The Beauty

I first found the poems of Jane Hirshfield in Poetry magazine, and was immediately captured by her quiet, pleasing, very specific poems. She is a kind of modern day Emily Dickinson, with poems like

My Species

even
a small purple artichoke
boiled
in its own bittered
and darkening
waters
grows tender,
grows tender and sweet

patience, I think,
my species

keep testing the spiny leaves

the spiny heart

Not all her poems are so short, there are some of a more medium length. And some are very short little poetry magic tricks, like

Two Linen Handkerchiefs

How can you have been dead twelve years
and these still

I guess I should buy a copy, since as I thumb through it again, I find myself not wanting to have to return it to the library. Sometimes I worry that good poetry doesn't get written anymore, and it is a comfort to find a book like this.