Thursday, February 26, 2015
by John Gould Fletcher
To A. D. R.
Black swallows swooping or gliding
In a flurry of entangled loops and curves;
The skaters skim over the frozen river.
And the grinding click of their skates as they impinge upon the
Is like the brushing together of thin wing-tips of silver.
by William Carlos Williams
years of anger following
hours that float idly down--
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes--
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there--
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.
--from IMAGIST POETRY: AN ANTHOLOGY
edited by Bob Blaisdell, Dover Thrift Editions
~ ~ ~ ~
A PATCH OF OLD SNOW
by Robert Frost
There's a patch of old snow in a corner,
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of the day I've forgotten--
If I ever read it.
from SNOW IN THE SUBURBS
by Thomas Hardy
A sparrow enters the tree
A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
Descends on him and showers his head and eyes.
And overturns him,
And near inturns him,
And lights on a nether twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.
--from WINTER POEMS selected by Barbara Rogasky,
~ ~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~
Friday, February 20, 2015
no school tomorrow
ignoring dark and bedtime
he plays in the snow
a coating of ice
on yesterday's snow
his wet clothes still wet
backing down the hill
she couldn't get up
three inches of snow
making it brighter inside ~
tricks with his yo-yo
[above poems written while Billy
and I were living in Arkadelphia]
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~
with enough ice
any shoe is a skate
[Found poem: from Dennis the Menace comic, '97]
an added whiteness
on the dandelion puff
after last night's frost
[Published, Muse of Fire]
c 2015, Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Monday, February 16, 2015
by Richard Wilbur
Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In the dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare
A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where
The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes
Returns him such a god-forsaken stare
As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.
The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,
Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element,
He melts enough to drop from one soft eye
A trickle of the purest rain, a tear
For the child at the bright pane surrounded by
Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.
From Good Poems selected & Introduced by Garrison Keillor, 2002
Born in 1921, Richard Wilbur grew up in rural NJ, went to Amherst, bummed around the country (46 states) on freight trains & rode in a coal car over the Rockies and served in the army in the Italian campaign in WWII.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
My brother Guy Couch's begonia
A Sonnet to my Valentines
T o celebrate this holiday, I’ll try
O utlining, crafting English sonnet form.
M y further, harder task will be to tie
Y et other undertakings to it: warm
V ernacular, like choc-o-late, plus rhyme
A nd meter (dull iambic, some folks think).
L a-bor-ious it may be, this winter. But,
E ach word must serve to build and fill a chink.
N eglectful, some folks overlook a “turn”
T he sonnet needs. For now, I’ll turn to snow,
I de-al during February. Spurn
N ot cold; delight in its short visit! Oh,
E lusive muse, Erato–– Valentine,
S tay with us, love us––snow or not. Be mine!
c 2015 Pat Laster dba lovepat press