If you open your eyes
to see me standing before you
you are in luck, chuck.
For in me are all the makings of a something
but nobody knows what that something is yet
tell me, how do you guess what's inside a gift box
if it makes absolutely no sound when you shake it?
Surely, you and I both know an item's weight tells everything
and still nothing at all. So I plan to knowingly take the fall
We'll both plunge headfirst into an endless pile
of wrapping paper, packaging materials, and unopened boxes
there'll be ribbons to untie, tape to un-stick, and a big mess
to clean up when the search is all finished
And in the end, it's possible that we'll discover the answer
is impossible to unwrap, it cant be tied in a bow
or boxed and wrapped in festive designs
there is no amount of stuffing paper that can hide it
No one else can tell you how to open it,
the gift of self-knowing and self-acceptance
now tell me, what's in your gift box this year?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Two fine poetic qualities come together in this poem, namely, seriousness of purpose and lightness of expression. I'm especially impressed because I know from my experience it's a difficult balance to achieve ... I love the dive into that pile of wrappings! It's such an unexpected moment. It functions in the poem as an extended metaphor of the (often) desperate search for self-identity. Who Am I Really? Who Are You Really? The questions are posed but even this dramatic dive, and wrestling with things that hide the truth can't fully reveal the answer. We are mysteries to ourselves. That OTHER over there is a mystery. We live in these mysteries.