The Poet by Jane Hirshfield

The Poet

She is working now, in a room
not unlike this one,
the one where I write, or you read.
Her table is covered with paper.
The light of the lamp would be
tempered by a shade, where the bulb's
single harshness might dissolve,
but it is not, she has taken it off.
Her poems? I will never know them,
though they are the ones I most need.
Even the alphabet she writes in
I cannot decipher. Her chair --
Let us imagine whether it is leather
or canvas, vinyl or wicker. Let her
have a chair, her shadeless lamp,
the table. Let one or two she loves
be in the next room. Let the door
be closed, the sleeping ones healthy.
Let her have time, and silence,
enough paper to make mistakes and go on.

- Jane Hirshfield

to sing this song. 

A good singer

gives himself

the time
the patience
and the courage
to sing your song ...

whatever his song is ...
a home, a family, a bridge,
a poem, a friendship, a painting.
He lets himself expand his horizons.

And if he get lucky in the end

he gets to hear your song

in his own voice

- Shivpreet Singh