“In the depth of winter I finally
learned that there was in me an invincible summer.”— Albert
Camus
.jpg/800px-Summer_hills(winter-2008).jpg) |
| SOURCE |
“I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields,
that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with
a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer
comes again.”— Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures
in Wonderland & Through the Looking-Glass
Midweek
Motif ~ Winter
Winter is not that much cold, bleak and depressing
where I live. It rather sends off a vibe of joy and color. It’s a time for
comfort and good food. Winter is sunny, bright with a nip in the air. Everyone
is happy as the sweltering heat is no more.
It would be perfect if such winter story was true
for all. For the poor and homeless winter is a more or less grim struggle as
elsewhere.
For this week write a winter poem.
Sharing a few poems now:
Horses
by Pablo Neruda
From the window I saw the horses.
I was in Berlin, in winter. The light
had no light, the sky had no heaven.
had no light, the sky had no heaven.
The air was white like wet bread.
And from my window a vacant arena,
bitten by the teeth of winter.
bitten by the teeth of winter.
Suddenly driven out by a man,
ten horses surged through the mist.
ten horses surged through the mist.
Like waves of fire, they flared forward
and to my eyes filled the whole world,
empty till then. Perfect, ablaze,
they were like ten gods with pure white hoofs,
with manes like a dream of salt.
and to my eyes filled the whole world,
empty till then. Perfect, ablaze,
they were like ten gods with pure white hoofs,
with manes like a dream of salt.
Their rumps were worlds and oranges.
Their color was honey, amber, fire.
Their necks were towers
cut from the stone of pride,
and behind their transparent eyes
energy raged, like a prisoner.
cut from the stone of pride,
and behind their transparent eyes
energy raged, like a prisoner.
There, in silence, at mid-day,
in that dirty, disordered winter,
those intense horses were the blood
the rhythm, the inciting treasure of life.
in that dirty, disordered winter,
those intense horses were the blood
the rhythm, the inciting treasure of life.
I looked. I looked and was reborn:
for there, unknowing, was the fountain,
the dance of gold, heaven
and the fire that lives in beauty.
for there, unknowing, was the fountain,
the dance of gold, heaven
and the fire that lives in beauty.
I have forgotten that dark Berlin winter.
I will not forget the light of the horses.
The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens
One must have a mind of
winter
To regard the frost and the
boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted
with snow;
And have been cold a long
time
To behold the junipers
shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the
distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not
to think
Of any misery in the sound
of the wind,
In the sound of a few
leaves,
Which is the sound of the
land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same
bare place
For the listener, who
listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself,
beholds
Nothing that is not there
and the nothing that is.
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got
up early
and put his clothes on in
the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands
that ached
from labor in the weekday
weather made
banked fires blaze. No one
ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold
splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and
dress,
fearing the chronic angers
of that house,
Speaking indifferently to
him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes
as well.
What did I know, what did I
know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
Not Only the Eskimos
by Lisel Mueller
Not only the Eskimos
We have only one noun
but as many different kinds:
the grainy snow of the Puritans
and snow of soft, fat flakes,
guerrilla snow, which comes in the night
and changes the world by morning,
rabbinical snow, a permanent skullcap
on the highest mountains,
snow that blows in like the Lone Ranger,
riding hard from out of the West,
surreal snow in the Dakotas,
when you can't find your house, your street,
though you are not in a dream
or a science-fiction movie,
snow that tastes good to the sun
when it licks black tree limbs,
leaving us only one white stripe,
a replica of a skunk,
unbelievable snows:
the blizzard that strikes on the tenth of
April,
the false snow before Indian summer,
the Big Snow on Mozart's birthday,
when Chicago became the Elysian Fields
and strangers spoke to each other,
paper snow, cut and taped,
to the inside of grade-school windows,
in an old tale, the snow
that covers a nest of strawberries,
small hearts, ripe and sweet,
the special snow that goes with Christmas,
whether it falls or not,
the Russian snow we remember
along with the warmth and smell of furs,
though we have never traveled
to Russia or worn furs,
Villon's snows of yesteryear,
lost with ladies gone out like matches,
the snow in Joyce's "The Dead,"
the silent, secret snow
in a story by Conrad Aiken,
which is the snow of first love,
the snowfall between the child
and the spacewoman on TV,
snow as idea of whiteness,
as in snowdrop, snow goose, snowball bush,
the snow that puts stars in your hair,
and your hair, which has turned to snow,
the snow Elinor Wylie walked in
in velvet shoes,
the snow before her footprints
and the snow after,
the snow in the back of our heads,
whiter than white, which has to do
with childhood again each year.
Please share your new poem
using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—
(Next week Susan’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Awakening)
.jpg){kind=link}
.jpg){kind=link}