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March: “Kent House”
A poem for March
After a picture by Jamie Wyeth
After arriving on Monhegan Island in spring 1906, Rockwell Kent bought a lot on Horn’s Hill overlooking the village and began to build himself a house, which he finished sufficiently to move into that fall. In summer 1907 his mother, Sarah, came out to Monhegan with the rest of the family—all of whom fell in love with the island. The following year, Kent built a house for her.
– Brandywine River Museum of Art
Late winter days break up these shoals, sea’s crumbled portal
Of rock.
These seed-husks of rain’s ritual,
Cracked and split, spill down sky’s
Cloud-battle to find rest before the blue-weathered door
Of Sunday’s locked house...
For all of them, or for a part of all of them, the Kent House
Stands as she (eternally she, mothering the sea) is door
To shadows, piled hard and sharp, on this wave-high rock;
Her Cape Cod dowry of gables serves as wind’s portal—
She who will rest secure in the stoniness of a lonely March sky;
Her muttering gutters echo winter’s last gasp. A yearly ritual
Of Sundays, now past land, Rockwell’s dream house waves him on.
All the shoreline was a prison for Kent, rapping her door
In a cold, uneasy sleep; all winter’s night long she would rock
The cradle of ocean’s grey desolation to impart all
Her matronly slope of roof, her bosomy porch, blue with sky,
Anticipating the Ides, signal day of ritual
When Rockwell comes at last, resuscitates the house
And Sunday goes by, Mars sinking lower into evening’s sea.
When Rockwell observes his Kent amid the repetition of rock—
The mother of us all. “And I stand, at birth’s portal,”
Rockwell jests, “’Tis Spring!” Above him, an aquamarine sky
Already floods her pent-up rooms. The old ritual
Of removing white slipcovers like cobwebs around the house
Kicks up evidence of mice and summer’s hibernating odor.
This Sunday, before bed, perhaps Rockwell banks a fire with less ash.
The sea throws the last of its icy catch up the beach, the sky
Begins to shed its skin, and as the shoals show off their rich jewel,
An heirloom freshly coated with caretaker’s spit, they unhouse
The scenery’s barnacled, monotonous march: her door
Has waited all winter to yawn at sun’s warmth unlocked from rock.
Changing bed sheets, Rockwell is born again through each room’s portal.
Sun, day, mind and sea all rest as Kent House makes peace with March.
Joseph O'Brien
Joseph O’Brien is the poetry editor for the San Diego Reader.
Here's something you might be interested in.
March: “Kent House”
A poem for March
March: “Kent House”
A poem for March
After a picture by Jamie Wyeth
After arriving on Monhegan Island in spring 1906, Rockwell Kent bought a lot on Horn’s Hill overlooking the village and began to build himself a house, which he finished sufficiently to move into that fall. In summer 1907 his mother, Sarah, came out to Monhegan with the rest of the family—all of whom fell in love with the island. The following year, Kent built a house for her.
– Brandywine River Museum of Art
Late winter days break up these shoals, sea’s crumbled portal
Of rock.
These seed-husks of rain’s ritual,
Cracked and split, spill down sky’s
Cloud-battle to find rest before the blue-weathered door
Of Sunday’s locked house...
For all of them, or for a part of all of them, the Kent House
Stands as she (eternally she, mothering the sea) is door
To shadows, piled hard and sharp, on this wave-high rock;
Her Cape Cod dowry of gables serves as wind’s portal—
She who will rest secure in the stoniness of a lonely March sky;
Her muttering gutters echo winter’s last gasp. A yearly ritual
Of Sundays, now past land, Rockwell’s dream house waves him on.
All the shoreline was a prison for Kent, rapping her door
In a cold, uneasy sleep; all winter’s night long she would rock
The cradle of ocean’s grey desolation to impart all
Her matronly slope of roof, her bosomy porch, blue with sky,
Anticipating the Ides, signal day of ritual
When Rockwell comes at last, resuscitates the house
And Sunday goes by, Mars sinking lower into evening’s sea.
When Rockwell observes his Kent amid the repetition of rock—
The mother of us all. “And I stand, at birth’s portal,”
Rockwell jests, “’Tis Spring!” Above him, an aquamarine sky
Already floods her pent-up rooms. The old ritual
Of removing white slipcovers like cobwebs around the house
Kicks up evidence of mice and summer’s hibernating odor.
This Sunday, before bed, perhaps Rockwell banks a fire with less ash.
The sea throws the last of its icy catch up the beach, the sky
Begins to shed its skin, and as the shoals show off their rich jewel,
An heirloom freshly coated with caretaker’s spit, they unhouse
The scenery’s barnacled, monotonous march: her door
Has waited all winter to yawn at sun’s warmth unlocked from rock.
Changing bed sheets, Rockwell is born again through each room’s portal.
Sun, day, mind and sea all rest as Kent House makes peace with March.
Joseph O'Brien
Joseph O’Brien is the poetry editor for the San Diego Reader.
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