Snow Poems

As I sit here sipping hot chocolate in my PJs and enjoy my ice day, I realize that I have not sent out a poetry lesson in a few weeks. I was super busy right before the holidays and then I was on my holiday. Now I am ready to continue.

When I moved to continue sharing poetry with all of you, I was struck my a sort of aimlessness. Where to go from here? That is a beg question I think. I would love some feedback. If any of you have specific questions about poetry or areas of poetic language that appeal to you, please let me know and I can take us there.

To start with, I would like to share some poems about snow. Although this is an ice day and not a snow day, it felt appropriate. I know we have been talking about the development of Free Verse from Metered Verse and rhyme schemes. I know I said Whitman was the birth of Free Verse in all of its glory, and that is true. However Whitman was not the death of Metered Verse. I would say that the Jazz Poets of the Harlem Renaissance were the final nail in the coffin of American Meter. The Beat Poets would follow them and move us into a place of sonic rhythm rather than rhymed rhythm.

A classic example of this is Robert Frost.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
BY ROBERT FROST
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

As you can see, Robert, who came after Whitman, still loved rhyme schemes and meter. We were still holding onto to these formulaic approaches. Even Whitman's chronic catalogue poetry style was not free of the ghosts of Milton, Shakespeare, and Pope that haunt all poets.

Here is a snow poem that really gets away from formula. Again, this may be trippy and scary, so equip yourself with FEEL FIRST. Don't ask yourself "what does it mean?" at the end of the poem. Instead, ask yourself, "how do I feel?" and then ask yourself "why do I feel this way?" These are much more productive questions.

November for Beginners
BY RITA DOVE

Snow would be the easy
way out—that softening
sky like a sigh of relief
at finally being allowed
to yield. No dice.
We stack twigs for burning
in glistening patches
but the rain won’t give.

So we wait, breeding
mood, making music
of decline. We sit down
in the smell of the past
and rise in a light
that is already leaving.
We ache in secret,
memorizing

a gloomy line
or two of German.
When spring comes
we promise to act
the fool. Pour,
rain! Sail, wind,
with your cargo of zithers!