Walk the rails under a high blue sky. Find the sag in the leaning fence, and step--carefully--over rusted wire. Follow a peninsula of blond grasses through a lake of loam, and come, at last, to the timber's edge where gray branches trace the sky and rose hips curl near purple canes.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Out of Season
I am wanting winter,
spare and cold and clean--
cracking plastic splinters,
relentless, almost mean.
I am wanting winter,
all brought blunt and low--
gathering of sinners,
Incarnation's glow.
I'm liking the (pardon the technical term) trochaic rhythm of these lines, the rhythm where the line begins with a stressed syllable!
--and yes, I value winter for precisely the same reasons that you ostensibly do!
It would perhaps be flattery to call this poem Dickinsonian, but in a way it's more companionable than much of Emily Dickinson. Let me jettison the critical jargon and say simply: I love this poem!
I'm very honored to receive the "critical jargon" and glad you enjoyed the poem! I'm also very glad you found it "companionable"--I love when poetry welcomes others.
I'm liking the (pardon the technical term) trochaic rhythm of these lines, the rhythm where the line begins with a stressed syllable!
ReplyDelete--and yes, I value winter for precisely the same reasons that you ostensibly do!
It would perhaps be flattery to call this poem Dickinsonian, but in a way it's more companionable than much of Emily Dickinson. Let me jettison the critical jargon and say simply: I love this poem!
I'm very honored to receive the "critical jargon" and glad you enjoyed the poem! I'm also very glad you found it "companionable"--I love when poetry welcomes others.
ReplyDelete