![](\"http:\/\/blaine.org\/jules\/rubens1.jpg\")
Jules here (poor Eisha’s got some computer woes again; her computer pretty much just went kaput<\/em> on her. But she’s also knee-deep in shortlisting with her fellow Cybils YA panelists, I believe, so that’s at least fun). <\/p>\nI’ve been reading the poetry of Deborah Keenan<\/a><\/strong> this week. Last year (it still feels odd to say that), Milkweed Editions<\/a><\/strong> released an anthology of some of her previous poetry as well as some new ones in Willow Room, Green Door<\/a><\/strong><\/em>. Keenan, a professor in the Graduate School of Liberal Studies at Hamline University<\/a><\/strong>, is new to me, but I’m happy to have discovered this anthology — at turns challenging, stirring, sometimes heart-rending. And she has this ability to capture moments of motherhood (when she writes about it, since — to be sure — she writes about many other subjects as well) in the precise and compelling manner of Deborah Garrison<\/a><\/strong> (whom I hope to cover on an upcoming Poetry Friday, and whom I have a wrung sponge<\/em><\/a><\/strong> to thank for introducing me to her poetry). <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Willow Room, Green Door: New and Selected Poems<\/a><\/strong><\/em> includes selections from Kingdoms<\/a><\/strong><\/em> (Laurel Poetry Collective; 2006); Good Heart<\/strong><\/em><\/a> (Milkweed Editions; 2003); Happiness<\/strong><\/em><\/a> (Coffee House Press; 1995); The Only Window That Counts<\/strong><\/em><\/a> (New Rivers Press; 1985); One Angel Then<\/em> (published in 1985, I believe, but don’t quote me on that); and Household Wounds<\/strong><\/em><\/a> (New Rivers Press; 1981). I haven’t been reading this anthology straight through; I started with her older poems and have jumped around a bit as well, but I can say that I dog-eared many pages in this anthology, which takes the reader through almost three decades of her poetry. Here is one that I received permission to post in its entirety — with many thanks to Milkweed Editions<\/a><\/strong> — which was originally published in the anthology, The Only Window That Counts<\/strong><\/em><\/a> in 1985. If you like it, here’s<\/a><\/strong> another one of her poems online elsewhere (at a page at Hamline University’s site). <\/p>\n The beautiful image above of Peter Paul Rubens’<\/a><\/strong> The Annunciation<\/em> (circa 1610), which Keenan points out in a note before the poem begins, isn’t necessary to appreciate the poem, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to take a gander and then read. Enjoy. <\/p>\n “Folds of White Dress \/ Shaft of Light”<\/p>\n She had been reading, that much we know. The angel’s cape is flame, his hair gold fire. She would like to lift her eyes to the baby She worries: where can one place a beautiful man She understands babies, even floating ones, “Folds of White Dress \/ Shaft of Light” by Deborah Keenan, from Willow Room, Green Door<\/em>. Copyright \u00a9 2007 by Deborah Keenan. Reprinted with permission from Milkweed Editions (www.milkweed.org<\/a><\/strong>).<\/p>\n POETRY FRIDAY BONUS: Anyone else remember Sara Lewis Holmes’<\/a><\/strong> inaugural post back in July, which was a response to a post I did (that fact alone I found tremendously flattering)? Anyway, I find myself re-visiting the poem now, as it’s especially fitting. Go read “The Bones of January” here<\/a><\/strong>. And then read it again. And again. So rewarding for an Any Day Read — but particularly rewarding to read right after the busy, cluttered holidays. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Jules here (poor Eisha’s got some computer woes again; her computer pretty much just went kaput on her. But she’s also knee-deep in shortlisting with her fellow Cybils YA panelists, I believe, so that’s at least fun). I’ve been reading the poetry of Deborah Keenan this week. Last year (it still feels odd to say […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1075","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry-friday"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1075","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1075"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1075\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1075"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1075"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1075"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nAn empty vase beside her book, no one in this story
\nthought to bring her flowers.<\/p>\n
\nOne more angel drops from heaven barefoot, the shoemakers sigh.
\nHe is fine, and his gray wings match his outfit.
\nShe is dressed for a dinner party and he flies through
\nthe window, drops to his knee, beseeches her to accept
\nthe offer. She listens but her hands are placed
\non the canvas in shapes of rejection.<\/p>\n
\nangels floating near the ceiling.
\nShe would like to catch the dove in her raised hand.
\nShe may be glad the shaft of light turns her white dress
\nholy, she may not.<\/p>\n
\nangel at the dinner table, who can make small talk
\nwith him, or offer polite inquiries about celestial weather?<\/p>\n
\nand she wants the dove to stay near her,
\nthat much is clear, and it is also apparent
\nher blue cloak cannot protect her from god’s
\ndemand, or the strong hand reaching
\ntoward her, about to make her famous
\nand pregnant. <\/p>\n