"Happiness"
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 have 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 basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of the pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea...
~ Jane Kenyon
Occasionally, not very often, I come across a poem I love, but find myself wishing the final line or lines had either been slightly changed or not occurred at all. I don't pretend to know how every poem should end, or, for that matter, how any poem should end, but sometimes a line will speak to me more than the final line and I'll wish the poet had stopped there. And don't we all respond to what we read or hear from our own perceptions, our own feelings? I do hope I've not been out of order those few times my heart has stopped at a particular place, closing the poem prematurely. Such is the case with the above poem. I found myself drifting away with the thought of "to rain falling on the open sea...."
Miss Kenyon has passed from this world. But, if the veil between the seen and the unseen is as thin as it often feels to me, I'd like to think she wouldn't mind my mental omission of the last line. Not that she's giving it any thought. I'm left wondering, though, was she referring to herself in the last line, to her body, her life in which she had found a measure of happiness despite years of dealing with depression? I don't know. But that certainly lends itself to more than one reading, and it is her poem, after all. So, when you read it again, and I hope you do, please add her closing line:
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
Painting: "Saudade," by Jose Ferraz de Almeida Junior (1850-1899), a Brazilian realist, and the wiki entry for "Saudade," which I found interesting. It provided the title for this post: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saudade
For more information on Jane Kenyon: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Kenyon
I did. I read it once, twice without that closing line, and then again with it. Whatever she meant, it seems complete to me, either way. Teresa, you are a sensitive soul who picks up on poetry in ways that continue to elude me...
ReplyDeleteDJan, Thank you for indulging me. And, we're even, because hiking up and down a mountain in a day continues to elude me, and not just because I don't live near the mountains. :)
DeleteDear Teresa, that last line with the wineglass really spoke to me. I think it was the word "weary." A word that can sag with exhaustion. And sometimes when the weight of simply meeting the day has come to seem too much a burden, then the weariness of the wineglass describes that emptiness.
ReplyDeleteThank you for the the link to saudade. I think I understand that word and that it applies right now to something I yearn for but more and more accept that it will never be.
Your reply to DJan so reflected my thought about her hiking. Like you, what motivates me and prompts her to climb "continues to elude me" and "not just because I don't live near the mountains." Thank you for saying that so well.
In reading the poem again (and again) I also came to see that last line in a new light. Reading about her life also helped me to see it differently. Weary is a very telling word.
DeleteIn regards to what "will never be," there's a song with the refrain, "Sometimes, God's greatest gifts are unanswered prayers." However one interprets the word "God," it seems apropos in certain circumstances I can certainly call forth. :)
Thank you, Dee, for your thoughtful response.
A Lovely post as always. One thing is quite clear, and "what will never be" :-you will never find me climbing up a mountain. I moved here to Penticton because it is flat. It is surrounded by mountains however, green and brown or white, and in the distance, purple. "I will raise my eyes to the mountain, wherein lies my help"
ReplyDeleteOh by the way, our wineglasses are never weary of holding wine.....
I love seeing the mountains in the distance, but I still have a hankering to climb a mountain trail and spend time in an alpine meadow. I had a taste of it in New Mexico and would love to experience it at an even higher altitude. But no K2 or Everest for me. That's an adventure I will have to live without.
DeleteThank you for your comments.
I think your instinct about that last line is right. First and last lines are often the hardest. Rain falling on the open sea- wonderful because it's not just an image but an almost physical sensation of how that rain feels (or seems that way to me at any rate)
ReplyDeleteYes, I could feel that rain, too, and the sense of being surrounded by water. It's a comforting thing, though tinged a bit with sadness.
DeleteYes, I've had that thought sometimes, and I've always felt a little guilty, like I was either rejecting an important last thought or misreading everything that came before. Now I will give myself permission to choose. Great post.
ReplyDeleteThe pleasure of poetry for me is reading the poet's thoughts, but also being able to "read" my own. It's all so very subjective when it comes to emotional responses, isn't it?
DeleteSince the poem was about happiness coming in unexpected places...therefore, somehow the wineglass was given unexpected happiness. If it was weary of holding wine for someone...then it was not happy wine drinking. If the unhappy wine drinking stopped...then not only would the wine glass find unexpected happiness, but it also infers that it's likely the person who was drinking has maybe found unexpected happiness, too. That's how I read it.
ReplyDeleteBut I also liked ending with a progression to even the earth itself--a boulder that never sees sun or water that never feels land--can feel happiness, too. Maybe the recognition of such a thought progression as recounted in the poem could lead to the end of unhappy drinking of wine? ;)
You might find the wiki entry on her interesting....
DeleteThe only poetry I read is in your posts. Thank you for the continuing opportunity to read the poem and your words about it.
ReplyDeleteI hope the poems that touch me, touch others. I'm glad to know you take the time to read them, Linda. Thank you.
DeleteKenyon is one of my favorite poets, and I say is because I still feel her spirit. From reading her poetry, I know that she delighted in the everyday things of life, a walk with her dog, a hillside, or a sunset.
ReplyDeleteI have no idea what she meant by the last line, but am wondering if it was to do with the abundance of joy she felt in her high times.
Last night, I ran out of reading time, so set your post off on dashboard to read this morning. What an inspiring start to my day! Thanks so much, Teresa Evangeline.
I'm happy to hear of your familiarity with Kenyon. It's nice, isn't it, when we still feel the spirit of a certain poet or writer? A few posts back I talked of Donald Hall, her husband, and a poem he wrote about watching her at the kitchen sink, a glass of wine in her hand. It was such a poignant moment. Thank you for these comments. I appreciate them very much.
DeleteWow. Thanks for this, and for the thought-provoking exercise you invited. I am inclined to think too that she may be referring to the physical body, had enough. But who knows, and such is the beauty of mystery. I loved this and will surely savor it again and again.
ReplyDelete"The beauty of mystery," keeps me enthralled with Life. Thank you.
DeleteAnd yet another poet that you have introduced me to, Teresa. I read this yesterday and have just now come back to it, hearing the poem different this time and appreciating the links. I think I need to ponder Saudade more - a good thing, I thing, to do. Thank you for this post.
ReplyDeleteWell, I hope your pondering leads you to a peaceful place. It's an interesting word and concept. I'm trying to understand it as not just another word for melancholia, but as a positive remembrance in our lives, despite the twinges of emotions they might inspire. I think that's what lead me to connect the painting and the poem, Happiness and Saudade.
Delete