I Am Not I
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 eighteen months ago.
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 the previous 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.