Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Seventeen Pebbles by Jane Hirshfield

Reading Seventeen Pebbles by Jane Hirshfield took me back to a time long ago when I loved collecting pebbles whenever I visited a new place. It was my kind of memento. Sometimes leaves, sea shells and twigs would be added to give more definition to my memories.

As I was to find out, pebbles are not so different from one another even I found them a thousand miles apart. Once inside my box of "treasures" I could not tell the places apart. Hirshfield's pebbles unlike mine are as distinctive as they are beautiful.

After Degas

The woman who will soon
take a lover shaves her legs in the bath,
Would knowing or not knowing that she does this please him more ?


The lake scarlets
the same instant as the maple.
Let others try to say this is not passion.


The grated lemon rind bitters the oil it steeps in.
A wanted flavor.
Like the moment in love when one lover knows
the other could do anything now wanted, yet does not.


The body of a starving horse cannot forget the size it was born to.


Anonymous said...

I wonder why there is no single comment on this post. Jane is my favorite. Great pebbles. Thanks

Heartcrossings said...

Good to see another Hirshfield fan :) Thanks for stopping by

Annie Hall said...

Most of my books are in storage right now, and I am trying to remember a Jane Hirshfield pebble about the moon... I'm not sure I've remembered it correctly...
The moon in a well,
the one that sees it blocks it.
Can you correct me on it?