Friday, March 25, 2011

Jane Kenyon (1947 - 1995) Past winner of PEN/Voelcker Award for Poetry


Briefly It Enters, 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. . . .




Trouble with Math in a One-Room Country School

BY JANE KENYON
The others bent their heads and started in.
Confused, I asked my neighbor
to explain—a sturdy, bright-cheeked girl
who brought raw milk to school from her family’s
herd of Holsteins. Ann had a blue bookmark,
and on it Christ revealed his beating heart,
holding the flesh back with His wounded hand.
Ann understood division. . . .


Miss Moran sprang from her monumental desk
and led me roughly through the class
without a word. My shame was radical
as she propelled me past the cloakroom
to the furnace closet, where only the boys
were put, only the older ones at that.
The door swung briskly shut.


The warmth, the gloom, the smell
of sweeping compound clinging to the broom
soothed me. I found a bucket, turned it
upside down, and sat, hugging my knees.
I hummed a theme from Haydn that I knew
from my piano lessons. . . .
and hardened my heart against authority.
And then I heard her steps, her fingers
on the latch. She led me, blinking
and changed, back to the class.