Winter is a-coming in, so how about some poetry to reflect the season of Jack Frost and snow-laden landscapes?
Whether it’s falling snow or cold evenings, poets have often been drawn to the wintry season. As someone who appreciates the cleverness of a poet to create an image in word, I will share a couple of creative writes below.
On a personal side, winter is not my favourite season; it bites to the core of our being and freezes us to the tip of our toes, but as a hardy stubblejumper, I will keep smiling and trudging through whatever nature has to give us.
It sifts from leaden sieves
Emily Dickinson
It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, —
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.
It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil
On stump and stack and stem, —
The summer’s empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, —
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.
The Snow Man
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.
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect the position of this publication.
