Tag Archives: Jane Kenyon

“Happiness” by Jane Kenyon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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“Bright Sun after Heavy Snow” by Jane Kenyon

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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