Winter

North Wind

North Wind

North Wind descended from the pole
sending its wolf pack through snow-
bound trees that stood there, listless.
Then wind and wolves came, cutting
and shuffling, playing snap-the-branch,
chase-the snow-flake, and strip-jack-
naked. Wolves danced on their hind-
legs, round and round, shaking trees,
biting at branches, testing winter games
until trees stood naked, stripped of snow,
tresses and garlands gobbled and gone.

Oh, the wickedness of winter, its cold-
cut cruelty, the lash of the wind, ice-
pellets hurled, picketing fences, pecking
a wild winter-song, forlorn in its fury,
its pace, its power, its reckless race
to hurl everything away, out of its way,
snow twisted, tormented, twitching
its snake-way down barren highways
devoid of secret places in which to hide
tender faces from the North Wind.

Comment:

A big storm threatening, a Nor’Easter. We have been threatened before. But over the last couple of years, the threats have come to nothing. Snow falls in Shediac, Moncton, Saint John, Saint Andrews and St. Stephen. But it spares us. Travels up to Woodstock. Then on up to Plaster Rock for the Pond Hockey or as far as Grand Falls and Edmundston. But we are spared.

Last year, I used the snowblower three times. So far this year, I haven’t used it at all. It sits in the garage and yes, I am thankful that I don’t have to go out in the cold. And my beloved is thankful that she doesn’t have to do the snow blowing either. Now here’s a Golden Oldie for you. A memory from way back when. So colorless, it’s almost a black and white photo.

Bleak Mid-Winter

Bleak Mid-winter
from
All About Angels

The reverse side of a tapestry this fly-netting,
snow plugging its tiny squares,
clotting with whiteness the loopholes
where snippets of light sneak through.
Black and white this landscape,
its colorless contours a throwback
to earlier days when dark and light
and black and white held sway.

Snow piled on snow.
The bird-feeder buried and buried, too,
the lamps that can no longer shine
beneath their cloak of snow.

The front porch contemplates a sea of white,
wave after wave cresting whitecaps,
casting a snow coat over trees
with snow-filled nests standing
shoulder-deep in the drifts
while a slow wind whistles
and high and dry in the sky above
the sun is a pale, thin penny
drifting through ragged clouds
hat threaten to bring more snow.

Comment:

A Golden Oldie, or rather, a Black and White Oldie, from when New Brunswick winters were colder and much more snowy. The iterative thematic imagery in the poem links to the hymn, In the bleak mid-winter. There are several reminisces of the hymn within the above lines.

It used to be sung as a an entry hymn in the Christmas Carol Services at King’s Stanley Church, along time ago, when I was in school. The procession would exit the vestry and move slowly though the church towards the altar. The first verse of the solo was sung solo. Then a duet followed. Then the whole choir joined in. I remember doing the solo one year, when both our lead singers were stricken with some form of laryngitis. We drew lots and I got the short straw.

The unique drum accompaniment that day was the sound of my knees knocking together, backed up by the loud beating of the heart in my chest. I preferred hiding in the choir, to stepping up out front and leading it.

Last year, we used our snow blower on three occasions. This winter, we have yet to use it. If during the next month or so I am forced to wake it up and shake it out of its cobwebs, I will be sure to sing “In the bleak midwinter” as I plow my drive. Alas, there will be no choir to accompany me. Those days are long past, and in the past they must remain, as the Flower of Scotland reminds us. They will be singing that in Edinburgh on Valentine’s Day. And Scotland will need a strong brave set of hearts to upset the invading armies from south of the border.

Ice Storm

Ice Storm

This month and my life
are nearly done.

Sun strengthens in the sky
but birds ice up
in spite of feathers,
fluffed like eider downs.

Man alone,
within warm walls,
can bravely laugh
at winter’s squalls.

But oh, if the power fails,
if wires are tumbled
by winter’s gusting gales,
man’s heart no longer
fills with ease.

He sits at home
in the cold and dark
while all around him,
ice covers the land
and even fire dogs
freeze.

Rage, Rage 14, 15

Rage, Rage
14

As for you, my love,
one moment you were with me,
at the airport,
the next, you were not.

I turned away for a second,
and, when I looked again,
you had walked
through the boarding gate,
and passed out of my life.

Now, I can’t think straight.
Hair leaks from my head
like straw from a scarecrow.

My teddy bear brain
has morphed from sawdust
into a mess of lonely grey jelly.

15

Memories deceive me
with their flickering
shadow shows.
Shapes shift with a click
of the magician’s fingers.

What magic lantern
now slips its subtle slides
across night’s screen?

Desperate, I lap,
like a wild Alpine goat,
at salt-licks
that increase my thirst
and drive me
deeper into thick,
black clouds
of want and need.

