NEWS

Jeanne Murray Walker is the award-winning author of 8 volumes of
poetry and one memoir as well as a number of plays which have been
performed in theaters across the country and in London. She is an
Emeritus Professor at The University of Delaware, where she taught
for 40 years and headed the Creative Writing Concentration.  Jeanne
currently serves as a poetry Mentor in The Seattle Pacific Low
Residency MFA Program
.  From her home outside Philadelphia
she blogs about the troubling politics of our time, reading and writing,
and the surprising power of stillness.   She travels widely to speak
and read her poems in places ranging from The Library of Congress
to Romania, from Italy to Texas Canyon Country. You can find her
papers and letters archived at Wheaton College’s Buswell Library
and at The University of Delaware’s Morris Library. Jeanne has
appeared on PBS television and is frequently interviewed on the radio.

A Note from Jeanne

I’m delighted you’ve stopped by. Please linger a while to browse. Read some poems. Check out my blog and speaking schedule.  If you’re near an event where I’ll be speaking, feel free to attend. If you’d like to read my blog click here.  We can join forces to work for a more thoughtful world.

Jeanne Murray Walker

SHE BRINGS HIM HOME

          And so your husband is safe, and he will
          come soon; he is very near, not far away,
          and it will not be long before he returns.
                                 —The Odyssey, Book XIX

Accepting the shawl of light and
the thought of light and the actual
yellow jonquils nailing the patient ground,
she sits by the window,
                              casting out her thread and
               drawing in her thoughts,
weaving, weaving.

He has come with a clairvoyant eye,
               not the man himself
               but the old desire for him,
                              the prophet,

and cold staggers under a new weight of sunlight.
Time is for her to bear the warmth again
for her mind turns around, turns around and
the trees start pitying with green their own bare sticks,
the clouds start pacing across the unmoved sky,
the violent scent of lilacs starts staining the air.

               Laying aside her thread,
                              she straightens her shoulders
and leans into the terrible gaiety of spring.