Saturday, January 9, 2010

A World of White and Snowy Scents

Still one would want more, one would need more,
More than a world of white and snowy scents.

-Wallace Stevens

Right now, I can’t imagine beyond snow.  It’s been falling all day again, though this time, not to much effect.  Deer tracks run everywhere:  they veer toward the hemlock, then, foiled by the fencing, veer back to open ground.  The paths break into ragged patches where deer scraped through to get at grass.

Juncos huddle below the feeder, looking for seeds dropped by the chickadees.  A lone woodpecker scuttles up a tree trunk.  Back toward the woods, squirrels are regretting their failure to harvest more acorns before the snow began.

Recently, Verlyn Klinkenborg waxed rhapsodic about snow.  I, too, like a snowscape as well as anyone, but some days are formless.  The sun is reduced to a vague blot.  The snow loses its whiteness, like a piece of lace left too long in an attic trunk.

On days like that, I resort to simple things:  I retreat to my armchair in the company of a cat and a book.  The books I choose are sometimes troublesome, though, like The Given and the Made:  Strategies of Poetic Redefinition:  “the task of the artist is not patient digging in the earth, but remaining ready to look up at just the right millisecond.”

The reference, by Helen Vendler, is to a poem by Jorie Graham.  Poems with snow in them, I thought—maybe that will give shape to the day.

There is, of course, “The Snow Man,” by Wallace Stevens:  “One must have a mind of winter/To regard the frost and the boughs/Of the pine-trees crusted with snow . . .”

And Anne Carson.  She lives in Canada; she knows snow.  “Now it hangs on the back of the kitchen chair/where I always sit, as it did/on the back of the kitchen chair where he always sat.//I put it on whenever I come in,/as he did, stamping/the snow from his boots . . .

Thus fortified, I looked up Jorie Graham and found again a poem I’d wondered at before:  “The Dream of the Unified Field.”

On my way to bringing you the leotard
you forgot to include in your overnight bag,
the snow started coming down harder.
I watched each gathering of leafy flakes
melt round my footfall.
I looked up into it—late afternoon but bright.
. . .

Each poem starts so simply, but, oh, where they go!  The day isn’t formless, not anymore.  These three are not like deer, digging patiently for grass.  No.  They have each “looked up at the only/right time” to find a specific, singular snow.

***
The first quotation is from "The Poems of Our Climate," by Wallace Stevens.
The final quotation is from "History," by Jorie Graham.

17 comments:

  1. I have just had a "you never know what gems you will find on the internet" moment I must share. Go to this web address for a very funny blog: http://verlynklinkenborg.blogspot.com/.

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  2. wonderful, thoughtful observations... looking... and seeing...

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  3. Thanks for commenting, Elaine. It's always nice to hear from you--particularly about a poetry post!

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  4. Thanks for a lovely look into the world of snow -something I've only seen once in my life. Though I must say that we actually had a tiny bit of "snow" here in Florida yesterday - actually, little ice pellets, but here we are all like children when it comes to snow.
    I have been getting lost, exploring the link you posted - really entertaining - thanks for that, too.

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  5. Though I no longer do snow, your snowscapes and Wallace Stevens' Snowman took me back to a time when I did.

    What comes back is the stillness that accompanies the falling snowflakes. I remember standing in the yard listening and can still hear it in my mind. I enjoyed snow then.

    Being first of the season to ski cross country in an Illinois forest preserve was exhilarating and empowering. One's ski tracks in the snow blazed the trail for others. But they will not get to experience the joy of owning the woods, at least for a time, as did the trail blazer. I enjoyed snow then.

    Now, a perfect winter day happens when, driving along Torrey Pines Road, I can see the Pacific to the West and the snow-capped mountains to the East. The sun is bright, the sky is blue and no parkas or snow boots required. That's how I enjoy snow now.

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  6. Talk about looking up "at the only/right time"! This comment is a beautiful snow poem, too. Thanks for writing, cybersr!

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  7. PS to Carol-Ann: So, is snow a rare event in South Africa as a whole? As you see, however, from cybersr's post, seeing snow only in the distance has its benefits (as we sit here in 18 degree weather . . . .) Thanks for commenting--and I'm so glad you enjoyed the links!

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  8. Yes, snow is as rare in South Africa as it is in Florida, except in the mountainous areas of the country, where some snow can be glimpsed on the peaks - not enough for skiing or anything like that, though

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  9. This is the perfect piece for those of us in the northern US (and parts of Europe) who are experiencing quite a cold and snowy winter thus far. Your poems about snow gave me a new way of thinking about the inevitable drifts that come this time of year. I usually just curse them when they inconvenience me.

    Loved the link to the Klinkenborg blog!

    Carol-Ann: We'll have to email you more photos of snow, although it appears that Raining Acorns received much more than I did this month.

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  10. After reading your essay, my mind wandered to the Chicago snowstorm of 1967 when the snow drifted so high that Julie and I had to roll through the fields to get from HF to Clyde Road. Dad made his way home from Chicago Heights on foot and said he cried when he saw the Flossmoor Township sign.

