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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


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.



by Jane Kenyon
 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.

by Jane Kenyon
 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.

by Jane Kenyon
 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.

by Jean Valentine
 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.

by Jane Kenyon
 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  Create an image from this poem
by Jane Kenyon
 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.




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