland
I was feeling pretty religious
standing on the bridge in my winter coat
looking down at the gray water:
the sharp little waves dusted with snow,
fish in their tin armor.
That’s what I like about disappointment:
the way it slows you down,
when the querulous insistent chatter of desire
goes dead calm
and the minor roadside flowers
pronounce their quiet colors,
and the red dirt of the hillside glows.
She played the flute, he played the fiddle
and the moon came up over the barn.
Then he didn’t get the job,–
or her father died before she told him
that one, most important thing–
and everything got still.
It was February or October
It was July
I remember it so clear
You don’t have to pursue anything ever again
It’s over
You’re free
You’re unemployed
You just have to stand there
looking out on the water
in your trench coat of solitude
with your scarf of resignation
lifting in the wind.
***
(No, I didn’t lose a job or anything like that. I just got an unwelcome visit from an old, habit pattern.)
This Chance
Still more from
To Begin With, the Sweet Grass
by Mary Oliver
4.
Someday I am going to ask my friend
Paulus,
the dancer, the potter,
to make me a begging bowl
which I believe
my soul needs.
And if I come to you,
to the door of your comfortable house
with unwashed clothes and unclean fingernails,
will you put something into it?
I would like to take this chance.
I would like to give you this chance.
Look, and Look Again
Continuing from yesterday’s post with more from
To Begin With, the Sweet Grass
by Mary Oliver
3.
The witchery of living
is my whole conversation
with you, my darlings.
All I can tell you is what I know.
Look, and look again.
This world is not just a little thrill for
the eyes.
It’s more than bones.
It’s more than the delicate wrist with its
personal pulse.
It’s more than the beating of the single
heart.
It’s praising.
It’s giving until the giving feels like receiving.
You have a life–just image that!
You have this day, and maybe another,
and maybe
still another.
***
(doll by Jane Dyer)