[Note: I accidentally published this very old and incomplete draft the other day, so I leave it here with minimal commentary]
Never mind what T. S. Eliot said about April. Here in Grand Rapids, winter is the cruelest six months of the year, with February being the height of cruelty. I’m not sure if it’s because of my animosity toward winter or despite it that I love winter poems so much. My favorite winter poem is probably “Snow Day” by Billy Collins. Here is an excerpt, but you should really read the whole thing:
In a while, I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch
sending a cold shower down on us both.
But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news …
Another lovely winter poem is “Lines for Winter” by Mark Strand.
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself —
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
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.
