Jane Kenyon Short Poems

Famous Short Jane Kenyon Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Jane Kenyon. A collection of the all-time best Jane Kenyon short poems

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February: Thinking of Flowers  

 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.

The Suitor  

 We lie back to back.
 Curtains
lift and fall,
like the chest of someone sleeping.
 
Wind moves the leaves of the box elder; 
they show their light undersides,
turning all at once
like a school of fish.
 
Suddenly I understand that I am happy.
 
For months this feeling 
has been coming closer, stopping
for short visits, like a timid suitor.

Notes from the Other Side  

 I divested myself of despair
and fear when I came here.


Now there is no more catching
one's own eye in the mirror,

there are no bad books, no plastic,
no insurance premiums, and of course

no illness.
 Contrition 
does not exist, nor gnashing

of teeth.
 No one howls as the first
clod of earth hits the casket.


The poor we no longer have with us.
 
Our calm hearts strike only the hour,

and God, as promised, proves
to be mercy clothed in light.

Biscuit  

 The dog has cleaned his bowl
and his reward is a biscuit,
which I put in his mouth
like a priest offering the host.


I can't bear that trusting face!
He asks for bread, expects
bread, and I in my power
might have given him a stone.

Elegy For Jane Kenyon  

 Jane is big
with death, Don
sad and kind - Jane
though she's dying
is full of mind

We talk about the table
the little walnut one
how it's like
Emily Dickinson's

But Don says No
Dickinson's
was made of iron.
 No
said Jane
Of flesh.

Finding A Long Gray Hair  

 I scrub the long floorboards
in the kitchen, repeating
the motions of other women
who have lived in this house.

And when I find a long gray hair
floating in the pail,
I feel my life added to theirs.

Wash  

 All day the blanket snapped and swelled
on the line, roused by a hot spring wind.
.
.
.

 From there it witnessed the first sparrow,
early flies lifting their sticky feet,
and a green haze on the south-sloping hills.

Clouds rose over the mountain.
.
.
.
At dusk
I took the blanket in, and we slept,
restless, under its fragrant weight.