Jane Kenyon

POETRY: Back From The City, by Jane Kenyon

April 20, 2016

After three days and night of rich food and late talk in overheated rooms, of walks between mounds of garbage and human forms bedded down for the night under rags, I come back to my dooryard, to my own wooden step. The last red leaves fall to the ground and frost has blackened the herbs and asters that grew beside the porch. The air is still and cool, and the withered grass lies flat in the field. A nuthatch spirals down the rough trunk of the tree. At the Cloisters I indulged in piety while gazing at a painted lindenwood Pietà— across her knees; but when a man stepped close under the tasseled awning of the hotel, asking for “a quarter for someone down on his luck,” I quickly turned my back. Now I hear tiny bits of bark and [...]

POETRY: Yard Sale, by Jane Kenyon

July 16, 2014

Under the stupefying sun my family’s belongings lie on the lawn or heaped on borrowed card tables in the gloom of the garage. Platters, frying pans, our dead dog’s dish, box upon box of sheet music, a wad of my father’s pure linen hand-rolled handkerchiefs, and his books on the subsistence farm, a dream for which his constitution ill suited [...]

POETRY: Mosaic of the Nativity by Jane Kenyon

December 10, 2012

Serbia, Winter 1993 On the domed ceiling God is thinking: I made them my joy, and everything else I created I made to bless them. But see what they do! I know their hearts and arguments: “We’re descended from Cain. Evil is nothing new, so what does it matter now if we shell the infirmary, and the well where the fearful and rash alike must come for water?” God thinks Mary into being. Suspended at the apogee of the golden dome, she curls in a brown pod, and inside her the mind of Christ, cloaked in blood, lodges and begins to grow.   [...]