Jenny Kander move from South Africa to Bloomington, Indiana in 1992. She began writing poetry later in life and became a prominent member of the local poetry scene. Of her many contributions, Jenny created two radio programs, one of which is the Poets Weave, which she began at WFIU in 1999. Her poetry has appeared in Flying Island, California Quarterly, Bathtub Gin, Wind, Southern Indiana Review, and Shiver. She published two chapbooks: Taboo and The Altering Air. Jenny passed away on October 8, 2024 at the age of 91.

Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. In her memory, we're reaching back to 2007 for an episode of Jenny reading her own work.

It's April Fool's day, and I've chosen to read my own poems on the poets weave. I am Jenny Kander.

Dream

"Nostalgia is a slow dance in a large circle." - Isabelle Allende

I.
Blanketed walls. What troubles her?
She senses A cause but cannot mould it into coherence.

II.
The kindness of walls in rooms one beyond the other,
in the third seated low, her long dead now joyous father
Cheek against his close shaved face, reunion's eloquence.

III.
Spreading the coverlet over her bed, she thinks
Is like keeping a secret.

Great Aunt

She was a redhead risktaker ready for adventure.
Her parents, so the story went, kept her busy about the house when the tinkers came to town.
In her 30s, she arrived at a fancy dress party clad in a costume she'd made from newspapers.
Watching the brighter, tired guests, she stood that chilly night, her back to the electric fire, shivering, [initially].
She's still remembered for her flaming red hair.

Eve of Grown Daughter's Birthday.

I.
The man has a bird in his heart,
gold leaf across his chest.
He must find time.

II.
B'kohr Halim visit the sick.
Jerusalem Hospital, labour ward.
"Schwangerheit ist keine Krankheit," said my mother-in-law,
guava's tumbling from her overnight bag.

III.
Wrapped and labeled picnic surprises;
A) Hard boiled eggs
B) Cherry tomatoes
D) Still-warm scones.
Find C.
What's in that one?

IV.
Bird, nest in her heart. Sing.

Ice Late February

There's a brotherhood in bundled up and still cold,
knitted hats pulled low, jackets zippered chin high.
Hunched away from blowing snow, we smile sideways, passing other frozen faces.
Bright coats contrast with subtleties of monochrome, set walls afar.
Night's bone freeze takes no note of layers you're wearing.
Like dead fingers, the wind probes between scarf and neck.
Compelling, immediate, cold sounds its timeless bell mute message:
Survive.
Across the road, heard through a hair salon's air shaking chatter,
gray silence of rhyme-laden graves. Sentinel crosses.
And now and there, high tree limbs tapering to skewers of ice.

Tattoo
(After a photo in an exhibition of mourning customs.)

She was there.
From behind him, her hand resting upon his shoulder.
No, dead, she was no longer there.
But in the mirror or his sideways stare, inked in permanent rebuttal of transience, she held him.

Dream On

There's a lethargy the dogs me night and day.
If Garrison Keillor invited me, I'd say I'm too [pug]-tired to sign.
I'll just sachet to that wine-red, quiet cot and nap a while.
Settle all my bones in one ungainly pile.
And post a sign: "Here lies a sleepophile."
If Garrison Keeler calls me up again,
I'll be strung between my dreams and radio fame.
Lethargy sends stardust clockwise down the drain.

You've been listening to poems by the late Jenny Kander, recorded in 2007 on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.