Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
image from here
I awoke to another gray morn here on the Cutoff.
I bit my tongue, tried not to complain about the cold, felt mightily for the folks on the east coast; especially Boston.
I remember our winter of ’78/’79, with snow piled so high it bested Tom’s 6’4″ frame. Having “dibs” on parking space even floated out to the burbs that year with folks shoveling snow off their rooftops and the deepening worry of flooding if snow melts too fast.
I will admit to laughing out loud with weatherman, Jim Cantore, who jumped around with unbridled glee at the thundersnow in Boston. Alison of Apple Pie and Napalm recently remarked about weather, that “I never worry until Cantore shows up” in a comment on a recent post. It took me a moment to figure “Cantore” out. I finally remembered. He is the meteorologist from the Weather Channel who comes out in the worst of storms.
But, I digress. . .
. . . as I tickle the keyboard, snow is sneaking around, barely visible. I knew it was snowing before looking outside, for the room darkened as gathering flakes shaded the skylights; white upon gray upon winter.
I turn to Billy Collins to bring some smiles on yet another colorless, wintry day, where he, too, writes about the sound of snow – and other things.
Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows
the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.
In a while, I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch
sending a cold shower down on us both.
But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news
that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed.
the All Aboard Children’s School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with—some will be delighted to hear—
the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and—clap your hands—the Peanuts Play School.
So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.
And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.
Billy Collins, “Snow Day” from Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems
Very early Sunday morning, not quite dawn, something woke me up. A sound. I glanced around, peaked out of the bedroom windows, went down the stairs, looked out the door. Nothing was amiss. All I saw were snowflakes, dancing in the air. I knew what had awakened me.
It was the sound of snow.
Snow has a tune of its own, with notes that form a melody that is as hard to explain as each different, downy flake. It was the sound of snow that woke me.
Awake, I put the teakettle on, set out a cup and saucer, swirled some local honey in the cup, and waited for the pot to boil. As I waited for the water to boil, I remembered a poem 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.
Posted in Nature/animals, Poetry, tagged "Dancing Moons" by Nancy Wood, deer, deer in darkness, poems by Nancy Wood, poetry about space and living, The Beads of Life by Nancy Wood on Tuesday, January 13, 2015 | 20 Comments »
The space between events is where most of life is lived.
Those half-remembered moments of joy or sadness, fear or disappointment,
are merely beads of life strung together
to make one expanding necklace of experience.
The space between events is where we grow old.
From sunrise to sunset one day lives as another day emerges
from the fluid womb of dawn,
the first bead strung upon the everlasting thread of life.
The space between events is where knowledge marries beauty.
In quiet reflection we remember only the colored outline of events,
the black and white of war,
the rosiness that surrounded our first love.
The space between events is why we go on living.
The laughter of a child
or the sigh of wind in a canyon
becomes the music we hear expanding in our hearts
each time we gather one more bead of life.
From “Dancing Moons” by Nancy Wood
Posted in Food, Holidays, Poetry, tagged Christmas stockings, Country Christmas by Cody Paige, Oranges in Christmas stockings, poems about oranges and Christmas, things to put in Christmas stockings on Sunday, December 28, 2014 | 14 Comments »
Say, di ‘ja ever come down an old stair well
‘n shiver from your head to your toes
While your Pop shook up the fire
‘n your Mom warmed up your clothes?
Then have your eyes jump with surprise
As you looked beneath the tree
‘n everyone shoutin’ and hollerin’ around
‘n the whole house filled with glee?
Did ‘ja ever know how good an orange tastes,
when you ain’t had on fer a year;
Then find one in your stockin’, with a note,
“For Sonny dear?”
. . . from the poem, Country Christmas, by Cody Paige, which can be found in its entirety here.
Do you come from a tradition of Christmas stockings? Did your stocking, or your children’s, have an orange in it, or, nuts in their shells? Do you put out oranges, or any fruit, as part of your seasonal celebrations?
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all -
Thank you for all your prayers and good thoughts, candles and hope. Tom’s surgery went well on Wednesday, he is resting and recovering. We remain hopeful and are armed with the many bottles of eye drops that follow cataract surgery,
A thank you to Marilyn for reminding me of Emily Dickinson’s words.
The leaves are falling fast and furiously here on the Cutoff. With a wind advisory for tomorrow and a slight chance (please let it be slight) of snow, the trees hereabouts will be skeletons of their summer selves for Halloween, so, indulge me, dear reader, as I share one last post of October’s leafy splendor.
These verses are from one of my favorite poems of Robert Frost’s. It is one I’ve posted before. I offer it up once again as we bid farewell to what has been a resplendent fall season.
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
From Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost