have time, and silence, enough paper to make mistakes and go on.
The Poet
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.
Her poems? I will never know them,
though they are the ones I most need.
Even the alphabet she writes in
I cannot decipher. Her chair –
let us imagine whether it is leather
or canvas, vinyl or wicker. Let her
have a chair, her shadeless lamp,
the table. Let one or two she loves
be in the next room. Let the door
be closed, the sleeping ones healthy.
Let her have time, and silence,
enough paper to make mistakes and go on.
-Jane Hirshfield
Let one or two she loves be in the next room. What do you need to be a poet? Let your life be a poem.
Thanks to Van Waffle for pointing me to this poem, in which I find myself. And you?
(image from here)
