1. |
Year Day
02:42
|
|||
|
Year Day (Jane Kenyon)
We are living together on the earth.
The clock’s heart
beats in its wooden chest.
The cats follow the sun through the house.
We lie down together at night.
Today, you work in your office,
and I in my study. Sometimes
we are busy and casual.
Sitting here, I can see
the path we have made on the rug.
The hermit gives up
after thirty years of hiding in the jungle.
The last door to the last room
comes unlatched. Here are the gestures
of my hands. Wear them in your hair.
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
2. |
Changing Light
01:14
|
|||
|
Changing Light (Jane Kenyon)
Clouds move over the mountain,
methodical as ancient
scholars.
Sun comes out
in the high pasture where
cows feel heat
between their shoulder blades.
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
3. |
Otherwise
02:29
|
|||
|
Otherwise (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.
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
4. |
Song
01:45
|
|||
|
Song (Jane Kenyon)
An oriole sings from the hedge
and in the hotel kitchen
the chef sweetens cream for pastries.
Far off, lightning and thunder agree
to join us for a few days
here in the valley. How lucky we are
to be holding hands on a porch
in the country. But even this
is not the joy that trembles
under every leaf and tongue.
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
5. |
Man Sleeping
01:53
|
|||
|
Man Sleeping (Jane Kenyon)
Large flakes of snow fall slowly, far
apart, like whales who cannot find mates
in the vast blue latitudes.
Why do I think of the man asleep
on the grassy bank outside the Sackler
Museum in Washington?
It was a chill
afternoon. He lay, no doubt, on everything
he owned, belly down, his head twisted
awkwardly to the right, mouth open
in abandon.
He looked
like a child who has fallen asleep
still dressed on the top of the covers,
or like Abel, broken, at his brother’s feet.
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
6. |
The Sandy Hole
01:51
|
|||
|
The Cold (Jane Kenyon)
I don’t know why it made me happy to see the pond ice over in a day,
turning first hazy, then white. Or why I was glad when the thermome-
ter read twenty-four below, and I came back to bed—the pillows cold,
as if I had not been there two minutes before.
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
7. |
Happiness
03:22
|
|||
|
Happiness (Jane Kenyon)
There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
8. |
The Guest
01:27
|
|||
|
The Guest (Jane Kenyon)
I had opened the draft on the stove
and my head was tending downward when
a portly housefly dropped on the page
in front of me. Confused by the woodstove’s
heat, the fly, waking ill-tempered, lay
on its back, flailing its legs and wings.
Then it lurched into the paper clips.
The morning passed, and I forgot about
my guest, except when the buzz rose
and quieted, rose and quieted—tires
spinning on ice, chain saw far away,
someone carrying on alone. . . .
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
9. |
Coats
01:21
|
|||
|
Coats (Jane Kenyon)
I saw him leaving the hospital
with a woman’s coat over his arm.
Clearly she would not need it.
The sunglasses he wore could not
conceal his wet face, his bafflement.
As if in mockery the day was fair,
and the air mild for December. All the same
he had zipped his own coat and tied
the hood under his chin, preparing
for irremediable cold.
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
10. |
The Cold
01:08
|
|||
|
The Cold (Jane Kenyon)
I don’t know why it made me happy to see the pond ice over in a day,
turning first hazy, then white. Or why I was glad when the thermome-
ter read twenty-four below, and I came back to bed—the pillows cold,
as if I had not been there two minutes before.
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
11. |
Dry Winter
00:55
|
|||
|
Dry Winter (Jane Kenyon)
So little snow that the grass in the field
like a terrible thought
has never entirely disappeared. . . .
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
12. |
||||
|
Three Songs at the End of Summer (Jane Kenyon)
A second crop of hay lies cut
and turned. Five gleaming crows
search and peck between the rows.
They make a low, companionable squawk,
and like midwives and undertakers
possess a weird authority.
Crickets leap from the stubble,
parting before me like the Red Sea.
The garden sprawls and spoils.
Across the lake the campers have learned
to water ski. They have, or they haven’t.
Sounds of the instructor’s megaphone
suffuse the hazy air. “Relax! Relax!”
Cloud shadows rush over drying hay,
fences, dusty lane, and railroad ravine.
The first yellowing fronds of goldenrod
brighten the margins of the woods.
Schoolbooks, carpools, pleated skirts;
water, silver-still, and a vee of geese.
*
The cicada’s dry monotony breaks
over me. The days are bright
and free, bright and free.
Then why did I cry today
for an hour, with my whole
body, the way babies cry?
*
A white, indifferent morning sky,
and a crow, hectoring from its nest
high in the hemlock, a nest as big
as a laundry basket ...
In my childhood
I stood under a dripping oak,
while autumnal fog eddied around my feet,
waiting for the school bus
with a dread that took my breath away.
The damp dirt road gave off
this same complex organic scent.
I had the new books—words, numbers,
and operations with numbers I did not
comprehend—and crayons, unspoiled
by use, in a blue canvas satchel
with red leather straps.
Spruce, inadequate, and alien
I stood at the side of the road.
It was the only life I had.
Copyright ©2005 by The Estate of Jane Kenyon.
Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, www.graywolfpress.org. All rights reserved worldwide.
|
||||
Graham Sobelman Sacramento, California
Graham Sobelman is a Nothern California-based composer, music director & pianist who loves making music.
If you like Jane Kenyon Sessions, Vol. Two, you may also like:
Dressed in Borrowed Light
by Avi C. Engel
More genre-hopping folk experiments from the Toronto artist, utilizing lap steel guitars, tongue drums, found instruments, and more.
go to album
The composer's latest album is a love story between her and her piano.
go to album
JESSICA's second album was recorded live solely with vocals and piano.
go to album
How Does It Feel EP
by Lizzie Weber
Missouri singer/songwriter Lizzie Weber delivers a trio of songs lightly informed by country music, and fleshed out with strings.
go to album
My Christmas Plea
by Matt Dorrien
Portland singer/songwriter delivers a gorgeous Christmas EP, fashioned in the lush style of classics by Bing Crosby and Johnny Mathis.
go to album
The Decalogue
by Sufjan Stevens, Timo Andres
Sufjan Stevens’s transformative piano score, written for the New York City Ballet, is performed with plaintive emotion by Timo Andres.
go to album
Mind, Man, Medicine
by The Secret Sisters
The Alabama duo's fifth album exults in dusty Americana, showcasing rich vocal harmonies alongside blissful folk instrumentation.
go to album
