French Horn

By Jane Hirshfield


For a few days only,

the plum tree outside the window

shoulders perfection.

No matter the plums will be small,

eaten only by squirrels and jays.

I feast on the one thing, they on another,

the shoaling bees on a third.

What in this unpleated world isn't someone's seduction?


The boy playing his intricate horn in Mahler's Fifth,

in the gaps between playing,

turns it and turns it, dismantles a section,

shakes from it the condensation

of human passage. He is perhaps twenty.



Later he takes his four bows, his face deepening red,

while a girl holds a viola's spruce wood and maple

in one half-opened hand and looks at him hard.

Let others clap.

These two, their ears still ringing, hear nothing.

Not the shouts of bravo, bravo,

not the timpanic clamor inside their bodies.

As the plum's blossoms do not hear the bee

nor taste themselves turned into storable honey

by that sumptuous disturbance.


Comments : A friend forwarded this poem to me a few days ago and I knew I would post in on the blog over the weekend. The beginning of the poem grabbed me and drew me in - 'for a few days only, the plum tree outside the window shoulders perfection'. Lovely image !
For more poems by Jane Hirshfield, check this.
Zen