 Poetry: April 20, 2022 Issue [#11321] |
This week: Jane Kenyon Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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February: Thinking of Flowers
by Jane Kenyon
Now wind torments the field,
turning the white surface back
on itself, back and back on itself,
like an animal licking a wound.
Nothing but white--the air, the light;
only one brown milkweed pod
bobbing in the gully, smallest
brown boat on the immense tide.
A single green sprouting thing
would restore me. . . .
Then think of the tall delphinium,
swaying, or the bee when it comes
to the tongue of the burgundy lily.
On May 23, 1947, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, Reuel and Pauline Kenyon welcomed daughter Jane Kenyon into the world. Reuel was a musician who played piano and gave lessons. Pauline was a seamstress and taught sewing classes. The couple had two children and filled Kenyon and her brother's childhood with music and art. Kenyon's grandmother also influenced her greatly. She realized at a young age that her grandmother's beliefs in organized religion would not allow Kenyon to be the intellectual she wanted to be. So nature and beauty would be her God and she would be a good person. She said she never doubted God existed, just rebelled against organized religion and often against the school system. Her father's love for gardening also influenced her, which is apparent in her poetry.
In 1965 Kenyon started college at the University of Michigan. Kenyon majored in French and sang with the Michigan Chorale. It wasn't long before Kenyon found a home among the creative writing community. She won a prestigious Hopwood scholarship prize for writers. Kenyon got her bachelor's of art degree in English in 1970 and later her M.A in English in 1972. Kenyon met her husband Donald Hill, an instructor at the college while attending one of his courses. The couple married in 1972, after Kenyon finished her masters, even though Hall was nineteen years her senior. The couple moved to Eagle Pond Farm, New Hampshire in 1975. Once settled in New Hampshire, Hall got Kenyon to start going with him to the local church. Kenyon had a room to herself to write and look out over the farm.
In 1978 Kenyon published From Room to Room with Alice James Books. Her next collection of poems, The Boat of Quiet Hours, published in 1986 by Graywolf Press. Her poems in this book had longer lines and the rhythms within the lines were more distinct. In 1990 Kenyon published Let Evening Come, also by Graywolf Press. This book reflected her husband's struggle with cancer, her struggle with depression and her renewed faith in God. In 1993 she published Constance. Then Kenyon started working on Otherwise: New and Selected Poems, she was in the process of editing the book in 1995 when she passed away. Jane Kenyon died April 22 1995, after battling leukemia. Otherwise was released posthumously in 1996.
Let Evening Come
by Jane Kenyon
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks
by Jane Kenyon
I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .
I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .
When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .
I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . .
I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .
I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .
I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . .
I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . .
I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow. . . .
I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .
I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
Grey clouds gather over the thirsty garden,
bringing hope for vital relief in April.
Bloated skies release the elixir needed.
Prayers are answered.
Flowers spring from ground that is amply watered.
Blossoms charm an audience waiting gaily.
Nature's manna nourishes sacred treasure,
sharing its banquet.
Hummingbird surprises with early visit,
hungry after winter's long deprivation.
Daffodil delivers a pollen luncheon--
mutual comfort.
Many poets shower our lives with splendor
born of Nature's bountiful sacred treasure.
Elemental spirit of human beings--
valuing beauty.
Honorable mention:
"Invalid Entry"
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Good luck to all 
