Jane Hirshfield (born 24 February 1953) is an American poet, essayist, and translator. She was born in February 24, 1953. She was born on East 20th Street, New York City. She received her bachelor's degree from Princeton University in the school's first graduating class to include women.
Hirshfield's seven books of poetry have each received numerous awards. Her fifth book, Given Sugar, Given Salt, was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award and her sixth collection, After, was shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize (UK) and named a 'best book of 2006' by The Washington Post, The San Francisco Chronicle, and the Financial Times. She has written a book of essays, Nine... more »
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Jane Hirshfield Poems
I was walking again in the woods, a yellow light was sifting all I saw.
Some stories last many centuries, others only a moment. All alter over that lifetime like beach-glass, grow distant and more beautiful with salt.
The heart's reasons seen clearly, even the hardest will carry its whip-marks and sadness and must be forgiven.
One day in that room, a small rat. Two days later, a snake. Who, seeing me enter, whipped the long stripe of his body under the bed, then curled like a docile house-pet.
The Heart's Counting Knows Only One
In Sung China, two monks friends for sixty years watched the geese pass. Where are they going?
A Blessing for Wedding
Today when persimmons ripen Today when fox-kits come out of their den into snow Today when the spotted egg releases its wren song
It is a simple garment, this slipped-on world. We wake into it daily - open eyes, braid hair - a robe unfurled in rose-silk flowering, then laid bare
As the house of a person in age sometimes grows cluttered with what is too loved or too heavy to part with,
It is foolish to let a young redwood grow next to a house.
Take the used-up heart like a pebble and throw it far out.
A hand is not four fingers and a thumb. Nor is it palm and knuckles, not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow, not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander of veins.
You work with what you are given, the red clay of grief, the black clay of stubbornness going on after. Clay that tastes of care or carelessness, clay that smells of the bottoms of rivers or dust.
Comments about Jane Hirshfield
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
I was walking again
in the woods,
a yellow light
was sifting all I saw.
with a cold heart,
I took a stick,
lifted it to the opposite side
of the path.
There, I said to myself,
that's done now.
Brushing one hand against the other,
to clean them
of the tiny fragments of bark.