Winter Evening

Winter Evening

Ah, how the snow has snowed!
My window is a garden of frost.
Ah, how the snow has snowed!
The brief spasm of life is lost
In the sorrow that I know, that I know!

Here lie the tarns all frozen,
My soul is dark: Where to go? Where stay?
Here lie its hopes all frozen;
I have become a new Norway
And all my pale skies are fallen.

Weep, you birds of deep winter,
The mortal cold hardens and grows.
Weep, you birds of deep winter,
Weep for my tears, weep for my rose,
From the branches of the juniper.

Ah, how the snow has snowed!
My window is a garden of frost.
Ah, how the snow has snowed!
The brief spasm of life is lost
In the void hours that I know, that I know!


Emile Nelligan
(my translation)



I've never quite known what to make of Emile Nelligan -- he is such a mournful Verlaine manqué (not even Rimbaud, depite his youth, which might be an improvement, but Verlaine) that I'm not sure whether to take him seriously. So I would like to thank and acknowledge Clarissa Aykroyd at The Stone and the Star who recently posted her own sensitive version of Nelligan's Soir d'Hiver (here)-- and hers is, I think, in many ways a better poem than my own, more ploddingly literal attempt ... "but there is no competition," as Eliot writes in East Coker: "There is only the fight to recover what has been lost / And found and lost again and again.... But perhaps neither gain nor loss. / For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business."

You can also hear Soir d'Hiver sung by Claude Léveillée here.


.

katabasis

Anna and Ben
Jefferson National Forest, 2009


Katabasis

Knowing this turgid bumbler’s teary bafflement will cease,
this sloppy, warm knot of blood and failure and shit
will slack and unravel in cooling ash or the cold pit,
this absurd creature will end, is comfort and release,
but that these two -- here twelve and eight, mugging at ease
for the camera as if their miraculous bodies will not forget
our few days of leveraged grace, our summer cabin sunlit
and shaded like the only emblem of my only peace --
knowing they will die, or, worse, tremble in fear of death,
as they will do, and soon, I would beat to shards the stone
that frames this fucking world or trade for their one more breath
this yet strong body and all the years still to weigh it down,
would damn any god for their pain and rip the sky down,
would howl in dark hell, where my father has gone before me down.

She had become my Sabbath

All Last Night

All last night I had quiet

In a fragrant dream and warm:

She had become my Sabbath,

And round my neck, her arm.

I knew the warmth in my dreaming;

The fragrance, I suppose,

Was her hair about me,

Or else she wore a rose.

Her hair I think, for likest

Woodruffe 'twas, when Spring

Loitering down the wet woodways

Treads it sauntering.

No light, nor any speaking;

Fragrant only and warm.

Enough to know my lodging,

The white Sabbath of her arm.

Lascelles Abercrombie

porcupine

some other year

I told you: look, it is snowing!

It was beginning 

just then, outside 

in the winter sunlight,

first flakes erratic and 

quick, from a cloud-

swept wilderness.

You were three years old.
I loved you, and

the same snow was falling 

in some other year

when I was lonely.

for Maggie, Anna, and Ben

(the dark language of autumn rain heard through the open window as i post this)

I cannot be grasped in the here and now. For I reside just as much with the dead as with the unborn.
Somewhat closer to the heart of creation than usual.

But not nearly close enough.

--Paul Klee

It is not possible for the moon

This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out

Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon

To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.

She must come now. The grass is in seed and high.

Come now. Those to be born have need

Of the bride, love being a birth, have need to see

And to touch her . . . .

Come now, pearled and pasted, bloomy-leafed,

While the domes resound with chant involving chant.

Wallace Stevens

from "Ghosts as Cocoons"