Poetry to Feed My Melancholy

I picked up a book of poetry recently. My husband noted my choice of reading material and said something like “You’re reading poetry. You must be feeling depressed.” He didn’t mean it as a slam. I was feeling depressed. And reasonably so. Something about poetry feeds my melancholy, echoes my pain, and eloquently articulates the complexities of my emotions.

I’m not much for rhyming poetry and my favorite poems are not classics. In fact, I have a degree in English and I’ve read my fair share of poetry, but I am not well-versed in it. I’d say that my knowledge of poetry is sadly lacking. But I do know poetry that speaks to me, or more accurately, speaks for me.

I spent my first year of college far from home in the bitter cold and blistering heat of Northeast Iowa. My favorite class by far was a creative writing course taught by an incredible professor. Professor Hedeen saw potential in my writing, encouraged me to ask more of myself, and helped me become a better writer in the process. He also introduced me to some incredible midwestern writers I mostly likely would not have discovered otherwise.

Jane Kenyon writes of a rural life I have never known, but somehow her imagery, her reflections on life, and her sometimes stark writing appeals to me. In Otherwise, a collection of some of her best works, I turn again and again to certain selections. The Shirt and The Sandy hole are two of the best examples of the beauty and impact of brevity I know. Since brevity has never been my strong suit, I think I am especially drawn to them. What Came to Me and Otherwise are incredible, tightly written pieces about sickness, grief, and appreciating today.

When I picked up Kenyon this time, I happened across the poem Happiness. While happiness felt a distant or fleeting thing at the moment, the poem remained with me and I found myself returning to it. Tonight, I feel less burdened by anger, doubt, and discouragement and it’s crossed my mind again. I am not sure what the rules are regarding reprinting it, so I wanted to provide a link and quote some lines here. I highly recommend that you read the poem in its entirety: Happiness by Jane Kenyon. These lines stick with me:

There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal 

and this especially:

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 often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.


These verses have especially come to mind as the shadows have lifted for me. I don’t feel 100% and moments of sadness creep over me unexpectedly. I am unusually susceptible to sentimental previews, movies, books, or music. My eyes tear up more than usual, but they do this as much over the sweet as the sad. In some ways, it feels as though my senses are on overdrive and everything is magnified.

Thankfully, it seems that glimmers of happiness and normalcy are making their way back into my life like the prodigal son or the uncle I never knew about in my hours of despair. My son’s new use of the phrase “all done!” while lifting his little palms in the air is especially delightful. My daughter’s desire to give one last hug and kiss before bed is achingly sweet. The simple touch of my husband’s hand or his smile bring joy in their simplicity.

I think a part of me worries about getting over this too quickly. Moving on too soon seems like a betrayal. But  my life is something precious and continually dwelling on what I don’t understand, what could have been, and what is lost only brings fresh pain. I still plan to take it day by day, but I also plan to welcome happiness as it comes. As Kenyon says in Otherwise (excerpts):


I got out of bed with two strong legs.
It might have been otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless, 
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
….
At noon I lay down 
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
…
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.