My Response to Jane Hirshfield's Poem

 

It Was Like This: You Were Happy

by Jane Hirshfield

It was like this:
you were happy, then you were sad,
then happy again, then not.

It went on.
You were innocent or you were guilty.
Actions were taken, or not.

At times you spoke, at other times you were silent.
Mostly, it seems you were silent—what could you say?

Now it is almost over.

Like a lover, your life bends down and kisses your life.

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.

Eating, too, is a thing now only for others.

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.

Your story was this: you were happy, then you were sad,
you slept, you awakened.
Sometimes you ate roasted chestnuts, sometimes persimmons.

—2002

Jane Hirschfield

It was like this:

It doesn’t matter what they will make of you
or your days: they will be wrong,

...you don't particularly desire to be mystical.

you choose transparency over the quizzical nature of

not knowing who you are or rather

whom you present yourself to be.

it is quite possible that not only will they

be wrong, but also you could be

wrong. you tamper with the possibility

that yes, you could allow someone somewhere with

advantages notice you. in the meantime,

it really doesn't matter what you make of you.

what matters is that you make yourself honest to

you, only you.

(inspired by Jane Hirshfield's "It Was Like This: You Were Happy)