Poetry Friday: Two Ways of Looking at February

February is my least favorite month. 

By February, I'm weary of our Nebraska winter. I'm tired of thinking about negative numbers. I'm annoyed by lashing winds and I'd like to file snow shovels under "Never again." 

So when I came across "February" by Bill Christopherson, I had to share it. (Read it here, at the Poetry Foundation.) The whole poem is only fourteen lines, so I can't share much without violating copyright, but it begins: 

February

by Bill Christopherson 

The cold grows colder, even as the days

grow longer, 

and ends: 

and hope's a reptile waiting for the sun.

Oh, Bill. 

Oh, Bill, I can relate. 

I want to both laugh and cry at this poem, at that line. The bleakness of it delights me and keeps me from taking my February doldrums too seriously. Christopherson's February is a monster from the deep, a demon dragging us into the underworld. Hope has been lying dormant so long that we wonder: is revival possible? 

Every year, I think, "This is it. I'm going to die in this never-ending, sub-zero weather when a pipe bursts and I drown and freeze at the same time. Because: February." 

And yet, it always ends — February, winter, sub-zero temps, my whining. They all go away. But in the depths of February, I like keeping company with pessimistic poets. They feed my melancholy soul. 

However, for those who prefer something less bleak (and to assure you that I'm actually hanging in there and have even had some lovely days and nights this month), I am including a second poem. Sara Teasdale is, shall we say, a bit more optimistic? Her February is no ravenous monster, but rather a sparkling and inviting spirit: 

February Twilight 

by Sara Teasdale 

I stood beside a hill

Smooth with new-laid snow,

A single star looked out

From the cold evening glow.

There was no other creature

That saw what I could see—

I stood and watched the evening star

As long as it watched me.

If you've never felt Christopherson's anxieties, insomnia, or nightmares, Sara may be your cup of February tea. I wish I could be a Sara all the time, but it's more accurate to say that I'm a combo of Bill and Sara, a messy conglomeration of anxiety and appreciation. 

Most of the time, I'm okay with that. 

Except in February. 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by the incomparable Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference. 

Lent approaches (and socks still annoy her)

Lent approaches, and I sometimes really miss these kinds of conversations. (Ramona was 5, Betsy was 11, and Anne-with-an-e was 14.) 

Ramona: "I'm going to give up hanging off the kitchen cupboard door."

Betsy: "Wait a minute — I thought you were going to give up whining."

Ramona: "No. I gave up whining when I have to put socks on. But that was this morning. Now I'm giving up hanging off the cupboard."

Anne-with-an-e: "It's not fair to God if you keep changing what you're giving up."

Ramona: "Well, I won't change it anymore. I'm giving up hanging off cupboards, and every time I feel like doing it, but don't, I get to put a bean in the jar."*

(Why don't I remember her hanging off the cupboard? It seems like something I would have loudly said NO to.)

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and I'm going to try to make it a bean-filled Lent. Okay, sure, there are no actual beans anymore and no actual jar. My girls grew up and the jar-filling stopped happening, and their sacrifices became more personal and I had far less material for my blog. But the intent remains and I can still shoot for it: Every time I feel like doing it, but don't...

"As the world must be redeemed in a few men to begin with,

so the soul is redeemed in a few of its thoughts, 

and works, and ways to begin with:

it takes a long time to finish 

the new creation of this redemption."

~ George MacDonald

And so, once again, it begins. 

~~~~~~~~~~

*Beans in the "Sacrifice Jar": 

There are different versions of this all over the place, but here's what we did when the girls were little: We put out an empty jar and a bowl of dried beans. For every act of kindness, prayer, or sacrifice, the kids put a bean in the jar. On Easter morning they found the beans had been replaced by an overflowing supply of M&Ms. (God's goodness knows no bounds and He will always give us more M&Ms than we deserve.) 

Poetry Friday: "To Winter" by Claude McKay

I am a big Claude McKay fan. However, I must admit I don't normally share the sentiment in this particular poem. I never really want the "season of calm love and soulful snows" to stay. Well, I'm all for a soulful snow, but our snows rarely feel like soulful snows. They mostly feel like big interruptions to plans and postponements of road trips. My (not very) poetic sentiment is usually: 

Go away, Winter.  

Go. 

Away. 

I don't 

like you. 

Leave us. 

Now. 

And yet, and yet. McKay crafts such a tender plea, and offers such a poignant contrast to his homeland of Jamaica that he actually makes me long for winter, to feel grateful for the gifts it brings. 

Oh, Claude, you "ease my heart of its impassioned woe" of winter complaint and make me appreciate the unique loveliness of the season. 

Such is the gift of the poet. 

To Winter
by Claude McKay

Stay, season of calm love and soulful snows!

There is a subtle sweetness in the sun,
The ripples on the stream's breast gaily run,
The wind more boisterously by me blows,
And each succeeding day now longer grows.
The birds a gladder music have begun,
The squirrel, full of mischief and of fun,
From maples' topmost branch the brown twig throws.
I read these pregnant signs, know what they mean:
I know that thou art making ready to go.
Oh stay! I fled a land where fields are green
Always, and palms wave gently to and fro,
And winds are balmy, blue brooks ever sheen,
To ease my heart of its impassioned woe. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Carol Varsalona has the Poetry Friday round-up at Beyond LiteracyLink. 

Photo credit: Hal Moran, Pexels

Poetry Friday: "Thirty-nine Years" (wishing Atticus a happy anniversary and writing poetry again)

Last week, Atticus and I celebrated our 39th anniversary. 

(Umm, we're as shocked as you are. 

How can two people who are so incredibly young and vibrant 

have been married for thirty-nine years? It's a mystery, I know.) 

Happy anniversary, Atticus. 

Thirty-nine Years

by Karen Edmisten 

He was my first husband.
He is my now-husband,
my last husband, my only husband,
(in case you’re counting.) 

I'm counting.
Thirty-nine years and counting.
Not counting as in,
“I can’t wait for this to be over,”
but counting as in, 

I didn’t know I could count this high
in the category “Years married.”
I’m astonished and delighted by us.
We should win something on Jeopardy: 

“Alex, what is, Tom and Karen defied the odds and lasted?" 
(Now we have been married so long 

that Alex is gone.)

We married young and discovered 

what it means to weld one’s self to another.
It’s a tricky process, this welding. 
Rife with flame and light and danger
but with a distant goal in sight: 

a finished form, something sturdy and strong, 

a thing to behold. 

We have loved each other, hurt each other, 

lost each other, and found each other. 

We have died and risen again. 

We are each a Phoenix 

who learned to rise from ashes, 

discovering — this man and I —
that ashes are the stuff of life
and that new beginnings
can be shining, iridescent things,
unexpected fuel that will carry us 

on another orbit around the earth. 

Life never stops beginning.
Oh, yes, surely, it’s ending 

every moment it’s beginning 

and it’s beginning 

with each ending.
This is the beauty of the Phoenix, yes?
It keeps rising, flaming, 

swirling, changing, starting again.
It is immortal, like our marriage,
this thing that began as
an amateur piece of welding. 

We are a fusion that is somehow now 

aged and lovely in its flaws, 

sturdy as steel 

and gleaming like precious metal that is 

well-worn and well-loved.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

The lovely and delightful Laura Shovan is hosting the round-up this week.