Tag Archives: Jane Kenyon

“Happiness” by Jane Kenyon

Posted on May 23, 2014 by jyourist

There’s just no accounting for happiness, or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your feet having squandered a fortune far away. And how can you not forgive? You make a feast … Continue reading →

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“Walking Alone in Late Winter” by Jane Kenyon

Posted on March 15, 2014 by jyourist

How long the winter has lasted—like a Mahler symphony, or an hour in the dentist’s chair. In the fields the grasses are matted and gray, making me think of June, when hay and vetch burgeon in the heat, and warm … Continue reading →

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“The Pond at Dusk” by Jane Kenyon

Posted on August 27, 2013 by jyourist

A fly wounds the water but the wound soon heals. Swallows tilt and twitter overhead, dropping now and then toward the outward-radiating evidence of food. xxxx The green haze on the trees changes into leaves, and what looks like smoke … Continue reading →

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“Surprise” by Jane Kenyon

Posted on May 23, 2013 by jyourist

It is the poet, Jane Kenyon’s, birthday today. She was born in 1947 and died in 1995 from leukemia. She was married to the poet Donald Hall. He suggests pancakes at the local diner, followed by a walk in search … Continue reading →

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“Portrait of a figure near water” by Jane Kenyon

Posted on October 5, 2012 by jyourist

Rebuked, she turned and ran uphill to the barn. Anger, the inner arsonist, held a match to her brain. She observed her life: against her will it survived the unwavering flame. xxx The barn was empty of animals. Only a … Continue reading →

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“Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks” by Jane Kenyon

Posted on July 16, 2012 by jyourist

I am the blossom pressed in a book, found again after two hundred years. . . . xxxxx I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper…. xxx When the young girl who starves sits down to a table she … Continue reading →

Posted in death, poetry, transition | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

“Bright Sun after Heavy Snow” by Jane Kenyon

Posted on February 13, 2012 by jyourist

A ledge of ice slides from the eaves, piercing the crusted drift. Astonishing how even a little violence eases the mind. In this extreme state of light everything seems flawed: the streaked pane, the forced bulbs on the sill that … Continue reading →

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Otherwise by Jane Kenyon

Posted on October 8, 2011 by jyourist

I got out of bed on two strong legs. It might have been otherwise. I ate cereal, sweet milk, ripe, flawless peach. It might have been otherwise. I took the dog uphill to the birch wood. All morning I did … Continue reading →

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