Ah, winter - the complicated season.All wrapped up in snow and nowhere to go.
Perhaps the time has come to flip through some poems of the affable, fluid and imaginative variety.
And what exactly is the mark of this variety?
Basically the kind of poetry that writes itself, finds its own rhythm, adjusts its length of verse, tweaks the appropriate figures of speech in a balanced, off-hand and self-deprecating manner, to yield a mini-masterpiece without worrying too much about footnotes.
Might this be the one? -the opening stanza from Sir Walter Raleigh’s poem Nature,That Washed Her Hands in Milk:
“Nature, that washed her hands in milk,
And had forgot to dry them.
Instead of earth took snow and silk,
At Love’s request to try them.”
" This morning of the small snow
I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet
which makes of the sink time, the drop
of water on water as sweet
as the Seth Thomas
in the old kitchen"
(from Song 3 by Charles Olson)
...if not the ending of A.M. Klein’s poem Winter Night: Mount Royal?:
"One would say the hidden stars were bells
dangling between the shafts of the Zodiac.
One would say
the snowflakes falling clinked together their sparkles
to make these soft, these satin-muffled
And then again?