Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Last Day of National Poetry Month



In recognition of this last day of NPM, I'm posting a poem that I interpret to be about what poetry can be and should be. I suppose it could apply to all art, to a diety, to love, or even to beauty in general. It's by Jane Kenyon, and it's called "Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks."

Briefly It Enters, and 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. . . .





From The Boat of Quiet Hours by Jane Kenyon, published by Graywolf Press. © 1986 by Jane Kenyon. All rights reserved.

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