I've written about Edward Hirsch before, but only his prose. I hadn't read any of his poetry until last week when his latest collection, Special Orders, was finally waiting for me at the library. I like the book- I like many of the individual poems and I like the way they all flow together to form a narrative of his life.
This one stood out for me immediately. It's accessible but also made me think a lot over some of his word choices. I think it captures a bit how uncomfortable it can feel to be an American.
Krakow, 6 A.M.
I sit in a corner of the town square
and let the ancient city move through me.
I sip a cup of coffee, write a little,
and watch an old woman sweeping the stairs.
Poland is waking up now: blackbirds patrol
the cobblestones, nuns rush by in habits,
and the clock tower strikes six times.
Day breaks into the night's reverie.
The morning is as fresh and clean
as a butcher's apron hanging in a shop.
Now it is pressed and white, but soon
it will be spotted with blood.
Europe is waking up, but America
is going to sleep, a gangly teenager
sprawled out on a comfortable bed.
He has large hands and feet
and his dreams are innocent and bloodthirsty.
I want to throw a blanket over his shoulders
and tuck him in again, like a child,
now that his sleep is no longer untroubled.
I'm alone here in the Old World
where poetry matters, old hatreds seethe,
and history wears a crown of thorns.
Fresh bread wafts from the ovens
and daily life follows its own inexorable
course, like a drunk weaving slowly
across a courtyard, or a Dutch maid
throwing open the heavy shutters.
I suppose there's always a shopgirl
stationed in the doorway, a beggar taking up
his corner post, and newspapers fluttering
from store to store with bad news.
Poetry, too, seeks a place in the world-
feasting on darkness but needing light,
taking confession, listening for bells,
for the first strains of music in a town square.
Europe is going to work now-
look at those two businessmen hurrying
past the statue of the national bard-
as her younger brother sleeps
on the other side of the ocean,
innocent and violent, dreaming of glory.
NPR has a nice interview with Hirsch- I really, really recommend it. He reads several poems from this collection, including another one of my favorites, Self-portrait. I was familiar with his background but I was still surprised by his voice, his accent. I guess I naively expect all American poets to sound like Boston Brahmins.
