PAD Day 7: A Poem by Jane Hirshfield, and One by Little Old Me

As I mentioned before, I will feature poets I know throughout this month of daily blog posts. Today I want to acknowledge my friend Jane Hirshfield, an amazing poet, teacher and mentor who has two new books out - The Beauty, her latest poetry collection; and Ten Windows: How Great Poems Transform the World, her collection of essays that are a followup of sorts to her last collection, the now-classic Nine Gates. Both are published by Alfred A. Knopf and are available on Amazon.com and elsewhere. Jane is presently enjoying the splendors of Ireland, but she gave me permission to include a poem from her new book here.

My Corkboard
by Jane Hirshfield

However many holes are in you,
always there's room for another.

However much you carry,
you can hold more.

Like a saint making a joke,
imperfection of surface
suits you.
Your seams
remind of quiet tectonic plates.

Chthonic corkboard,
always beneath
even when hung on your vertical side,
your waiting thumbtacks
seem to me
a glittering affection,
the mi casa, su casa
of a door standing open in every weather
of invitation.

I apologize to you, corkboard -
I, who would like
to be more like you in spirit,
cover you over
with maps, plans, bills.

Even these words that praise you
further disguise you.



Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo:
(1) Write a "love" or "anti-love" poem, and
(2) Write a poem about money.

Not the most original or inspiring prompts, I must say. Robert gives us the love/anti-love prompt every year - I guess some poets look forward to it, but I've already written at least three love poems already this month. Anyway, the combination begs a "love of money" theme, so I couldn't resist:

For Love of Money

I loved Money.  She paid my bills,

showed me a good time on weekends,

helped me get all the things I wanted:

new car, in-ground pool,

McMansion and big-screen TV.

But she felt I was using her – too often

she would leave before the end of the month,

and she didn’t come around as much

when I was out of work. 

I couldn’t find her anywhere –

not at the bank or the ATM,

the casino or the lottery counter. 

Whenever I saw a little of her,

I asked her to buy me some booze,

then she got disgusted and left for good.

Before long, I was begging on the street

for her return, and I would get glimpses

of her in my cup, hard and clanging,

as if to scold me for my downhill slide.

Oh, if only I could have her back

as I remember her – in her sexy green dress,

paper-thin and rustling in my ear

with her throaty whisper: 

Spend me, big boy, spend me good.