Jane Kenyon (1947–1995)

I should mention that I first came to know of Jane Kenyon many years ago, as the poet-wife of a favorite New England poet and essayist. Over those years, I’ve read and purchased her poetry here and there. But it was while corresponding with an old friend a few months ago, that Ms. Kenyon came to mind again. I was writing about how her late husband, Donald Hall, would still cry when speaking of her even twenty years after her death. At the time of the correspondence, I was again rereading Hall’s poetry and his memoir about losing Jane, but my friend chose to read some Kenyon. For myself, reading more Kenyon came about when I saw this large collection of her poetry was available in paperback.

Large volumes of the collected poetry of a particular poet have become a special treat and addiction for me. You’re sure to find the familiar, the better-known poems, but also the B-sides, so to speak. I still prefer to experience a musician’s latest work via an album, with everything available in the order the artist has chosen. Sitting down with a thick book of poetry allows you to see all their work and get a good feel for them. You will see how their work evolved as their life continued.

Being originally from New England, the setting of many of these poems seems to me extremely familiar and comfortable. I think I still have a feel for the pace of life there. Kenyon loved to write short poems that often came across as meditations on the familiar things, situations, and feelings that are common with many of us.

I came across this quote from Wendell Berry in the New York Times about how Kenyon didn’t allow Hall’s fame and style to stop her from becoming the poet she wanted to be, as "a poet who had set up shop smack in the middle of another poet's subject." Donald Hall was more famous and showier than Jane, and often took up much more of the oxygen in the room. He went on to write about losing her in both memoir (The Best Day the Worst Day), and poetry (Without), after she died of leukemia in early 1995, at the age of 47. Her own poetry rarely touched on her leukemia, but her long experience with depression often made an appearance in her words.

I came away from this book with so much more of an appreciation for her work. As often happens, sitting down with a favored writer and a drink is an adventure through another door. It’s a shame that more of us couldn’t then sit down with the actual writer, drink or not. Having hosted so many writers over the years in our different bookstores, I feel very spoiled in this regard. A few were disappointments, but by far most of them are just like you hoped they would be. Oh, artists.… (more)

Jane Kenyon, along with her husband, Donald Hall, are two of my favorite poets. Both write concrete, accessible verse that communicates the universal through their particular experience. In this collection, Kenyon's newest poems were written after her diagnosis of the cancer that eventually killed her. She suffers greatly, but strives to find the good in a horrible situation. Her struggle is heartbreaking, sad, yet beautiful. It may not replace the beauty of Heaven and ultimate redemption, but Kenyon holds on to the beauty of the earth, of her rural surroundings, of her love for Donald and his love for her, of the ultimate goodness of the world despite the fact that she would wish it otherwise. All of us would wish that sickness, and death, especially a death before old age sets in, would be otherwise. Yet the world is not otherwise, and Kenyon accepts that with grace and dignity is these beautiful poems. This is a book for every human being, since every human being has suffered, will suffer, or is suffering. I highly recommend it.… (more)