Tuesday, December 26, 2006

New Years Count Down

This is from my archives, published originally on;

Thursday, August 31, 2006
For Sam

Having it Out with Melancholy
by Jane Kenyon

When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone,
you lay down on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.
And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad -- even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.
You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
"We're here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated."
I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours -- the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.
Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,
Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,
Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.
The coated ones smell sweet or have
no smell; the powdery ones smell
like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.
You wouldn't be so depressed
if you really believed in God.
Often I go to bed as soon after dinner
as seems adult
(I mean I try to wait for dark)
in order to push away
from the massive pain in sleep's
frail wicker coracle.
Once, in my early thirties, I saw
that I was a speck of light in the great
river of light that undulates through time.
I was floating with the whole
human family. We were all colors -- those
who are living now, those who have died,
those who are not yet born. For a few
moments I floated, completely calm,
and I no longer hated having to exist.
Like a crow who smells hot blood
you came flying to pull me out
of the glowing stream.
"I'll hold you up. I never let my dear
ones drown!" After that, I wept for days.
The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.
Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life -- in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .
A piece of burned meat
wears my clothes, speaks
in my voice, dispatches obligations
haltingly, or not at all.
It is tired of trying
to be stouthearted, tired
beyond measure.
We move on to the monoamine
oxidase inhibitors. Day and night
I feel as if I had drunk six cups
of coffee, but the pain stops
abruptly. With the wonder
and bitterness of someone pardoned
for a crime she did not commit
I come back to marriage and friends,
to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back
to my desk, books, and chair.
Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.
Coarse, mean, you'll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can't
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can't sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can't read, or call
for an appointment for help.
There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.
High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome
by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.

From Constance by Jane Kenyon, published by Graywolf Press. © 1993 by Jane Kenyon.
This year I will only be returning one item and that will be taken care of by way of the post office. Whoo hoo! One year I had to return seven different gifts and each of them went to different stores, pffft.
Today it was 82 degrees and absolutely gorgeous outside! I truly can not remember a more peaceful Christmas, spent with family and friends, surrounded by love, laughter and yummy food.
How was your Christmas? Please drive safely and don't drink and drive =0)


N Posted by Rain at 12/26/2006 12:52:00 AM


  • Blogger pissed off patricia posted at 4:19 AM  
    I'm so very glad you had a nice Christmas, you post was beginning to worry me.

    Ours was nice except for being under a tornado watch all day. I don't have to return a single gift :)
  • Anonymous rain posted at 7:09 PM  
    Hi Rain, I am rain too. I saw your link on the fat lady sings and I liked the name. I can see we have more than our name in common.
  • Blogger Rain posted at 7:53 PM  
    pissed off patricia, Gosh, I did not mean to worry anyone. =)

    A tornado watch sounds frightening and that is something I have never experienced. It is good to know that you are okay.


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