    Moving on to the comment section, an analogy of snow and chocolate came to mind. Just the right amount creates feelings of bliss and too much can be overwhelming.

    I particularly like your reference and visual it creates of you being “cozied up” in your chair with your cats and a book (by the fire perhaps?).

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  11. How do you remember these things?! Thanks for the great comment--I enjoyed the idea of comparing snow to chocolate.

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  12. These comments by cybersr...resonate: "What comes back is the stillness that accompanies the falling snowflakes. I remember standing in the yard listening and can still hear it in my mind."
    ... which is finding silence and stillness in a moment... the echo of snow falling... which is neither and both!
    So... on the subject of silence, snow, I was reading an essay on e.e. cummings. The author, Isabelle Alfandary said, "Silence is experience."
    She followed this by several references to the poet's work on the subject of silence:

    silence

    .is
    a
    looking

    bird:the

    turn
    ing;edge, of
    life

    (inquiry before snow

    ----
    His signature punctuation and line breaks... still so fresh and curious and odd... but no odder, no less poetry than the reverse synesthesia of finding stillness... silence... in the midst of movement...

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  13. The comments are as gratifying as the post itself. Really like what Elaine added above.

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  14. kookaburra, you are so right! Thank you all for enriching this post.

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  15. We have now surfaced from the recent "White In" of the UK. The snow here, in London, has melted away returning, to us, the comfort of our familiar surroundings. The recognisable dirty, grey, wet pavements with clear curbs and slip-free surfaces. The warmer weather. We are now safer to venture out. Yet I open the curtain to see this world returned - and miss the joys of the snow. Its smooth soft covering over of detail and texture. A pure whiteness contrasted with black outlines giving the cityscape a clean, minimalist simplicity that was a beauty to behold. A Feng Shui of our surroundings. Venturing out too was fun. The sound and feel of scrunching snow beneath our boots. Kids, and larger kids (aka adults) building snowmen and tobogganing down the local smallest of slopes with glee. The patterns and prints on the frozen ponds and the swans still landing as if it were water. People could not get into work and, for a week or so, the country was turned into both panic and pleasure. Snow is a rarity here so we are hopeless at coping with it in the way other experienced nations do. The media, which always welcomes a problem, made the best of whipping it into a frenzy for fear of appearing boring. Despite their best efforts, it seemed that, in contrast, people did not seem panicked and took it with the usual acceptance. Where there were real problems a "Dunkirk spirit" re-emerged we thought lost. And yet, at times the snow also turned us into recluses, frightened of falling over on the ice. But how good it was to appreciate the cosiness of our home, the sofa and not to feel bad that we were not "living our lives" to the full by speeding out to exploit the potential of all on offer…or being lazy. So maybe the snow did not "turn us" into recluses but gave us permission to stay in and put our feet up. Enjoy our homes. Certainly I am now well into reading "How to be Idle". May I now learn the joy from both...Pictures on my Hamsterfree blogpage for anyone interested!

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  16. Thank you for sending us this brilliant snow report from England. Great to get a real eyewitness account from "on the ground." And, speaking of "on the ground," the picture on your blog of the swan on the ice is priceless!

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  17. Some wonderful comments disappeared from the post, but I have retrieved them. Here they are:

    from cybersr:

    Though I no longer do snow, your snowscapes and Wallace Stevens' Snowman took me back to a time when I did.

    What comes back is the stillness that accompanies the falling snowflakes. I remember standing in the yard listening and can still hear it in my mind. I enjoyed snow then.

    Being first of the season to ski cross country in an Illinois forest preserve was exhilarating and empowering. One's ski tracks in the snow blazed the trail for others. But they will not get to experience the joy of owning the woods, at least for a time, as did the trail blazer. I enjoyed snow then.

    Now, a perfect winter day happens when, driving along Torrey Pines Road, I can see the Pacific to the West and the snow-capped mountains to the East. The sun is bright, the sky is blue and no parkas or snow boots required. That's how I enjoy snow now.

    Elaine Sexton:

    These comments by cybers...resonates: "What comes back is the stillness that accompanies the falling snowflakes. I remember standing in the yard listening and can still hear it in my mind."
    ... which is finding silence and stillness in a moment... the echo of snow falling... which is neither and both!
    So... on the subject of silence, snow, I was reading an essay on e.e. cummings the author, Isabelle Alfandary said, "Silence is experience."
    She followed this by several references to the poet's work on the subject of silence:

    silence

    .is
    a
    looking

    bird:the

    turn
    ing;edge, of
    life

    (inquiry before snow

    ----
    His signature punctuation and line breaks... still so fresh and curious and odd... but no odder, no less poetry than the reverse synesthesia of finding stillness... silence... in the midst of movement...

    kookaburra:

    The comments are as gratifying as the post itself. Really like what Elaine added above.

    ReplyDelete

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