The Poetry Project

poetry projectLu has asked those involved with the Poetry Project to take a moment to reflect back on the project so far.  Except for the times when I have been just to frazzled to remember to read poetry, the project has had me reading more poetry, introduced me to poets that were new to me, and to poetry I might not have been all that comfortable with.  I appreciate the time and energy that Lu and Kelly have put into this, and am glad to have found others who enjoy reading and discussing this varied and amazing use of language.

So here, for Winter,  from one of my favorite poets, is a poem about snow:

Snow
by Naomi Shihab Nye

Once with my scarf knotted over my mouth
I lumbered into a storm of snow up the long hill
and did not know where I was going except to the top of it.
In those days we went out like that.
Even children went out like that.
Someone was crying hard at home again, 
raging blizzard of sobs.

I dragged the sled by its rope, 
which we normally did not do
when snow was coming down so hard,
pulling my brother whom I called by our secret name
as if we could be other people under the skin.
The snow bit into my face, prickling the rim
of the head where the hair starts coming out.
And it was a big one. It would come down and down
for days. People would dig their cars out like potatoes.

How are you doing back there? I shouted,
and he said Fine, I’m doing fine, 
in the sunniest voice he could muster 
and I think I should love him more today
for having used it.

At the top we turned and he slid down,
steering himself with the rope gripped in
his mittened hands. I stumbled behind
sinking deeply, shouting Ho! Look at him go!
as if we were having a good time.
Alone on the hill. That was the deepest
I ever went into the snow. Now I think of it
when I stare at paper or into silences
between human beings. The drifting 
accumulation. A father goes months 
without speaking to his son. 

How there can be a place 
so cold any movement saves you.

Ho! You bang your hands together,
stomp your feet.  The father could die!
The son! Before the weather changes.
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Filed under Poetry Project, Thoughts

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