Also, the stubborn, courteous persistence. At times you spoke, at other times you were silent. In just the past week, a rotund porcupine,who seemed equally startled by me. Bus drivers, shelf stockers,code writers, machinists, accountants,lab techs, cellists kept speaking. On the fifth daythe scientists who studied the riverswere forbidden to speakor to study the rivers. No visible tears measure the pilot’s griefas she Lidars the height of an island: five feet.Fifty, its highest leaf.She logs the years, the weathers, the tree has left. the borrowed city around me is still a city, and standing. In just the past week, a rotund porcupine. Bees do not question the sweetness of what sways beneath them. No visible tears measure the pilot’s grief. Sometimes you ate roasted chestnuts, sometimes persimmons. It doesn’t matter what they will make of youor your days: they will be wrong,they will miss the wrong woman, miss the wrong man,all the stories they tell will be tales of their own invention. Later, I had the chance to see Jane Hirshfield in person and she was gracious enough to sign and dedicate my folded, photocopy of her poem. To such a request, the world is obliging. I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended. while the unpausing factual buds of the fruit treescontinued to move toward their fruit. We are running a 'Click & Collect' service and free postal borrowing. The man who swallowed a tiny microphoneto record the sounds of his body,not considering beforehand how he might remove it. Reproduced by permission of the author and the publisher. Jane Hirshfield says, despite growing up in New York City, she’s always been attracted to the solitude and peace of nature. Another is li.Ten thousand li can be translated: “far.” For the exiled, home can be translated “then,” translated “scar.”. Mostly, it seems you were silent – what could you say? 22 Responses to “It Was Like … and only the wind that spoke of its bees, while the unpausing factual buds of the fruit trees. The scientists who studied the airwere told not to speak of the air,and the ones who worked for the farmerswere silenced,and the ones who worked for the bees. Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin is 3,592 measures.A voice kept far from feeling is heard as measured.What’s wanted in desperate times are desperate measures.Pushkin’s unfinished Onegin: 5,446 lines. Your story was this: you were happy, then you were sad. It's one of my all-time favorites. She served as a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets from 2012 to 2017. not considering beforehand how he might remove it. measure 400 yards long, 60 yards wide, weigh 112 tons. Height now is treasure. my daily expectation that anything would continue. and that when I wake up,the window’s distant mountain remains a mountain,the borrowed city around me is still a city, and standing. all the stories they tell will be tales of their own invention. Thanks for that. It went on. 5 out of 5 0 total ratings rate this poem Read this poem in other languages. © Academy of American Poets, 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038. Sometimes you ate roasted chestnuts, sometimes persimmons. Small rivulets still flowing downhill when it wasn’t raining.A sister’s birthday. Ask all you wish, no twenty-fifth hour will be given. Comments about It Was Like This: You Were Happy by Jane Hirshfield. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge... Recite this poem (upload your own video or voice file). I remember you liked this poem. It doesn’t matter what they will make of you or your days: they will be wrong, they will miss the wrong woman, miss the wrong man, all the stories they tell will be tales of their own invention. Its alleys and markets, offices of dentists. he sees the bread is finished with transformation. It’s like some request for a further and more expansive, elastic, imaginative, less superficial attention. Eating, too, is a thing now only for others. It does this not in forgiveness—between you, there is nothing to forgive—but with the simple nod of a baker at the momenthe sees the bread is finished with transformation. Dismiss. It was like this:you were happy, then you were sad,then happy again, then not. At times you spoke, at other times you were silent. of Polish vodka holds twelve pounds of potatoes. The length and weight and silence of the bereft. Bound to gravity, earless and tongueless. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. A million fired-clay bones—animal, human—. That’s how the poems come. my error after error, recognized when appearing on the faces of others. A cabbage and mustard sandwich on marbled bread. Let's enjoy the poem "This Was Once a Love Poem" written by poet Jane Hirshfield on Rhymings.Com! Mostly, it seems you were silent—what could you say? It doesn’t matter what they will make of you. And thank you for your appreciation. between you, there is nothing to forgive—, but with the simple nod of a baker at the moment. Small rivulets still flowing downhill when it wasn’t raining. I actually photocopied from the issue of the New Yorker it was published. ... — Jane Hirshfield. Bees do not question the sweetness of what sways beneath them.One measure of distance is meters. Best Love Quotes – 500 Deep & Meaningful Quotes About Love. Originally published in After (HarperCollins, 2006); all rights reserved. as she Lidars the height of an island: five feet. This poem has not been translated into any other language yet. Its library that charges—a happy surprise—no fine for overdue books: Borges, Baldwin, Szymborska, Morrison, Cavafy. our cataloged vanishing unfinished heaven. It does this not in forgiveness – between you, there is nothing to forgive – but with the simple nod of a baker at the moment he sees the bread is finished with transformation. Like a lover, your life bends down and kisses your life. This poem has not been translated into any other language yet. Now it was only the riversthat spoke of the rivers,and only the wind that spoke of its bees. On this scale of one to ten, where is eleven?Ask all you wish, no twenty-fifth hour will be given.Measuring mounts—like some Western bar’s mounted elk head—our cataloged vanishing unfinished heaven. What did not surprise enough:my daily expectation that anything would continue,and then that so much did continue, when so much did not. they will miss the wrong woman, miss the wrong man. The SPL has reopened to the public with a reduced service. Or that no one kept being there when the doorknob had clearly. You were innocent or you were guilty. There is no comment submitted by members.. © Poems are the property of their respective owners. ... with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame. Your story was this: you were happy, then you were sad, you slept, you awakened. the window’s distant mountain remains a mountain. For further details, click COVID-19 in the menu bar above. A voice kept far from feeling is heard as measured. How easily the large spiders were caught with a clear plastic cupsurprised even them. On this scale of one to ten, where is eleven? It went on.You were innocent or you were guilty.Actions were taken, or not.

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