Wednesday, February 4, 2015


In which we shiver

If I were going to write a poem about winter -- which I'm not -- I'd call it 'The Cold Death' and you can bet it would not be about sleigh bells and the infinite variety of snowflakes. The dark is worse than the cold and the cold is -- well, you already read the prospective title. Winter is a recidivist criminal that keeps trying to kill us, welding insidious weapons: the cold that creeps into us, ice that paralyzes us, snow that suffocates us. Night that clings to day. I quoted the wrong part of that Mark Strand poem yesterday, it's this part, about the cold death, that we can't forget this snowy day
And if it happens that you cannot / go on or turn back / and you find yourself / where you will be at the end, / tell yourself / in that final flowing of cold through your limbs / that you love what you are.  [Lines for Winter]

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