Comments:

Shapes shift with a click of the magician’s fingers. Indeed, they do. I love the shape-shifting nature of snow. One day, the ash tree stands stark against dark pines. The next, the garden is winter white and the trees are dressed in their fine wedding garments. The table is no longer a table, though I do not know exactly what it has turned into. The distant trees seem to lean in close. The railings lose their summer dirt and snow turns everything inside out and upside down.

It reminds me of Pete Seeger – “Snow, snow, falling down, covering up this dirty little town.” Except the garden isn’t dirty, just a little abandoned in winter until the snow arrives, or, even better, the ice storm, followed by sun, when we suddenly seem to live in the heart of an icy diamond, looking out.


Rage, Rage 10

Rage, Rage
10

My body’s house
has many rooms
and you, my love,
are present in them all.

I glimpse your shadow
in the mirror, and your breath
brushes my cheek
when I open the door.
Where have you gone?

I walk from room to room,
but when I seek,
I no longer find
and nothing opens
when I knock.

Afraid, sometimes,
to enter a room,
I am sure
you are in there.

I hear your footsteps.
Sometimes your voice
breaks the silence
when you whisper my name
in the same old way.

Comment:

Rage, Rage – and still I rage against the dying of the light and, like Dylan Thomas, ask the ageing of this world not to go gentle into that dark night. Yet, as my beloved and I age, we watch day’s shadows growing longer, and night stealing steadily along. What can we do?

Well, since the winter solstice, we can start counting the minutes as each day adds a minute or two and gifts some more light and strength to the sun. Sunrise today – 8:03 AM. Sunset today – 5:09 PM. That means 9 hours and 6 minutes of sunlight. Well, it would, if it weren’t cloudy, with a cold wind, and a dropping temperature. My guess is that it will get dark much before it ought to. And that’s not nice – no respect!

Of course, my beloved is a sun bunny and a Leo, and she perishes in these shortened days. I was born in them and they don’t affect me as badly as they do her. But I can still Rage, Rage, because there is so much to rage about – icy streets, the usual potholes, roads that hide ice beneath a thin covering of snow, some strange drivers who don’t seem to have bought winter tires. Oh yes, I love them. One came twisting and turning down the same side of the road as me only this morning. Luckily he hit the snow bank before he hit me. But, I ask you, what was he thinking?

So there’s Rage, and Rage Rage, and also Road Rage. Way to go! I think we should call a national rage day and all stay home for 24 hours, just to cool us all down for a bit. Oh dear, that might lead to cabin fever – and that would be an out–Rage.

October

October

… and the wind a presence, sudden,
rustling dusty reeds and leaves,
the pond no longer a mirror,
its troubled surface twinkling,
sparking fall sunshine,
fragmenting it into shiny patches.

It’s warm in the car, windows raised
and the fall heat trapped in glass.
Outside, walkers walk hooded now,
gloved, heads battened down
beneath woollen thatches.

A wet dog emerges from the pond,
shakes its rainbow spray
soon to be a tinkle of trembling sparks
when the mercury sinks
and cold weather closes the pond
to all but skaters. Then fall frost will turn
noses blue and winter will start to bite.

Comment:

I was the first to like Moo’s painting, and indeed I do.
I hope someone likes my poem, too.

Water

Water

Here, in Island View, my lawn’s parched grass
longs for water, long-promised but never drawing near.
Do my flowers remember when the earth slept without form
and darkness lay upon the face of the deep?

The waters under heaven gathered into one place.
When they separated, the firmament appeared.
Light sprang apart from darkness
and with the beginning of light came the word,
more words, and then the world …

… my own world of water in which my mother
carried me until her waters broke
and the life sustaining substance drained away
throwing me from dark to light.

In Oaxaca, water was born free, yet everywhere
lies imprisoned in bottles, in jars, in frozen cubes,
its captive essence staring out with grief-filled eyes.

A young boy on a tricycle pedals the streets
with a dozen prison cells, each with forty captives:
forty fresh clean litres of drinkable water. He holds
out his hand for money and invites the villagers
to pay a ransom, to set these prisoners free.

Real water yearns to be released, to be spontaneous,
to trickle out of the corner of your mouth,
to drip from your chin, and fall to the ground.

It is a mirage of palm trees upon burning sand.
It is the hot sun dragging its blood red tongue across the sky
and panting for water like a great big thirsty dog.

Commentary:

This year, spring came with lots of rain. At one stage it looked like the waterlogged plants in our flower beds would all drown. Then, just before summer came, the rain went away and we suffered day after day of unbearable heat followed by nights during which the temperatures scarcely dropped.

