1675: The Gift | Li-Young Lee
"The Gift"
Li-Young Lee
To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he’d removed
the iron sliver I thought I’d die from.
I can’t remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,
the flames of discipline
he raised above my head.
Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy’s palm,
a silver tear, a tiny flame.
Had you followed that boy
you would have arrived here,
where I bend over my wife’s right hand.
Look how I shave her thumbnail down
so carefully she feels no pain.
Watch as I lift the splinter out.
I was seven when my father
took my hand like this,
and I did not hold that shard
between my fingers and think,
Metal that will bury me,
christen it Little Assassin,
Ore Going Deep for My Heart.
And I did not lift up my wound and cry,
Death visited here!
I did what a child does
when he’s given something to keep.
I kissed my father.
The autumn before the one where I am alone for certain, the poet tells all of us to feel everything, to let ourselves hurt and be broken, to let ourselves be graced and to feel joy, to feel the spectrum. I think one day these words will come back to me, but I forget them, as I always, shamefully, do with words that are true. They come back now, when I am terrified in a burst of sudden emotion which has welled up for no reason save the coming of May and all that means. I think of her words and of Rilke's words, the ones I write on my wrist to remind me that this is what humans feel, this is part of being alive and gloriously so. Lass dir Alles geschehn: Schönheit und Schrecken. I wish I knew German only for this poem and that line: Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. This is beautiful, this is sadness-crushingly beautiful, and maybe my fear will disappear. And I rub my eyes and feel the salt migrating from my eyelashes onto my fingertips and think of you whose name means "of the sea", and listen to your recording, your voice telling me over and over that "there is a light somewhere/it may not be much light/but it beats the darkness", Bukowski's poetry, and somehow I can hear not only you, but everyone who's ever cared about me, speaking calmly, slowly, softly.
I finally believed I was alone, felt it/in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo/like a thin bell.
Li-Young Lee
To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he’d removed
the iron sliver I thought I’d die from.
I can’t remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face,
the flames of discipline
he raised above my head.
Had you entered that afternoon
you would have thought you saw a man
planting something in a boy’s palm,
a silver tear, a tiny flame.
Had you followed that boy
you would have arrived here,
where I bend over my wife’s right hand.
Look how I shave her thumbnail down
so carefully she feels no pain.
Watch as I lift the splinter out.
I was seven when my father
took my hand like this,
and I did not hold that shard
between my fingers and think,
Metal that will bury me,
christen it Little Assassin,
Ore Going Deep for My Heart.
And I did not lift up my wound and cry,
Death visited here!
I did what a child does
when he’s given something to keep.
I kissed my father.
The autumn before the one where I am alone for certain, the poet tells all of us to feel everything, to let ourselves hurt and be broken, to let ourselves be graced and to feel joy, to feel the spectrum. I think one day these words will come back to me, but I forget them, as I always, shamefully, do with words that are true. They come back now, when I am terrified in a burst of sudden emotion which has welled up for no reason save the coming of May and all that means. I think of her words and of Rilke's words, the ones I write on my wrist to remind me that this is what humans feel, this is part of being alive and gloriously so. Lass dir Alles geschehn: Schönheit und Schrecken. I wish I knew German only for this poem and that line: Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. This is beautiful, this is sadness-crushingly beautiful, and maybe my fear will disappear. And I rub my eyes and feel the salt migrating from my eyelashes onto my fingertips and think of you whose name means "of the sea", and listen to your recording, your voice telling me over and over that "there is a light somewhere/it may not be much light/but it beats the darkness", Bukowski's poetry, and somehow I can hear not only you, but everyone who's ever cared about me, speaking calmly, slowly, softly.
I finally believed I was alone, felt it/in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo/like a thin bell.