I Am Not I

I am taking a break from writing brand new blog posts over the summer.

Instead of posting new work I am giving readers the chance to read material from the archives of my blog.

In no particular order, here are twenty of my favourite posts from the last four years.

 

 

I Am Not I

I am not I.
                   I am this one
walking beside me whom I do not see,
whom at times I manage to visit,
and whom at other times I forget;
who remains calm and silent while I talk,
and forgives, gently, when I hate,
who walks where I am not,
who will remain standing when I die.

Juan Ramón Jiménez, “‘I Am Not I’” from Lorca and Jiménez: Selected Poems.

Translated by Robert Bly

Lorca and Jimenez: Selected Poems (Beacon Press, 1973)

I came across this short, marvellous poem for the first time yesterday.

A confession: it has sat on my shelf for years, in an anthology given to me by my wife (Poem for the Day: One, edited by Nicholas Albery and Peter Ratcliffe, with a foreword by Wendy Cope: The Natural Death Centre, 1994). Another confession: I only started reading this book towards the end of last year.

This is because I am a snob. On receiving it I resisted its simple (and clever) format, of presenting a different poem by a different poet on each day of the year, as too trite, too straightforward. I am also an idiot.

Each page contains notes on the poet and poem in question. These are written in plain English, without a trace of academic jargon. At the top of each page there are more notes, in bullet point format, telling you what happened on that day in history to poets of note. Who knew that William Stafford was born on 17 January, for example? Or that Sir Thomas Wyatt was sent to the Tower on that day in 1541? I certainly didn’t.

It’s a wonderful book. I wish I had begun reading it sooner. As I say: idiot.

The story is one of rediscovering something hidden in plain view all along. It is also that moment of recognition, of everything coming together, a private, teasing, silent absolute yes to the poem connecting with your life at the point at which you need it, unbidden and unforced, yet somehow unstoppable and inevitable.

As I have been saying recently, I find myself increasingly drawn to poems which are more in love with the traces they leave on the silence at the core of their moment than they are with the shiny surfaces of ego and performance. I honestly believe that if you held a gun to most poets heads they would say the same, in recognition of their true gifts and subjects.

This lovely, plain-as-clear-water poem by the Nobel Prize-winning Jiminéz is a parable of such mindfulness in action. It does not judge. It accepts that hatred may be present, and forgetfulness (including the awareness of presence itself). It knows when to be gentle. It accepts everything, even the fact of death.

What I love most is that it is without ambition for its own career and afterlife. It surrenders itself completely to its moment. Paradoxically, the moment it begins to disappear is also the moment it finds itself.

 

First published 19 January, 2014

3 comments

  1. Gill McEvoy

    I know this poem (many moons ago I studied Spanish Lit) and it is such a lovely poem. Do you know the poem Si La Muerte Viene? (if death comes) by S.American poet Miguel Huazo Mixco; It has a slightly similar feeling to the ‘remainder’ matter of Jimenez’s ending in that the poet relates how he’s too preoccupied with living to be bothered with death.

    I also very much like the ‘Poem for the Day’ book, looked up the poems for all my friends’ and family’s birthday dates…. not always a good thing to do!! And doesn’t Nicholas Albery urge us to learn apoem a day by heart? Sometimes I try….

    Like

  2. Connie Ruzich

    Just wanted to say (belatedly) that when I read this post earlier, I looked up the poem-a-day anthology and decided to order a copy. I’ve had it now for nearly half a year, and it’s one of my favorite books, full of surprises, not least of all, the sly humor of some of the bullet point notes. Sadly, it’s too big to travel with — I wish there was a Kindle version. 😦

    Like

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