It’s been too cold to reflect on life, let alone on GradLife, and yet, I flit through ideas not nearly as bountiful as the still corpulent evergreen trees cast on roadsides across this city. How is it that these trees are completely bereft of a tiny bauble or even a single thread of shiny floss?  These desolate gray days, though, serve as a reminder to do, just to do, because, mostly, I get stuck in the winter. Many of us do. Some may watch old movies, or play games, or plunge down a hill on skis, or dine in some dimly lighted corner of a lean-portion place to become unstuck. I have tried some of these things. I have failed at most. But, if I am tired of reading, and weak from walking, I will try to sort out words.

After listening to Ideas and the Enright Files on the role of Poetry in the world today, here’s how I wrote to try to get unstuck today:

January, Winter’s Last Love, Sings of Dreams
And then the door, rattling glass bones beneath
My tongue, tender as blades set on a bruised
River of feathered hairs solid as teeth,
Shudders with near desire, amused,
Agitated, and sore under the breath
Of gut howl’d threnody. I can’t let go
Of this locked gateway, fingers warmed to death.
We wrestle, plummeting thirty below.
Off again, where salted curbs and wisps of
Arabesques blown back as a summer sheet
Takes flight against eyelashes like the dove
Lifts a promise where Ra and Chang’e meet.
Two faced god, what has charred, what’s still to flame,
Have you only borne cracked, majestic blame?

(Jan 13, 2019)

So, did it work? Not really. Still stuck. And now I am hours behind in my readings…   These days are thick with dark and deep cold. Weather them well.


Image: Toni Onley, Polar No.1 (1961)

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