winter
February Morning
The old man takes a nap
too soon in the morning.
His coffee cup grows cold.
Outside the snow falls fast.
He’ll not go out today.
Others must clear the way
to the car and the shed.
Open upon his lap
lie the poems of Mr. Frost.
Somehow his eyes get lost
in the words and the snow,
somehow they go
backward against the words,
upward among the flakes
to the blankness of air,
the busy abundance there.
Should he take warning?
Mr. Frost went off, they say,
in bitterness and despair.
The old man stirs and wakes,
hearing the hungry birds,
nuthatch, sparrow, and jay
that clamor outside, unfed,
and words stir from his past
like this irritable sorrow
of jay, nuthatch, and sparrow,
wrath which no longer takes
shape of sentence or song.
He climbs the stairs to bed.
The snow falls all day long.
– Hayden Carruth
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February Evening In New York
As the stores close, a winter light
opens air to iris blue,
glint of frost through the smoke
grains of mica, salt of the sidewalk.
As the buildings close, released autonomous
feet pattern the streets
in hurry and stroll; balloon heads
drift and dive above them; the bodies
aren’t really there.
As the lights brighten, as the sky darkens,
a woman with crooked heels says to another woman
while they step along at a fair pace,
‘You know, I’m telling you, what I love best
is life. I love life! Even if I ever get
to be old and wheezy—or limp! You know?
Limping along?—I’d still … ‘ Out of hearing.
To the multiple disordered tones
of gears changing, a dance
to the compass points, out, four-way river.
Prospect of sky
wedged into avenues, left at the ends of streets,
west sky, east sky: more life tonight! A range
of open time at winter’s outskirts.
– Denise Levertov
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February
February. Take ink and weep,
write February as you’re sobbing,
while black Spring burns deep
through the slush and throbbing.
Take a cab. For a clutch of copecks,
through bell-towers’ and wheel noise,
go where the rain-storm’s din breaks,
greater than crying or ink employs.
Where rooks in thousands falling,
like charred pears from the skies,
drop down into puddles, bringing
cold grief to the depths of eyes.
Below, the black shows through,
and the wind’s furrowed with cries:
the more freely, the more truly
then, sobbing verse is realised.
– Boris Pasternak
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January River
Within my heart, darkness I breed,
Hope is laid waste, all life: destroyed.
Ev’ry defense I can deploy,
Will ne’er grant the relief I need.
My will debased, I’m made a slave
Longing escape, To be set free,
Nothing inside will grant my plea,
I need the One: mighty to save.
External light, no shadow seen,
It wages war, aids in my plight.
Darkness cannot comprehend light
That ne’er gives up, nor loses steam.
Dark rages on, the battle fierce,
My soul made weak, so very frail.
Alone I lose, I surely fail,
Yet I shall win, through Him they pierced.
– J Patrick Murphy
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Written In Early January
The days are short, the nights are long,
The wind bites sharp and cold;
And many memories stark and strong
Within the mind unfold.
There is a stillness in the air,
That quites perturbs the soul;
The gushing falls of time are there;
You hear time’s river roll.
Backwards in time my thoughts I cast;
Where have the moments gone? –
The happy moments of the past
In memory live alone:
And when all by myself am I
I cannot help but find
My thoughts return to days gone by –
Time truly is unkind.
(Completed Thursday, 8th January,2009.)
– David Mitchell
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January
Naked breezes blow strong on warm fleshy autumn bodies
Hanging upside down from the cracks of your statement.
Rapunzell underneath the window of her secret room
Where golden locks fly in the unfamiliar night.
Circean lover calls for prophylactic prophecies
I wish I could make a difference in the change of your seasons.
A ribbon war begun in your bedroom ends
In streets flowing with whiskey rives into my open mouth.
Spherical magistrates explode by foggy dawn
And I haven’t come any closer to figuring out
The secret of your pubescent innocence
Radiating in pre-sun behemoth nightmare.
Halogen radiation towers glow around your face
I’m stuck in cracked basement filler
Using my words like weapons and hoping
I could catch your circadian rhythm.
Melancholy paranoia undermines my self-restraint
I take a bite of the apple of your eye
Slither closer on my belly
To feed you with my unwashed supplications.
The bandits have left Main Street, USA
Raided the saloons and brothels
Left only the resentment of housewives
And junkies to console me.
A schizophrenic episode resolves itself
With your majestic blanket falling to observe
The holiday of my deliverance
And the insolubility of your decadence.
– Tyler Wilcox
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January Frosts
Frosty icicles thrust up from the ground
Make sheep tiptoe between them.
Robin’s sing on an icy bough found
Their voice on this cold earths stem.
Blackbirds with their orange bills
And their jaunty hopping gait
Look out from their window sills
In the wood, standing they wait.
A watery sun high in the sky shines
Its weak light over the cold earth
The cold in all it labour grinds
The sap of the deep winter’s birth.
– David Wood
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January Morning
I observed
By the window
An old hard wooden chair
Looking out
White oblivion
Falling flagging failing
Spiralling cartwheeling dizzily falling
each snowflake is unique You whispered with reverence as if letting me in on a secret
if you listen carefully you can hear each fall from the clouds rubbed against the sky
I heard nothing
– Pearl Colette
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January
The month of new beginnings,
Named after Janus,
The Greek god of new beginnings,
With the ever-so-famous New Year’s Day.
The month of winter’s worst,
the wind blowing so hard,
the snow coming down in falls,
blizzards blowing hazardously,
making blind
everything in its path;
the birthday of Dr Martin Luther King, Jr,
a man who fought for peace,
and a feast day for Mary,
the cold, the wind,
the snow, the freezing,
the hypothermia, the loss of heat,
the cold temperatures, the ice,
the ice on the roads,
the icicles that hang,
on a beautiful winter day,
the coming of Jack Frost,
when you least expect him,
the new beginnings,
the New Year,
the month of Janus
is ever so near.
– Justin Reamer
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January, January
Ice, thick,
as I have never seen
on Cherwell.
Jagged, floating towards Isis.
Low mists of ice-dust
drift on Christ Church meadow
and cool the blood
of long-horn cattle
standing
ankle-deep in mud.
A lame roe deer
beneath the trees
pauses, where
the sudden call of coots
splits the air.
In the gardens of Trinity,
all is order and harmony.
January blossom from Japan,
well-kept paths and lawns.
Controlled
and quiet.
Magdalen is a small, medieval town;
courtyards and golden houses,
a Tower and a Park.
Along Addison’s Walk,
tall trees like sentries,
follow the stream
which sidles out from Magdalen Bridge
to turn and twist
past the Deer Park
with its white deer,
(living, condensations
of the mist) .
– Brian Taylor
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