As a result, the woods dried up and dry lightning strikes started fires. At one stage close to forty wild fires burned, many out of control. Entry to the woods was forbidden by law. Gradually, the fire-fighters fought back, extinguished the fires, one by one, and reclaimed control. I hope everyone realizes the enormous debt we owe to those brave men and women who risk their lives to save not only our lives, but our houses and our properties.

The fires have gone now. We had a day’s rain, 11 mms fell, but it’s not enough. We need more, a great deal more. We need to soak the trees, the grass, and to feed the streams and rivers. We also need to refill the aquifers on which life on earth, as we know it, depends. We need deep ends in our pools, not the shallow ends of depends, when it depends on whether or not the skies open and the heavenly waters fall.

CBC radio last night – farmers say they have lost their winter hay. How will the animals survive our winters with the hay fields burned and dry? One farmer said that, having no hay himself, it would cost him a minimum of $55,000 to bring in hay – if he could find anyone to sell it to him. Unfortunately, the same is true across the Maritimes – drought, forest fires, and a lack of winter hay. Spare a thought (and a prayer or two) for all those poor creatures, born to die, who will suffer this winter on account of this summer’s heat.

First Snow Blow

First Snow Blow
4 December 2023

A dry old stick of a man
I hang a warm coat
on my scarecrow frame
and don thick mitts
to keep out the cold.

Gripping grimly
the snowblower’s handles,
and hanging on tight,
I plod my wobbly way,
working the gears as I go.

The snowblower, this year,
is a recalcitrant shopping cart
with me, the shopper,
frantically pushing, pulling,
forcing the machine along
a narrow aisle of snow.

Out of breath, I stop,
breathe deep, and try to
regain control, first
of my heart and lungs,
and then of this machine
that so frustrates me.

It seems inanimate, but
some spirit must dwell within
and force me to follow
its devilish whim, instead
of going the way I want to go.

Comment:
Just the one snowfall so far, but there’s more on the way. Winter in New Brunswick, Canada, is never complete, without multiple falls of lovely snow. Lovely to look at, but not so much fun when you’re getting old and the snowblower snorts into life meaning that it’s time, once more, to go outside and clear the snow.

White Wolf

White Wolf

The white wolf of winter
exits her den-warmth and
shakes snow from her coat. Flakes
fly, whitening the world.

She points her nose skywards,
clears her throat, howls until
cold winds blow their chorus
of crystals, crunchy crisp.

We cower behind wooden walls,
peer out through frosted glass.
The white wolf draws near and she huffs
and she puffs until door frames rattle.

The snow drifts climb higher,
blotting out the light. Night
falls, an all-embracing
Arctic night of endless
snow snakes slithering on
ice-bound, frost-glass highways,
side roads and city streets.

Outside, in the street lights’
flicker, snow flies gather.
Thicker than summer moths,
they drop to the ground, form
ever-deepening drifts.

Our dreams become nightmares:
endless, sleepless nights, filled
with the white wolf’s winter
call for snow and even more snow.

Click here to hear Roger’s reading.

Digging the Snow

Digging the Snow

I have had a snow blower for some time now. It means that I don’t have to dig the snow. I just get the machine to blow it. But what if the blower doesn’t work?

This winter the local radio station has been filled with stories about snow blowers breaking down, snow blowers catching on fire, snow blowers not starting, snow blowers breaking their shearing pins. All of this has been caused by the weight of the snow, its depth, the compilation of snow on snow, ice pellets on snow, icy rain on snow.

The other day, I went out to blow the snow. It was so heavy that I likened it to wet quick sands on the beach. I could hardly get the blower out of the garage. When I did, I couldn’t move it, forwards or backwards, without enormous effort. I sat on the back of my car and cried. Here is the related post https://rogermoorepoet.com/2023/01/18/luminescence/

For many people of my age, and younger, this is heart attack time. Blowing snow, digging snow, clearing snow, shoveling snow. I know the song – “let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.” But who clears it? Who digs it? Do you dig that snow? Hey, man, dig that snow. Cool, eh? Chill, man, chill.

So where did the snowman go? To the hospital with a heart attack? Who knows? But one thing I do know: digging snow has become one of the things that I fear. And why shouldn’t I? I am at that age when things happen. And here’s what I mean – https://rogermoorepoet.com/2023/02/10/and-if-we-fall/

No. I don’t want to become a fatality on the statistics page. I don’t want to ‘fall to rise no more, as many others have done before’ – a tribute to Over the hills and far away, that one. So, let it snow, yes. But not too much and let us avoid that bleak mid-winter when ‘snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow on snow’. Christmas Card whiteness I can take – but not the chest wracking heave of heavy snow, weighing my shovel down, puling me down, burying me.