18 Jan 21 Winter Tough? Not Yet.

 How has your winter – all 28 days of it – unfolded so far? Three questions pop out of the banner headlining this post: Winter? Yes, officially, it is. Tough? That depends on your definition of “tough.” So far, where we hang out, the winds and whorls that be have kicked up a picture-perfect season – not enough snow to melt in the Spring – temperatures that are scarily high and consistent.

The Farmers’ Almanac did its usual weather forecast for the year – see below – and it seems ambiguous enough to beg the question, “What forecast?” Our State and Minnesota Public Radio (among other sources) do a pretty good job warning us of “red alert” weather situations, but these are close-in and frequently in real time. So, what about a whole season – weeks and months of changes in climate and of humanity’s impact on it?

At the end of 2020, I posted the first 3 of 9 poems under the banner “Poems for a Tough Winter.” I even included an Almanac-based weather forecast for the following 12 months. (See below where this is repeated. The bold emphases are mine indicating, “check it out”: is this weatherperson any better than another?) Of course, a “tough winter” is nothing new, and it can mean far more than whether we have rain or sunshine. In this post, I won’t speak of the socio-political “weather” and climate of late 2020 and early 2021. We’ll focus, instead, on these three poems that align with the white-season landscape, its moods, and its viewpoints. 

As I’ve said elsewhere, I honestly don’t pay that much attention to the national or world weather in the big picture (I know this is a fault.)., I guess I do pay some attention, but for me, the weather horizon is close in because waaaay up here in Northwest Minnesota, we usually have our hands full just watching and responding to our own “interesting” weather patterns. 

ANNUAL WEATHER SUMMARY

NOVEMBER 2020 TO OCTOBER 2021

“Winter temperatures and precipitation will be above normal, while snowfall will be above normal in the east and below normal in the west. The coldest periods will be in early to mid- and late December, late January, and late February. The snowiest periods will be in late December, early and late January, late February, and early March. [And farther into 2021] … April and May will be warmer and drier than normal. Summer will be hotter and drier than normal, with the hottest periods in early June, early July, and mid- and late August. September and October will have below-normal temperatures and precipitation.”

This is the second of three posts for “getting through the winter,” should the overcast sky predominant, the temps plummet, and the snow bunnies bounce down Bemis Hill reveling in snow 48 to 60 inches deep. Keep these poetic gems handy as winter deepens, the snow piles pile up, and the temps do what temps do. Maybe “getting through the winter” will become a moot point.

The poems are presented first. Then under the usual “Background” section, you’ll find a brief comment on each of the poems/poets.

POEMS

Those Winter Sundays

By Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices? 

First Fall 

by Maggie Smith

I’m your guide here. In the evening-dark

morning streets, I point and name.

Look, the sycamores, their mottled,

paint-by-number bark. Look, the leaves

rusting and crisping at the edges.

I walk through Schiller Park with you

on my chest. Stars smolder well

into daylight. Look, the pond, the ducks,

the dogs paddling after their prized sticks.

Fall is when the only things you know

because I’ve named them

begin to end. Soon I’ll have another

season to offer you: frost soft

on the window and a porthole

sighed there, ice sleeving the bare

gray branches. The first time you see

something die, you won’t know it might

come back. I’m desperate for you

to love the world because I brought you here.

Sorrow Is Not My Name

By Ross Gay

—after Gwendolyn Brooks

No matter the pull toward brink. No

matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.

There is a time for everything. Look,

just this morning a vulture

nodded his red, grizzled head at me,

and I looked at him, admiring

the sickle of his beak.

Then the wind kicked up, and,

after arranging that good suit of feathers

he up and took off.

Just like that. And to boot,

there are, on this planet alone, something like two

million naturally occurring sweet things,

some with names so generous as to kick

the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,

stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks

at the market. Think of that. The long night,

the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me

on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.

But look; my niece is running through a field

calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel

and at the end of my block is a basketball court.

I remember. My color's green. I'm spring.

      —for Walter Aikens

 

Background

“Those Winter Sundays” – Robert Hayden

This sonnet-like poem is truly a work about winter. The reader can almost feel the cold and the fire trying to drive it out. Hayden seems to reflect on his past and his lack of appreciation for what his “father” was doing. (I put quotation marks around “father" because Hayden lived most of his life youth in foster homes.) Later the poem’s speaker appears to realize that love can come in unappreciated forms that only have a chance of being understood when the protagonist of the poem or story matures enough to understand what was going on. The transition between the past and present occurs when the speaker realizes what he has missed early in life – what he remembers vs. what he understands. 

“First Fall” – Maggie Smith

One of Smith’s poems, “Good Bones” wend viral in 2016. When things are feeling dark and hopeless, the bone is posted frequently on social media. Perhaps people resonate with the poem because it addresses perennial themes like impermanence, happiness, and love. The poem’s speaker is trying to share the beauty of the fall season. There’s something else going on as the poet speaks about the autumn season, explaining it and calling attention to its characteristics. Perhaps the poet is thinking of changes that will be much harder to explain.

"Sorrow Is Not My Name" – Ross Gay

Gay’s poem is one of those that uplifts in dark times. Certainly, it shoos away dark winter emotions, announced that even at the title of the poem. Unlike a lot of poetry, Gay’s poem. For some reason, I think of lollipops and hula hoops when I finish reading this poem. A sense of appreciation and meditative joy reaches out to the reader. Gay reminds me that life is inclusive of a range of emotions. The body and its sensory antennae provide a sort of refuge.

Exploration 1: Hayden – What emotions are operative in this poem. Which of these emotions are difficult, and which bring a sort of hope and joy.

Exploration 2: Smith – Who is Smith speaking to in her poem? Do the autumn images succeed in conveying the feeling of winter soon to come? What are those images?

Exploration 3: Gay – What makes Gay’s poem hopeful?