Words for snow.
I still have a bit of work to do, but anyway. At least I didn't inadvertently throw out my Career Portfolio like I thought I might have. o.O
Random piece of trivia Mrs. Zara shared with me turned into a pair of nonsensical quick-fix poems, almost a year later. The first one was convenient because the second issue of Blazon was coming out, but anyway. Why do you keep waking up when I have exams, Hammy, why. D: But I shouldn't complain, because Hammy needs to stay healthy.
And at least Ms. Girlie didn't lose my notebook like I was afraid she might. XD I got it back on Wednesday.
Nieve - 10.22.07
This is your first poem in ages and ages and ages.
It is written
freehandedly, in white heat, without the smallest semblance
of planning, scratched
in frost birthed by your breath, lining the
window glass.
And this in a hotel room some thousand miles across the sea
from home.
Your fingerprints loop and curl in a pantomime of your handwriting,
and your fingers
are cracked, trembling from cold-or perhaps, only
for want of a pen.
This is your first poem in ages and ages and ages.
The words
creep leadenly out into the air, decorated with circles
of rust.
Awful. Awkward. Absolutely amateurish. And that’s only the A’s,
you note
with a bitter smile. Your poetry, it seems, has deformed
into terrible prose.
You sigh. The air gusts in tiny clouds that mirror
the snow outside.
This is your first poem in ages and ages and ages,
but there is
no word for “snow” in your native tongue. What would be
the point?
You wipe the glass clean in moments, dismiss the poem as a fit
of homesickness.
---
Twelve Words for Snow - 03.07.08
Similarly, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. XD
One is rivers,
when the ice cracks
and the meltwater runs
and the banks overflow
to the sea.
One is the meeting
of steel-colored clouds
in a winter sky, as though
about matters of great
consequence.
One is the vase of
nameless wildflowers
going to wilt on the
kitchen table,
remembering children's hands.
One is the carpet
that muffles your footsteps
as you pad down
the hallway at midnight.
One is a dream
in far-off lands where
the sun burns
and daylight lasts a year.
One is the mist
that's born on windows
(or mirrors)
when touched by breath
(or warm fingertips).
One is firelight
in the candle and the hearth,
that draws long shadows
and takes the edges
off everything,
leaving a muted softness behind.
One is the tightness in the chest
and the sickness
and the chill
and the gasps that melt
into coughing,
blowing into cupped palms
to stay warm.
One is the fragrance
of pine trees,
evergreens on mountains
painted white and gray.
One is the crooked v-shape
of birds flying south
for a few months' respite--
or is it exile?
One is the page,
the line of dark ink where
a pen trembles
over the words
"I wish you were here."
One is silence.
Random piece of trivia Mrs. Zara shared with me turned into a pair of nonsensical quick-fix poems, almost a year later. The first one was convenient because the second issue of Blazon was coming out, but anyway. Why do you keep waking up when I have exams, Hammy, why. D: But I shouldn't complain, because Hammy needs to stay healthy.
And at least Ms. Girlie didn't lose my notebook like I was afraid she might. XD I got it back on Wednesday.
Nieve - 10.22.07
This is your first poem in ages and ages and ages.
It is written
freehandedly, in white heat, without the smallest semblance
of planning, scratched
in frost birthed by your breath, lining the
window glass.
And this in a hotel room some thousand miles across the sea
from home.
Your fingerprints loop and curl in a pantomime of your handwriting,
and your fingers
are cracked, trembling from cold-or perhaps, only
for want of a pen.
This is your first poem in ages and ages and ages.
The words
creep leadenly out into the air, decorated with circles
of rust.
Awful. Awkward. Absolutely amateurish. And that’s only the A’s,
you note
with a bitter smile. Your poetry, it seems, has deformed
into terrible prose.
You sigh. The air gusts in tiny clouds that mirror
the snow outside.
This is your first poem in ages and ages and ages,
but there is
no word for “snow” in your native tongue. What would be
the point?
You wipe the glass clean in moments, dismiss the poem as a fit
of homesickness.
---
Twelve Words for Snow - 03.07.08
Similarly, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. XD
One is rivers,
when the ice cracks
and the meltwater runs
and the banks overflow
to the sea.
One is the meeting
of steel-colored clouds
in a winter sky, as though
about matters of great
consequence.
One is the vase of
nameless wildflowers
going to wilt on the
kitchen table,
remembering children's hands.
One is the carpet
that muffles your footsteps
as you pad down
the hallway at midnight.
One is a dream
in far-off lands where
the sun burns
and daylight lasts a year.
One is the mist
that's born on windows
(or mirrors)
when touched by breath
(or warm fingertips).
One is firelight
in the candle and the hearth,
that draws long shadows
and takes the edges
off everything,
leaving a muted softness behind.
One is the tightness in the chest
and the sickness
and the chill
and the gasps that melt
into coughing,
blowing into cupped palms
to stay warm.
One is the fragrance
of pine trees,
evergreens on mountains
painted white and gray.
One is the crooked v-shape
of birds flying south
for a few months' respite--
or is it exile?
One is the page,
the line of dark ink where
a pen trembles
over the words
"I wish you were here."
One is silence.