Secret Sleigh Ride

It had been long dark, though still an hour before supper-time

by Charles Reznikoff

 

 

It had been long dark, though still an hour before supper-time.
The boy stood at the window behind the curtain.
The street under the black sky was bluish white with snow.
Across the street, where the lot sloped to the pavement,
boys and girls were going down on sleds.
The boys were after him because he was a Jew.

At last his father and mother slept. He got up and dressed.
In the hall he took out his sled and went out on tiptoe.
No one was in the street. The slide was worn smooth and 

slippery--just right.

He laid himself down on his sled and shot away. He went down 

only twice.

He stood knee-deep in snow:
no one was in the street, the windows were darkened;
those near the street-lamps were ashine, but the rooms inside 

were dark;

on the street were long shadows of clods of snow.
He took his sled and went back into the house.

Snow in the mountains

Snow

by Kenneth Rexroth

Low clouds hang on the mountain.
The forest is filled with fog.
A short distance away the
Giant trees recede and grow
Dim. Two hundred paces and
They are invisible. All
Day the fog curdles and drifts.
The cries of the birds are loud.
They sound frightened and cold. Hour
By hour it grows colder.
Just before sunset the clouds
Drop down the mountainside. Long
Shreds and tatters of fog flow
Swiftly away between the
Trees. Now the valley below
Is filled with clouds like clotted
Cream and over them the sun
Sets, yellow in a sky full
Of purple feathers. After dark
A wind rises and breaks branches
From the trees and howls in the
Treetops and then suddenly
Is still. Late at night I wake
And look out of the tent. The
Clouds are rushing across the
Sky and through them is tumbling
The thin waning moon. Later
All is quiet except for
A faint whispering. I look
Out. Great flakes of wet snow are
Falling. Snowflakes are falling
Into the dark flames of the
Dying fire. In the morning the
Pine boughs are sagging with snow,
And the dogwood blossoms are
Frozen, and the tender young
Purple and citron oak leaves.

"buds so subtle / they know"

December, Outdoors

by John Updike

Clouds like fish shedding scales are stretched
thin above Salem. The calm cold sea
accepts the sun as an equal, a match:
the horizon a truce, the air all still.
Sun, but no shadows somehow, the trees
ideally deleafed, a contemplative gray
that ushers into the woods (in summer
crammed with undergrowth) sheer space.

How fortunate it is to move about
without impediment, Nature having
no case to make, no special weather to plead,
unlike some storm-obsessed old symphonist.
The day is piano; I see buds so subtle
they know, though fat, that this is no time to bloom.

Architecture of Snow

The Snowstorm

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

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.

Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of snow.

Frost's snow dusting

Dust of Snow
by Robert Frost

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

busy winter!

the redhead & her beardyman, out for a jaunty 'shoe

Snowed in Emily Brontë style

Spellbound

by Emily Brontë

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing dear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

winter trees, liquid moon

Winter Trees
by William Carlos Williams

All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.

"Blow, blow, thou winter wind..."

As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII [Blow, blow, thou winter wind]

by William Shakespeare

Lord Amiens, a musician, sings before Duke Senior's company

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing . . .

Songs lilting through the day

Christmas Bells
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

Classic Frost

So many of us at least know a couple lines from this classic Frost poem...

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

let it snow!

My stepdaughter & husband picking out a tree as it snowed. Picture perfect.

snow in night

Untitled [Toward night]
by Kevin Goodan

Toward night, frail flurries of snow. Fingernails of willows scratching frost from the edges of the kitchen window where I watch the field beyond the fence where once corn was taller than a man can reach but now I gaze into the kitchen of the next farmhouse and watch the man with a bad leg hobble from sink to table to feed his mother with a spoon. I keep the lights off and study snow to augur from the flakes what fortune I may. The furnace does its duty and cars pass, swirls of flurry captured in fading prisms of red. If I stood on the road it would glow and crackle beneath my feet. The air would be muted, my own breath sounding as though it came from another body, a shadow leaning faintly toward me as though to whisper any comfort. Animals would unshelter themselves to stand waiting at the fence. Snow would settle everything. I would cup my hands, realizing I had become what it was I wanted to be. The body beside me would breathe on. The two of us.

