Mondays are always challenging for me, and perhaps they are for you. I thought I would post a Monday poem every once in a while to fuel us for the week ahead.
This poem — one of my favorites is called, “Peonies at Dusk” by the late poet, Jane Kenyon. All photos were taken in my front garden.
White peonies blooming along the porch
send out light
while the rest of the yard grows dim.
Outrageous flowers as big as human
heads! They’re staggered
by their own luxuriance; I had
to prop them up with stakes and twine.
The moist air intensifies their scent,
and the moon moves around the barn
to find out what it’s coming from.
In the darkening June evening
I draw a blossom near, and bending close
search it as a woman searches
a loved one’s face.
8 responses to “The Light of Peonies”
When I took this post photo (the very first one), I didn’t notice the lady bug in its left center. Adrienne noticed it when I texted this image to her. She texted back, “It looks like it’s looking directly at you when you zoom in.” My late sister, Karen, loved lady bugs and told me once during her dying months that whenever I saw one, it would be her way of saying, hello.
Last week, a rare bright/deep pink hue I witnessed in a sunrise reminded me so much of Karen’s favorite color that I said aloud hello in return. When I saw the lady bug yesterday, I said hello again. Karen has been fairly insistent in the last week that I keep my eyes open to the beauty right in front of me.
The poet, Jane Kenyon, was married to the poet, Donald Hall. When Kenyon died much too early in her late 40s, Hall published a book entitled, Without. The last poem is a poignant tribute to Kenyon and her love of peonies. I still tear up whenever I see a toppled peony in my yard.
WEEDS AND PEONIES
Your peonies burst out, white as snow squalls,
with red flecks at their shaggy centers
in your border of prodigies by the porch.
I carry one magnanimous blossom indoors
and float it in a glass bowl, as you used to do.
Ordinary pleasures, contentment recollected,
blow like snow into the abandoned garden,
overcoming the daisies. Your blue coat
vanishes down Pond Road into imagined snowflakes
with Gus at your side, his great tail swinging,
but you will not reappear, tired and satisfied,
and grief’s repeated particles suffuse the air —
like the dog yipping through the entire night,
or the cat stretching awake, then curling
as if to dream of her mother’s milky nipples.
A raccoon dislodged a geranium from its pot.
Flowers, roots, and dirt lay upended
in the back garden where lilies begin
their daily excursions above stone walls
in the season of old roses. I pace beside weeds
and snowy peonies, staring at Mount Kearsarge
where you climbed wearing purple hiking boots.
“Hurry back. Be careful, climbing down.”
Your peonies lean their vast heads westward
as if they might topple. Some topple.
Beautiful.
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Thank you for your ode to peonies and Jane Kenyon. One of my earliest memories is being nose to nose with a peony in my Mother’s garden. My head was about the same size as the flower. I drew in the aroma and marveled–though I did not have the language at the time. My heart was full.
I was hoping that this post would elicit some sweet memories, Charlotte. It seems like Jane Kenyon had you in mind when she wrote this poem. Thank you for sharing this very sweet memory, indeed.🥰❤️🙏
So beautiful! Thank you for a Monday morning boost!
You are very welcome, Carol. I know how much you love peonies, too.❣️