A couple of solid snowstorms in these parts have already closed schools for a day and wreaked havoc on the highways.
In times like these, when we’re tempted to go out on the patio barefoot and in shorts (well, I’m not, but I hear of such things), we can call on poetry to bring the season to its senses. Enjoy these 10 great winter poems to bring the color back to the season.
1.
That’s no December sky!
Surely ’tis June
Holds now her state on high
Queen of the noon.
Only the tree-tops bare
Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
Warn us that still
Winter, the aged chief,
Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
Exiles the flower.
— Robert Fuller Murray, more Robert F. Murray: His Poems
2.
The air is hot and then it’s cold.
The water wants out so open
your mouth and say, snow.
The water wants out right there
on the tongue. The flaw is always
breaking away. Watch the fire.
It wants out of the place
so it splinters like insects
out of a hole you pour light into.
Fragment, then drift or alarm.
— Beth Bachmann, from Do Not Rise
3.
Your thighs are appletrees
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky
where Watteau hung a lady’s
slipper. Your knees
are a southern breeze — or
a gust of snow. Agh! what
sort of man was Fragonard?
— As if that answered
anything. — Ah, yes. Below
the knees, since the tune
drops that way, it is
one of those white summer days,
the tall grass of your ankles
flickers upon the shore —
Which shore? —
the sand clings to my lips —
Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe. How
should I know?
Which shore? Which shore?
— the petals from some hidden
appletree— Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.
— William Carlos Williams, from The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, Vol. 1: 1909-1939
4.
Should I remove my shoes?
In her wimple, kneeling on the floor,
Sister Cecilia’s rhythm caught my ear,
and only then my eye, her sleeves rolled,
her arms dimpling with the strain,
the sound of winter pines rubbing in the wind,
caught in her song and scrubbing.
Should I touch my hat,
passing her on the narrow stairs—a breeze
follows her habit of Poor Clares—the brim
across my stare, do I dare to raise my hand?
How is it those trees are more beautiful in snow
against half-hidden seeds and wrap of bark?
How shall I confess these reveries, and less
than that, what becomes of love not blessed?
5.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson, for more see Collected Poems and Translations
6.
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.
— Wallace Stevens, for more see Selected Poems
7.
There are hundreds of names for snow, you say,
unlatching the fortochka in the morning light.
Let’s name them all, love, along the way.
Last night snow danced its boreal ballet
of whorls and swirls, fine arabesques in white—
you know hundreds of names for snow, you say.
Down crystalline paths we slip and spin, surveying
ice falls, tall drifts, single flakes in flight—
my love and I count them along the way.
In my head, sparking visions start to play:
once love’s begun, who knows? Perhaps we might—
There are hundreds of names for snow, you say,
gently, their meanings subtle, hard to convey—
elusive as love’s many meanings last night.
I wait. You walk—silent—along your way.
Feeling foolish, unschooled, I whisk away
a sudden, childish tear obscuring my sight.
You know hundreds of names for love, you say:
I’ll learn them all, love, along my way.
— Katherine E. Young, author of Day of the Border Guards
8.
So wild it was when we first settled here.
Spruce roots invaded the cellar like thieves.
Skunks bred on the doorstep, cluster flies jeered.
Ice-melt dripped shingles and screws from the eaves.
We slept by the stove, we ate meals with our hands.
At dusk we heard gunshots, and wind and guitars.
We imagined a house with a faucet that ran
From a well that held water. We canvassed the stars.
If love is an island, what map was our hovel?
Dogs howled on the mainland, our cliff washed away.
We hunted for clues with a broken-backed shovel.
We drank all the wine, night dwindled to grey.
When we left, a flat sunrise was threatening snow,
But the frost heaves were deep. We had to drive
slow.
— Dawn Potter, author of Same Old Story
9.
So provisional, it almost doesn’t
count—uncourageous, afraid
of everything concrete, the frozen closes in
on asphalt, then vanishes
into nostalgia.
In the streetlight, the sky is all dust,
pale and full of flutter;
on the ground, damp pockets of no longer.
Tentative as first snow reluctant to land,
we move again toward the other,
remember the chill,
the pleasure of complete cover.
— Marjorie Maddox, author of Local News from Someplace Else
10.
The road is long as I travel south
and the sun is low in the white sky.
Last night I woke to a great silence,
in a house that is anything but silent
by day. Old pines keep watch
over that dwelling, and the moon
keeps watch, and I wish
for this kind of watching,
but my bedroom in the town where I live
looks out over streetlights and the sounds
of cars and sometimes sirens. In my room,
the roads seem short, and I wonder
if tonight I will dream of the long road
home, and how the sun bathed the trees
in gold, and how the sumacs leaned with flowers
the color of some wine whose name
I can’t remember, near the trees whose names
I’ve never known, now strung with long red necklaces.
— L.L. Barkat, author of Love, Etc.
Photo by Larry Smith, Creative Commons license via Flickr. All poems are public domain or used by permission of author or publisher.
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Maureen says
Lovely roundup.
