There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry “hello there, Anne”
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.
All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.
So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.
The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
dies young.
Anne Sexton, The Awful Rowing Toward God, Houghton Mifflin, Boston, 1975
I loved this poem upon first reading. It comes as a grace note in the reflective, often anguished, poems collected in The Awful Rowing Toward God. Sexton wrote the poems in 20 days after a priest told her “God is in your typewriter.” The book was published posthumously, after her suicide. It’s important to me to know that amongst her despairing moments, Sexton knew joy and celebrated it.
detail from A Peacock, A Rooster, 1250-1260, courtesy of Getty Museum