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#Jane Kenyon
yearningheart · 4 months ago
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jane kenyon
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srdiecko · a month ago
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jane kenyon, camp evergreen
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firstfullmoon · 6 months ago
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A single green sprouting thing / would restore me. . . .
Jane Kenyon, from “February: Thinking of Flowers,” in The Best Poems of Jane Kenyon
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memoryslandscape · a month ago
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You were frightened by our first meeting, but I already prayed for the second, and now the evening is hot, the way it was then . . .
Anna Akhmatova, from “You were frightened by our first meeting″ originally in Plantain, transl. Jane Kenyon with Vera Sandomirsky Dunham, Collected Poems of Jane Kenyon (Graywolf Press, 2005)
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apoemaday · 6 months ago
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Otherwise
by Jane Kenyon
I got out of bed on two strong legs. It might have been otherwise. I ate cereal, sweet milk, ripe, flawless peach. It might have been otherwise. I took the dog uphill to the birch wood. All morning I did the work I love. At noon I lay down with my mate. It might have been otherwise. We ate dinner together at a table with silver candlesticks. It might have been otherwise. I slept in a bed in a room with paintings on the walls, and planned another day just like this day. But one day, I know, it will be otherwise.
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lilly48 · 11 months ago
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If it’s darkness we are having, let it be extravagant.
~Jane Kenyon
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deformititties · a year ago
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I was already yours—the anti-urge, the mutilator of souls.
Having it Out with Melancholy, Jane Kenyon
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fortezzabastiani · 4 months ago
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È tranquillo qui. I gatti poltriscono, ognuno nel suo posto prediletto.
Il geranio si inclina da questo lato per vedere se sto scrivendo di lui: testa tutta petali, gambi bruni, e quei ventagli verdi. Come vedi, sto scrivendo di te.
Accendo la radio. Sbagliato. Non deve esserci nessun suono in questa stanza, tranne quello di una voce che legge una poesia. I gatti chiedono Il topo di campagna, di Theodore Roethke.
La casa si accomoda sul fianco per un sonnellino. So che siete con me, piante e gatti — ma anche così ho paura, seduta al centro della possibilità perfetta.
Jane Kenyon
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cithaerons · a year ago
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Jane Kenyon, Having It Out with Melancholy
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demonofnoontide · 3 months ago
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The shirt touches his neck and smoothes over his back. It slides down his sides. It even goes down below his belt— down into his pants. Lucky shirt.
The Shirt by Jane Kenyon collected in From Room To Room
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lunchboxpoems · 11 months ago
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SEPTEMBER GARDEN PARTY
We sit with friends at the round glass table. The talk is clever; everyone rises to it. Bees come to the spiral pear peelings on your plate. From my lap or your hand the spice of our morning’s privacy comes drifting up. Fall sun passes through the wine.
JANE KENYON
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firstfullmoon · 11 months ago
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So hot, so hot today. . . . I will stay in our room with the shades drawn, waiting for you to come with sleepy eyes, and pass your fingers lightly, lightly up my thighs.
— Jane Kenyon, from “At the Summer Solstice”
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memoryslandscape · 2 months ago
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The grass resolves to grow again, receiving the rain to that end, but my disordered soul thirsts after something it cannot name.
Jane Kenyon, from “August Rain, after Haying,” Constance (Graywolf Press, 1993)
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apoemaday · 8 months ago
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The Blue Bowl
by Jane Kenyon Like primitives we buried the cat with his bowl. Bare-handed we scraped sand and gravel back into the hole.                           They fell with a hiss and thud on his side, on his long red fur, the white feathers between his toes, and his long, not to say aquiline, nose. We stood and brushed each other off. There are sorrows keener than these. Silent the rest of the day, we worked, ate, stared, and slept. It stormed all night; now it clears, and a robin burbles from a dripping bush like the neighbor who means well but always says the wrong thing.
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srdiecko · 20 days ago
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JANE KENYON
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ma-pi-ma · 6 months ago
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La beatitudine e la sofferenza dell’anima sono legate insieme.
Jane Kenyon
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dk-thrive · 27 days ago
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I’m the one who worries if I fit in with the furniture and the landscape.
You always belonged here. You were theirs, certain as a rock. I’m the one who worries if I fit in with the furniture and the landscape. But I “follow too much the devices and desires of my own heart.” Already the curves in the road are familiar to me, and the mountain in all kinds of light, treating all people the same. and when I come over the hill, I see the house, with its generous and firm proportions, smoke rising gaily from the chimney. I feel my life start up again, like a cutting when it grows the first pale and tentative root hair in a glass of water.
― Jane Kenyon, “Here” in Otherwise: New and Selected Poems (Graywolf Press; August 1, 1997)
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