Next week is supposed to be 20 degrees above average here. Talk about climate warming. Some of the cherry trees at the Tidal Basin already have bloomed.
L. L. Barkat says
Oh, I know, Maureen! The maple outside my window has started greening its buds. In December. No, no, no.
Will Willingham says
Of course, I sort of spoke too soon. We had a bit of a storm again this week and now things are nicely buried in white, with some highly season ice pack on the roadways. 🙂
Jody Lee Collins says
I think I like L.L.’s the best. Nice round up!
Paul Willingham says
It Will be a Cold Day in…
Christmas season in the Rio Grande Valley,
where snow is as rare as a Haley
Comet, streaking across the sky.
But Christmas morning in two thousand four,
three inches of snow covered the valley floor.
But daily, even without frigid precipitation
oversized flakes that know no season,
driven by the ever present wind they
float, til snagged by branch, fence and cacti
piling up like winters’ drifted snow
Whence comes these flakes that causally defy
The physical laws of meteorology?
From grocery carts and varied venders
ersatz crystals create this winter scene.
Alas, they’re flakes of polyethylene.
L. L. Barkat says
This is so fun (except, I suppose, for those who must live with the rolly poly snow). I love the surprise ending (made me laugh). And the double meaning title. 🙂
Bethany says
Paul, such a fun take on a white Christmas. Thanks for stopping by and posting your piece.
Rick Maxson says
I love snow as rare as Haley.
So the contemporary version of Wallace Stevens’s The Snow Man would begin: One must have a mind of PCBs…
L. L. Barkat says
Ha! 🙂
Now there’s a fun project. Rewrite some of the “greats” in terms of current events and issues.
Rick Maxson says
How’s this for that challenge?
Stopping By Woods on a Warm December Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know,
he’s moved to North Alberta though.
The sea comes closer every year,
to the hills around Mt. Pocono.
My snowmobile’s useless, I fear,
as are my skis and all their gear,
but I still need my shears and rake,
to keep the shrubs and driveway clear.
Some folks have a different take,
and say it’s all a big mistake.
Now a Hershey bar’s called Val d’Or
and Scranton’s renamed Scranton Lake.
If I was forced to give a score,
December now or as before…
It’s just a mile now to the shore.
The family loves the new found shore.
Rick Maxson says
Here’s one more. I’ve exposed myself thoroughly. Someone else take over. 🙂
Synthetiwocky
‘Twas Reddye and the Aspartame
did jumble-tangle with the grub.
There buoyant be Canthaxanthin
And butylated nutrisub.
Beware the Synthetiwock, my son!
The antioxidants, their catch,
Beware their lies of good, and shun
Olestra’s adiposal match.
The Scientaugurist did fight
High fructose hidden in the sauce,
While Alginates stayed out of sight
Professing they would aid weight loss.
Monstrous, dyed, yellow, red and blue,
The Synthetiwock came charging,
All Glutamates and Bromides too,
In bullion cubes and margarine.
Oh valiant was the fight he fought,
The Scientaugurist with laws,
Astaxanthin a shelter sought,
Disguised as little crabs with claws
In salmon farms, pink eyed he hid.
Hydroxyanisole went unseen
With Amylases, well she did,
As did Yellow Tartrazine.
‘Twas reddye and the Aspartame
did jumble-tangle with the grub.
There buoyant be Canthaxanthin
And butylated nutrisub.
Will Willingham says
I like the feel of “ersatz crystals,”
Fun poem, Dad. Thanks for drifting in with it. 🙂
Bethany says
Love this wintery collection. That last stanza of Richard’s, Of Hat and Shoes, crushed me. The “half-hidden seeds” and then the last line— wow.
Rick Maxson says
Thanks, Bethany.
Rick Maxson says
Thanks for including my poem.
I’ve been trying to put new life into an old deck in my spare time (that’s a laugh) for the last several months. So, I’ve appreciated this unseasonable warm (so far) winter. But we’re slowly dipping into the 20s here in the Ozarks. We don’t have to worry about seeing spring buds, the deer eat those as quickly as they appear. Got to get out the mint spray.
Will Willingham says
We finally got more seasonable weather this week. I was on the road for a little while yesterday and was so struck by the scene as I drove through some rolling hills, snow cover on the ground but not enough that there weren’t brown stalks of corn and grasses sticking up against the blue sky, and everything had the most beautiful sparking ice glaze over it. (Except the road, I should add. It was fine. 🙂
Marjorie Maddox says
So glad to be included in this “wintry mix!” Thanks!
martin gottlieb cohen says
Pardon me Ms. Maddox for using your space to reply a year later on a wet February but I like these winter verses…
Blizzard
Snow:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down—
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes—
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there—
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.
from Sour Grapes, 1921.
William Carlos Williams
The next verse is an English Haiku:
a robin listens
then flies off
snow eddies
William J. Higginson
My English Haiku Attempt:
tree ice
sunlight
inches
down
the
bedroom
chair
martin gottlieb cohen