Treasure Island

Jane Kenyon

(1947-1995 / United States)

Having it Out with Melancholy


1FROM THE NURSERY


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.



2BOTTLES


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.



3SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND


You wouldn't be so depressed
if you really believed in God.



4OFTEN


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.



5ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT


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.



6IN AND OUT


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. . . .



7PARDON


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.



8CREDO


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.



9WOOD THRUSH


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.

Submitted: Monday, January 20, 2003

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  • Linda Goodman (12/3/2007 1:30:00 AM)

    Jane's dialogue with depression carries a powerful message and as Wilhelmina Jenkins notes, should be read by anyone who has suffered from depression. I would like to add that it should also be read by those who do not suffer from depression, so clear is the picture she paints. On the flip-side, I love her poem 'Otherwise' as it describes in a moment of clarity the gratitude of which we all need to be reminded. lmg (Report) Reply

  • Wilhelmina Jenkins (5/28/2007 10:58:00 AM)

    A breathtaking insight into the pain of depression and the exhilleration when it finally lifts.Some experiences can only be communicated poetically, and Kenyon does a beautiful job here. Should be read by everyone whose life has been touched in any way by the horror of depression. (Report) Reply

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