It's always a good day for a snow poem.

The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

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.

snowfall in the afternoon...

Snowfall In The Afternoon

by Robert Bly

I
The grass is half-covered with snow.
It was the sort of snowfall that starts in late afternoon,
And now the little houses of the grass are growing
dark.

II
If I could reach down, near the earth,
I could take handfuls of darkness!
A darkness that was always there, which we never
noticed.

III
As the snow grows heavier, the cornstalks fade farther
away,
And the barn moves nearer to the house.
The barn moves all alone in the growing storm.

IV
The barn is full of corn, and moving toward us now,
Like a hulk blown toward us in a storm at sea;
All the sailors on deck have been blind for many
years.

self-portrait in Adirondack snow

 

Out for an afternoon stroll in the snow

Dogwood Snow (poem in progress)

Dogwood Snow

Driving home through a January squall,

I squint through the windshield at the highway.

In the passenger seat you snore lightly

as the car whooshes through

this thick, pallid curtain.

Then a tractor trailer’s beams

cut quickly

through the white

and I see

how quietly,

how easily

we could slip

across

the center line.

If we do,

please scatter our ashes

beneath a late spring–budding dogwood,

so we can look up

through the blooms

at every phase of the summer moon.

Or, if it is winter,

just go out

into a midmorning snowfall

and walk through the hush,

into the very bones of winter.

By the time we creep

into the driveway,

trailer long behind us,

I get out of the car,

walk through the new snow,

palms upward,

catching snowflakes,

catching dogwood petals.

-HMMooreNiver

(Note, photo actually of a star magnolia, but the image fits.)

PSALM Retreat coming up!

January 18-20, 2009
Retreat begins @ 4pm on Sunday and concludes after lunch Tuesday.

CHI RHO LODGE
FOWLER CAMP & RETREAT CENTER
Speculator, NY

View over the lake at sunset. Well worth the frozen fingers!

Fowler has a unique stillness during the wintertime, which is known to refresh and revive the soul. We’ve found no better time for inspiration than to pack up in the dead of winter and head to the Adirondacks. Few artists like to force creativity, but we have found how essential it is to allow for creativity. Such times seldom come during the heat and hustle of our busy lives. This is a time to allow time for inspiration and creativity.

WHAT TO DO . . .

During these few days, you are welcome to stay where it’s warm and cozy or venture out into the cold. If you go out, you can take a walk in the woods or on a frozen lake, or light a fire in the fireplace at Lakeside Lodge or the Chapel. You’ll be encouraged to spend your free time absorbing and/or creating. Use the time to create by yourself, work with others, or just wander in search of inspiration. It’s all time well spent.

Chi Ro Bard

STRUCTURE

Taking the time for pause and/or silence is a key theme of these two days. The structure will be minimal, but we will begin each day with a short reflection from the scriptures to guide our time. The opening session after Sunday evening dinner will include a little music and story as well as an outline of the retreat and some suggestions for ways to use your time. We will leave Monday evening open for a time of coming together as a group to share our creations.

COST: $100 includes lodging & all meals (double occupancy)

Open to anyone who enjoys expressing themselves through art. Musicians, storytellers, dancers, writers, painters, sculptors, as well as art appreciators in any capacity are welcome.

Camp Fowler is located on Pelcher Rd., 2 miles West of Speculator, NY.

To register online... http://www.campfowler.org/retreats/psalmretreat/psalmretreat.htm

snow on snow on snow....

Went out walking in the season's first snow yesterday, of course. Some pics of my snowy saunter...

spring crocuses

Of course, fickle old March could not abide the rousing chorus

of spring peepers that grew in strength and sublime harmony each night this week.

No.

She flings snow on us.

But these crocuses stand strong. And so do the peepers. I can hear singing even now.