A day comes
when the mouth grows tired
of saying “I.”
Yet it is occupied
still by a self that must speak
—Jane Hirshfield
I wish it was I
Who wrote this poem
Spare
Like a Japanese long sword,
Centered,
Focused on its purpose.
But someone else
Crafted and honed it.
I can make it my own—
I will write a translation.
But try as I might,
I am unable
To reforge this poem
In another language.
I find that its strength
Cannot be extricated
From its words,
From their multiple meanings
Melding and folding
Across the lines.
I will seize this poem,
Learn it by heart,
Enlighten my listeners,
As I recite it,
Cut through the ignorance
Of my opponents.
But what really happens
Is that the poem,
True to its purpose,
Slices deeply
Into my own
Self.
I gasp,
Laugh ruefully,
Watching the blood
Well up and run freely.