I’ve been feeling a bit melancholy lately. A little over-thoughtful, perhaps. Moody and broody. And what do I do when I feel that way? Well. I grab some poetry and read! Of course, I do that most days. But when I’m in a funk, I tend to reach for different poets than I do when I’m feeling whimsical or light-hearted or celebratory.
So this past week, I pulled down my very dog-eared copy of Jane Kenyon’s Collected Poems. I’m never sure if Jane Kenyon’s poems ARE actually melancholy, or if it’s just me . . . knowing that she died far too early (way too early; she was only 47) so tending to read her poetry through a melancholy-lens. There are two Jane Kenyon poems that always speak (loudly) to me, and I decided I would share one of those with you all today.
But then . . . I turned another dog-eared page in the book and found the poem I’m actually sharing today. Because it made me smile. It didn’t immediately remind me that Jane Kenyon died too early. Instead, it showed me Jane as a child . . . forging her way and thinking for herself. It actually reminds me . . . of me! Also a quiet rebel. Well behaved, generally, but always saying you-can’t-make-me in my head.
Learning in the First Grade
Jane Kenyon“The cup is red. The drop of rain
is blue. The clam is brown.”So said the sheet of exercises —
purple mimeos, still heady
from the fluid in the rolling
silver drum. But the cup wasnot red. It was white,
or had no color of its own.Oh, but my mind was finical.
It put the teacher perpetually
in the wrong. Called on, however,
I said aloud: “The cup is red.”“But it’s not,” I thought,
like Galileo Galilei
muttering under his beard. . . .
It’s good to be a bit finical, my friends. Persnickety. Particular. Exacting.
Smile . . . and like the Fleetwood Mac song says, never be afraid to . . . go your own way!
I found today’s poem in my copy of Jane Kenyon Collected Poems, published in 2005 by Graywolf Press. You can find information about Jane Kenyon here, as well links to the two poems I referenced above but didn’t share: Otherwise and Let Evening Come.
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You can find A Gathering of Poetry every month . . . on the third Thursday.
Share some.
Read some.
Gather up some poetry!
(Bonny is hosting a special link-up for A Gathering of Poetry. Be sure to check it out!)
I was talking with Sam about mimeo’s this week! He did not have a clue what I was talking about, but I love that dear Jane did. These words remind me of that smell… fresh off the mimeograph! And yah for poets that use words that I want to use again in my day! XO
This interesting poem does a couple of things for me. First, it reminds me of those days in elementary school when the whole class immediately put the freshly-mimeo-ed sheets to our noses and inhaled the distinctive solvent scent. It was probably something that’s now considered toxic, but we all did it anyway. It also reminds me of the voice that I (sometimes) hear in my head, saying “You’re not the the boss of me!” Thanks for sharing!
That’s a great poem, but… Oh, I miss the mimeos!! Remember when they’d still be sorta damp, too?
I think this was me, too! I always hated it when the answer the teacher wanted wasn’t the right answer (but, being the rule follower I am, I would naturally give the answer that was wanted and then grumble about it later).
Oh what a relatable poem! One of my few low marks on elementary worksheets was a sheep I colored white, despite instructions that it must be colorful. My brain saw it as white, and refused to follow the teacher’s instructions!
Oh yes! What a fun and great poem. I loved the smell of mimeographs (and rubber cement, paste, etc., etc.). I often still to this day hear in my head “you can’t make me do that”…though now it is more apt to come out as “whatever!”